at his wife, and faid, I really with you would eat a little bit yourfelf, my dear.'

I believe the parting with our fweet girl has entirely deprived me of appetite; it is not in my power to eat much; but, if you please, I will drink a glass of wine with you.'

I will just take one draught more of ale first; I believe there is but one other draught in the tankard.'

Mr. Barnet, having finished his ale, • Upon my word,' faid he, this ale is excellent and now, my dear, I am ready to join you in a glass of wine. Here, my dear, is your very good health, with all my heart, not forgetting our dear Louifa.'

After Mr. Barnet had drank a few glaffes more, and praised the port as found, and ftomachic, and of a good body; I am glad to fee you here again, my dear, faid he; they may talk of the comforts and conveniences of London as they please, but I think there is no place where one finds every thing fo neat, and fo clean, and fo comfortable, as in one's own houfe here, and at one's own, good, warm, fnug firefide.'

Mrs. Barnet, defirous of interefting her husband in the poor boy, thought this a good opportunity, and after expreffing her own fatisfaction in the thoughts of his finding home fo agreeable, the proceeded in the following terms: Yet, my dear, in the midst of those comforts which Providence has fo bountifully bestowed upon us, it is impoffible not to feel uneafinefs in reflecting on the numbers of our fellow-creatures, who, instead of thofe conveniences which we enjoy, are fain, after fatigue and labour, to feek a little refreshment, and repofe upon straw, in cold uncomfortable habitations, and from scanty provifions! The fine boy, whom I already mentioned, was going from a workhouse, to the miferable cottage of a wretched old woman, who had no natural intereft in him, and

Here Mrs. Barnet ftopped, becaufe the perceived that her husband had fallen afleep.

The following day they had vifitors, and Mrs. Barnet found no proper opportunity of mentioning to her hufband the boy in whom she felt fo ftrong an intereft. The day after, fhe was again prevented by the following accident:-A large company were invited to dine on turtle, at an inn in the village. This dinner was given by a gentleman, whofe intereft in the county, Mr. Barnet oppofed, of course he was not invited to the feaft; but the inn-keeper, who had private reafons for cultivating the good will of Mr. Barnet, and knew by what means that was to be moft effectually obtained, gave him to know that a copious bafon of the turtle fhould be fent to him.-Mr. Barnet having prepared himself for the occafion, by a longer airing than ufual, was waiting with impatience for the accomplishment of the inn-keeper's promife, when he was informed, that in conveying the foup from the inn, the fervant had ftumbled, and fpilt the rich cargo on the ground. This melancholy accident affected Mr. Barnet fo deeply, that his wife plainly perceived it would be vain to expect that he should, for that day at least, think of any body's misfortune but his own.

The following morning, Mrs. Barnet, on the pretext of paying an early vifit, drove to the old woman's cot tage, to enquire after the poor boy.

She foon obferved him fitting on a ftone before the old woman's door, apart from the other children, who were playing on the heath.

He fprung, with extended arms, toward Mrs. Barnet, as foon as he saw her.

fine lady will take the trouble to come to fee fuch a poor little wretch as you -and what does your ladyship think he answered?'

What did he answer?' faid Mrs. Barnet.

Yes, I do think it,' fays he; for the promised to do fo,' faid he, and the parfon of the work-house fchool told us, that good folks always kept their promife," fays he. And I am fure,' continued the old woman, that your ladyship always will, particularly to me, whereof your ladyship muft remember that you promifed to reward me, if fo be I treated this boy kindly, which God he knows I have done, as in duty bound.'

cake herself. 'Here, here,' refumed fhe, as foon as he could articulate I affure you it is very nice, fo there is a piece for you.'

I cannot eat it now,' replied he, rejecting the cake, and looking mournfully at Mrs. Barnet.

I will come and fee you again, my dear,' faid Mrs. Barnet, tapping his cheek; but I am obliged to go at present: pray be a good boy." I cannot be a good boy,' refumed he, ready to cry; 'when you are going away.'

'I will foon return,' faid fhe, but pray be good.'

I will try,' faid the boy, with a fob; but I fear I cannot.'

Mrs. Barnet had not only a warm benevolent heart, but alfo fomething of a warm imagination. The acci dental manner in which she had met with this boy, and the fudden and growing intereft which his appear→ ance, behaviour, and forlorn condition created in her breast, she confidered as the impulfe of Providence urging her to fave a fine boy from vice, infamy, and ruin.

Fraught with this idea, fhe returned to her own house a little before her husband arofe; and by the time he was dreffed, fhe had every thing arranged for his breakfast.

Mr. Barnet entered the parlour with a newspaper in his hand, and what was feldom the cafe, with a cheerful countenance.

I fancy you have good news to communicate,' faid Mrs. Barnet.

Why, yes, faid he; I'find stocks have rifen one and a half per cent. by which I fhall gain a pretty round fum.'

I am glad to hear it,' faid fhe, presenting him with a bason of tea.

I do not fee why we should not have a dish of john-dorys for dinner to-day, let them coft what they will,' refumed he.

You fhall have it, my dear,' faid Mrs. Barnet; I'll give orders about it directly.'

While Mrs. Barnet was giving the

band.

6

With all my heart,' faid Mrs. Barnet, for I rejoice to fee you look fo cheerful and well this morning.'

Why truly,' faid he, ftroking his belly, I do feel myfelf pretty comfortable.'

Mrs. Barnet thinking this the lucky moment for refuming the story of the poor boy-defcribed his fine looks and helpless condition in fuch eloquent and pathetic terms, that her husband, in spite of his natural indifference to every thing which did not perfonally regard himfelf, feemed a little affected.-Mrs. Barnet perceiving this, continued :

I do affure you, my dear, that you never faw a prettier boy.'

'I make no manner of doubt of it,' faid Mr. Barnet; ' but as for the old woman,' refumed his wife, the feemed to be an unfeeling creature, and fmelt of gin.'

'I make no manner of doubt of it,' faid Mr. Barnet; for I have known feveral old women fmell of gin.'

'I am fure she will neglect the poor boy,' refumed fhe.

Well, my dear, fince you are perfuaded of that, I think we muft fend for the old woman, and advise her to take care of him; and I am willing to give her a few fhillings out of my pocket for fo doing;' faid Mr. Bar

net.

That would make her promife to take care of him,' faid Mrs. Barnet, • and make her appear very kind to him when you or I are with her, but what will become of the poor child when we are not prefent?'

Why, he muit take his chance,

The other children have all fome relation to inquire about them,' faïd Mrs. Barnet; but this poor boy is quite deftitute of relation, friend, or protector. The poor creature himfelf told me that the only friend he ever had, died last week.'

net.

And who was he?' faid Mr. Bar

A poor old footman,' replied his

This is but one boy,' replied Mrs. Barnet; perhaps Providence will never throw another fo particularly in our way.'

Why truly, Jane, you furprife me,' faid the husband; you feem to be as much concerned about this boy, as if he were your own.'

So would you, if you had only feen him; he is a moft bewitching little fellow, and although he is somewhat pale and emaciated, I never in my life beheld a boy with finer features and a more interesting countenance :

he brought to my remembrance our own poor George, who is dead and gone.'-Here she burst into tears, and was unable to speak for a few minutes.

Pray, do not afflict yourself for what cannot be helped,' faid Mr. Barnet; you know, my dear, we did all we could for George, and the apothecary did all he could alfo; he could not have prefcribed a greater number of draughts, and cordials, and julaps, to the only son of a duke; for his bill was as long as a fpit, fo there is no caufe for forrow or reflection.-And M m

1

as for this hofpital boy, although he is nothing to me, yet fince he bears fuch a refemblance to George, I am willing to make a weekly allowance, out of my own pocket, to the old woman, to make her careful of him.' Mrs. Barnet fhook her head.

Why, what would you have me do?' refumed the hufband; you would not furely have me take him quite out of the hands of the old woman, and be at the whole burden of his maintenance myself!'

Mrs. Barnet fmiled, with a nod of affent.

Good gracious, my dear! You do not reflect,' added the hufband, how strange a thing it would be for us to take a poor miferable wretch of a boy, perhaps the fon of a footman, under our care, and be at the whole expence of maintaining him. Ifhould be glad to know who will thank us

for it?'

"Our own hearts,' faid Mrs. Barnet.

My heart never thanked me for any fuch thing fince I was born,' faid Mr. Barnet; and I am fure all our acquaintances would laugh at us, and turn us into ridicule.'.

All the laughters in the world cannot turn benevolence into ridicule,' faid Mrs. Barnet; and the narrow minded may be hurt to fee you do what they cannot imitate; but malice itfelf can neither prevent the pleasure which a charitable action will afford to your own breaft, my dear, nor the refpect which will attend it.'

So your drift is,' replied the hufband, to tease me till I take this boy into my house.'

• My drift has never been to tea fe you, but always to make you happy, my dear. I own I am affected with the friendless condition of this poor orphan, and ftruck with his refemblance to the child who was torn from us at the fame age:- as for the poor young creature's maintenance, it will be a mere trifle to us, but of infinite importance to him; it may fave him from vice, and the worst kind of ruin. The reflection of having done fo charitable an office to a lovely boy, like you own departed fon, would no doubt afford you everlasting fatisfaction: but,' continued fhe, perceiving that her husband began to be affected, I defire you to do nothing which is not prompted by the generous feelings of your own heart; for of this I am certain, that your acting up to them will render you more profperous even in this world, and fecure you a reward of an hundred fold in the next."

The earneftnefs of Mrs. Barnet's manner, and the recollection of a fon whom he had loved as much as he could love any thing, had already touched the heart of the husband; and this laft intimation of immediate profperity and future reward, founding in his ears fomething like accumulated interest and a large premium, came nearest his feelings, and overcame him entirely.

Well, my dear,' faid he, fince this is you opinion, let the boy be brought hither a3 foon as you please.'

Mrs. Barnet threw her arms around her husband's neck, and thanked him with all the warmth of an overflowing and benevolent heart.

LUBIN AND HIS DOG TRAY. From. Poems by G. D. Harley, late of the Theatre Royal, Covent-Garden.] YOUNG Lubin was a fhepherd boy,'

Who watch'd a rigid maiter's fheep, And many a night was heard to figh, And many a day was feen to weep:

For not a lambkin e'er was lost,
But Lubin ever was to blame,
Or wether ftray'd to field remote;

Nor careful he, nor penn'd his cote. Yet not a trutier lad was known,

To climb the promontory's brow; Nor yet a tenderer heart e'er beat, Befide the brook in vale below.

From him ftern winter's drifting snow,

Its pelting fleet, or froft fevere; Or fcorching fummer's fultry ray, Ne'er forc'd a murmur, or a tear. For ah! the varying feafons had

To every hardship form'd his frame; Tho' ftill his tender feeling heart, By nature nurs'd, remain'd the fame. But whither fhall the orphan fly To meet protection's fostering power? Oppreffion waits the future day,

When mifery marks the natal hour. An orphan lad poor Lubin was,

No friend, no relative had he! His happiest hour was dash'd with woe, His mildest treatment-tyranny. It chanc'd that o'er the boundless heath

One winter's day his flocks had fpread; By hunger urg'd to seek the blade,

That lurk'd beneath its fnowy bed. And hous'd at eve, his fleecy charge, He, forrowing, mifs'd a favourite lamb, That fhunn'd the long perfifting search, Nor anfwer'd to its bleating dam. With heavy heart he fhap'd his way, And told fo true, fo fad a tale, That almost pierc'd the marble breast Of ruthlefs Rufus of the vale.

Poor Lubin own'd his flocks had ftray'd,

Own'd he had fuffer'd them to go; Yes! he had learn'd to pity them, For often he had hunger'd too :

And had he to their pinching wants, The unnipp'd neighb'ring bounds deny'd;

They fure had dropp'd-as furely too,

The pitying fhepherd boy had died. Then die !-th' unfeeling mafter said,

And fpurn'd him from his clofing door; Which, till he found his favourite lamb,

He vow'd fhould ne`er admit him more. Dark was the night, and o'er the wafte

The whittling winds did fiercely blow, And 'gainst his poor unfhelter'd head,

With arrowy keenneis came the fnow: The fmall thick fnow, that Eurus drives In freezing fury o'er the plain, And with unfparing vengeance, fcores The callous face of hardieft fwain. Yet thus he left his master's house, And fhap'd his fad uncertain way : By man unnotic'd and forfook,

And follow'd but by-trusty TrayPoor trufty Tray! a faithful dog;

Lubin and he were young together: Still wou'd they grace each other's fide," Whate'er the time, whate'er the weather,

Unlike to worldly friends were they,

Who feparate in fortune's blaft-→→ They still were near when fair the sky, . But nearer ftill when overcaft. When Lubin's random step involv'd

His body 'neath the drifted snow, Tray help'd him forth; and when Tray fell,

Poor Lubin dragg'd him from below. Thus, mid the horrors of the night,

They enter'd on the houseless heath;
Above their heads no comfort broke,
Nor round about, nor underneath.
No little cheering star they saw,
To light them on their dreary way;
Nor yet
the diftant twinkling blaze
Of cottage industry faw they.
Nay e'en that moft officious guide

Of those who roam and those who mope; Retiring Will o' th' Wifp, refus'd

To trim, the lamp of treach'rous hope. Nor parish bell was heard to strike,

The hour of tardy-gaited night;' No noife-but winds and fcreams of thofe Ill-omen'd birds that shun the light.} Benumb'd at length his stiff 'ning joints, His tongue to Tray cou'd scarcely speak; His tears congeal'd to icicles

His hair_hung clatt ring 'gainft his cheek.

As thus he felt his falt'ring limbs

Give omen of approaching death, Aurora from her eastern hill Rush'd forth, and staid his fleeting breath:

And fhew'd to his imperfect fight

The harmlefs caufe of all his woe! His little lambkin, cold and stiff!

His heart's best chord was yet in tune, Stretch'd on its bed of glit'ning fnow!

Unfnapp'd by cold feverity: Touch'd was that chord-his dim eye beam'd,

Suffus'd with fenfibility.

'Tis just!' he faid, 'that where thou lieft, The carelef's fhepherd boy fhou'd lie; Thou died'ft, poor tool! for want of food!

I fall, for fuffering thee to die. But oh, my, master!'-broken-fhort→→→ Was every half-word now he spoke— "Severe has been thy conftant will,

And galling fure thy heavy yoke. But yet in all my beft," have I Without a plaint my hardships bore Rufus may all thy pangs be part Mafter my fufferings are no more!