The mother bade him from the loft refrain,
But, though with caution, yet he went again;
And now his tales the sailor feebly told,
His heart was heavy, and his limbs were cold:
The tender boy came often to entreat

His good kind friend would of his presents eat;
Purloin'd or purchased, for he saw, with shame,
The food untouch'd that to his uncle came;
Who, sick in body and in mind, received
The boy's indulgence, gratified and grieved.
Uncle will die!" said George-the piteous
wife

Exclaim'd, "She saw no value in his life;
But sick or well, to my commands attend,
And

go no more to your complaining friend."
The boy was vex'd; he felt his heart reprove
The stern decree.-What! punish'd for his love!
No! he would go, but softly to the room,
Stealing in silence-for he knew his doom.
Once in a week the father came to say,
"George, are you ill?"-and hurried him away;
Yet to his wife would on their duties dwell,
And often cry," Do use my brother well:"
And something kind, no question, Isaac meant,
Who took vast credit for the vague intent.
But truly kind, the gentle boy essay'd
To cheer his uncle, firm, although afraid;
But now the father caught him at the door,
And, swearing-yes, the man in office swore,
And cried, "Away! How! brother, I'm surprised,
That one so old can be so ill advised:
Let him not dare to visit you again,
Your cursed stories will disturb his brain;
Is it not vile to court a foolish boy,
Your own absurd narrations to enjoy ?
What! sullen!-ha! George Fletcher! you shall

see,

Proud as you are, your bread depends on me!"

He spoke, and, frowning, to his dinner went, Then cool'd and felt some qualms of discontent; And thought on times when he compell'd his son To hear these stories, nay, to beg for one : But the wife's wrath o'ercame the brother's pain, And shame was felt, and conscience rose in vain. George yet stole up, he saw his uncle lie Sick on the bed, and heard his heavy sigh: So he resolved, before he went to rest, To comfort one so dear and so distress'd; Then watch'd his time, but with a childlike art, Betray'd a something treasured at his heart: Th' observant wife remark'd, "The boy is

grown

So like your brother, that he seems his own;
So close and sullen! and I still suspect
They often meet-do watch them and detect."
George now remark'd that all was still

night,

And hasten'd up with terror and delight; "Uncle" he cried, and softly tapp'd the door; "Do let me in"-but he could add no more; The careful father caught him in the fact, And cried,-" You serpent! is it thus you act? Back to your mother!"-and with hasty blow, He sent th' indignant boy to grieve below; Then at the door an angry speech began"Is this your conduct?-is it thus you plan? Seduce my child, and make my house a scene Of vile dispute--What is it that you mean?

at

George, are you dumb? do learn to know your

friends,

And think a while on whom your bread depends:
What! not a word? be thankful I am cool-
But, sir, beware, no longer play the fool;
Come! brother, come! what is that you seek
By this rebellion ?-Speak, you villain, speak!-
Weeping! I warrant-sorrow makes you dumb:
I'll ope your mouth, impostor! if I come :
Let me approach-I'll shake you from the bed,
You stubborn dog-O God! my brother's dead!"
Timid was Isaac, and in all the past

66

He felt a purpose to be kind at last;
Nor did he mean his brother to depart.
Till he had shown this kindness of his heart:
But day by day he put the cause aside,
Induced by avarice, peevishness, or pride.
But now awaken'd, from this fatal time
His conscience Isaac felt, and found his crime:
He raised to George a monumental stone,
And there retired to sigh and think alone;
An ague seized him, he grew pale, and shook-
"So," said his son," would my poor uncle look."-
"And so, my child, shall I like him expire."-
"No! you have physic and a cheerful fire."-
"Unhappy sinner! yes, I'm well supplied
With every comfort my cold heart denied."
He view'd his brother now, but not as one
Who vex'd his wife by fondness for her son;
Not as with wooden limb, and seaman's tale,
The odious pipe, vile grog, or humbler ale:
He now the worth and grief alone can view
Of one so mild, so generous, and so true;
"The frank, kind brother, with such open heart,
And I to break it-'twas a demon's part!"

So Isaac now, as led by conscience, feels,
Nor his unkindness palliates or conceals.
"This is your folly," said his heartless wife.
Alas! my folly cost my brother's life;

66

It suffer'd him to languish and decay,
My gentle brother, whom I could not pay,
And therefore left to pine, and fret his life away."
He takes his son, and bids the boy unfold
All the good uncle of his feelings told,
All he lamented-and the ready tear
Falls as he listens, soothed, and grieved to hear.
"Did he not curse me, child?"-" He never
cursed,

But could not breathe, and said his heart would

As thus he lives, if living be to sigh,
And from all comforts of the world to fly,
Without a hope in life-without a wish to die.

TALE XXI.

THE LEARNED BOY.

Like one well studied in a sad ostent, To please his grandam.

Merchant of Venice, act ii. sc. 2. And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail, Unwillingly to school.

As You Like It, act ii. sc. 7.

He is a better scholar than I thought he was

He has a good sprag memory.

Yes," he replied, "it calls for pains and care; But I must bear it."—" Sir, you cannot bear; Your son is weak, and asks a mother's eye."

That, my kind friend, a father's may supply."Such growing griefs your very soul will tease.""To grieve another would not give me easeI have a mother"-" She, poor ancient soul! Can she the spirits of the young control? Can she thy peace promote, partake thy care, Procure thy comforts, and thy sorrows share? Age is itself impatient, uncontroll'd."—

One that feeds

On objects, arts, and imitations,

Which out of use, and staled by other men, Begin his fashion.

O torture me no more-I will confess.

AN honest man was Farmer Jones, and true,
He did by all as all by him should do ;
Grave, cautious, careful, fond of gain was he,
Yet famed for rustic hospitality:

Left with his children in a widow'd state,
The quiet man submitted to his fate;
Though prudent matrons waited for his call,
With cool forbearance he avoided all;
Though each profess'd a pure maternal joy,
By kind attention to his feeble boy :
And though a friendly widow knew no rest,
Whilst neighbour Jones was lonely and distress'd:
Nay, though the maidens spoke in tender tone
Their hearts' concern to see him left alone-
Jones still persisted in that cheerless life,
As if 'twere sin to take a second wife.

O! 'tis a precious thing, when wiyes are dead,
To find such numbers who will serve instead :
And in whatever state a man be thrown,
"Tis that precisely they would wish their own;
Left the departed infants-then their joy
Is to sustain each lovely girl and boy :
Whatever calling his, whatever trade,
To that their chief attention has been paid;
His happy taste in all things they approve,
His friends they honour, and his food they love;
His wish for order, prudence in affairs,

Thus, when a great and powerful state decrees, Upon a small one, in its love, to seize

It vows in kindness to protect, defend,
And be the fond ally, the faithful friend ;
It therefore wills that humbler state to place
Its hopes of safety in a fond embrace;
Then must that humbler state its wisdom prove,
By kind rejection of such pressing love;
Must dread such dangerous friendship to com-

mence,

And stand collected in its own defence :Our farmer thus the proffer'd kindness fled, ¦ And shunn'd the love that into bondage led. The widow failing, fresh besiegers came, To share the fate of this retiring dame : And each foresaw a thousand ills attend The man that fled from so discreet a friend; And pray'd, kind soul! that no event might make The harden'd heart of Farmer Jones to ache.

But he still govern'd with resistless hand, And where he could not guide, he would command: With steady view in course direct he steer'd, And his fair daughters loved him, though they fear'd ;

Each had her school, and, as his wealth was known, Each had in time a household of her own.

The boy indeed was, at the grandam's side, Humour'd and train'd, her trouble and her pride:

Engage he dared not, and he could not fly,

But saw his hope in gentle parley lie;

The child is pleased to meet regard from age, The old are pleased e'en children to engage ;

Whom he, instructing, led through cultured fields,
To show what man performs, what nature yields:
But Stephen, listless, wander'd from the view,
From beasts he fled, for butterflies he flew,
And idly gazed about, in search of something new.
The lambs indeed he loved, and wish'd to play
With things so mild, so harmless, and so gay;
Best pleased the weakest of the flock to see,
With whom he felt a sickly sympathy.

Meantime, the dame was anxious, day and night, To guide the notions of her babe aright,

And on the favourite mind to throw her glimmering light;

Her Bible stories she impress'd betimes,

And fill'd his head with hymns and holy rhymes;
On powers unseen, the good and ill, she dwelt,
And the poor boy mysterious terrors felt;
From frightful dreams, he waking sobb'd in dread,
Till the good lady came to guard his bed.
The father wish'd such errors to correct,

But let them pass in duty and respect :
But more it grieved his worthy mind to see
That Stephen never would a farmer be;
In vain he tried the shiftless lad to guide,

And yet 'twas time that something should be tried:
He at the village school perchance might gain
All that such mind could gather and retain ;
Yet the good dame affirm'd her favourite child
Was
apt and studious, though sedate and mild;
"That he on many a learned point could speak,
And that his body, not his mind, was weak."

The father doubted-but to school was sent
The timid Stephen, weeping as he went:
There the rude lads compell'd the child to fight,
And sent him bleeding to his home at night;
At this the grandam more indulgent grew,
And bade her darling "Shun the beastly crew;
Whom Satan ruled, and who were sure to lie,
Howling in torments, when they came to die."
This was such comfort, that in high disdain
He told their fate, and felt their blows again :
Yet if the boy had not a hero's heart,
Within the school he play'd a better part;
He wrote a clean, fine hand, and at his slate,
With more success than many a hero, sate;
He thought not much indeed-but what depends
On pains and care, was at his fingers' ends.
This had his father's praise, who now espied
A spark of merit, with a blaze of pride:
And though a farmer he would never make,
He might a pen with some advantage take;
And as a clerk that instrument employ,
So well adapted to a timid boy.

A London cousin soon a place obtain'd,
Easy, but humble-little could be gain'd:

The time arrived when youth and age must part,
Tears in each eye, and sorrow in each heart;
The careful father bade his son attend
To all his duties, and obey his friend;
To keep his church and there behave aright,
As one existing in his Maker's sight,
Till acts to habits led, and duty to delight:
"Then try, my boy, as quickly as you can,
Tassume the looks and spirit of a man;
I say, be honest, faithful, civil, true,
And this you may, and yet have courage too:
Heroic men, their country's boast and pride,
Have fear'd their God, and nothing fear'd beside :

While others daring, yet imbecile, fly
The power of man, and that of God defy :
Be manly then, though mild, for sure as fate,
Thou art, my Stephen, too effeminate;
Here, take my purse, and make a worthy use
("Tis fairly stoc'd) of what it will produce:
And now my blessing, not as any charm
Or conjuration, but 'twill do no harm."
Stephen, whose thoughts were wandering up
and down,

Now charm'd with promised sights in London town,
Now loath to leave his grandam-lost the force,
The drift, and tenor of this grave discourse;
But, in a general way, he understood
"Twas good advice, and meant, “My son, be good;"
And Stephen knew that all such precepts mean,
That lads should read their Bible, and be clean.
The good old lady, though in some distress,
Begg'd her dear Stephen would his grief suppress;
"Nay, dry those eyes, my child-and, first of all,
Hold fast thy faith, whatever may befall:
Hear the best preacher, and preserve the text
For meditation, till you hear the next;
Within your Bible night and morning look;
There is your duty, read no other book ;
Be not in crowds, in broils, in riots seen,
And keep your conscience and your linen clean:
Be you a Joseph, and the time may be,

When kings and rulers will be ruled by thee.'

And took his place within the evening coach,
With heart quite rent asunder. On one side
Was love, and grief, and fear, for scenes untried;
Wild beasts and wax-work fill'd the happier part
Of Stephen's varying and divided heart:
This he betray'd by sighs and questions strange,
Of famous shows, the Tower, and the Exchange.
Soon at his desk was placed the curious boy,
Demure and silent at his new employ :
Yet as he could, he much attention paid
To all around him, cautious and afraid;
On older clerks his eager eyes were fix'd,
But Stephen never in their council mix'd:
Much their contempt he fear'd, for if like them,
He felt assured he should himself contemn;
O! they were all so eloquent, so free,
No! he was nothing-nothing could he be
They dress so smartly, and so boldly look,
And talk as if they read it from a book;
"But I," said Stephen, " will forbear to speak,
And they will think me prudent and not weak.
They talk, the instant they have dropp'd the pen,
Of singing women, and of acting men;

Of plays and places where at night they walk
Beneath the lamps, and with the ladies taik;
While other ladies for their pleasure sing,
O! 'tis a glorious and a happy thing:
They would despise me, did they understand
I dare not look upon a scene so grand;
Or see the plays when critics rise and roar,
And hiss and groan, and cry-Encore! encore !-
There's one among them looks a little kind;
If more encouraged, I would ope my mind."
Alas! poor Stephen, happier had he kept
His purpose secret, while his envy slept;