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at his wife, and said, I really with The following day they had visitors, you would eat a little bit yourfelf, my and Mrs. Barnet found no proper opdear.'

portunity of mentioning to her hus• I believe the parting with our band the boy in whom she felt so strong sweet girl has entirely deprived me of an intereft.' The day after, she was appetite ; it is not in my power to eat again prevented by the following acmuch; but, if you please, I will drink cident :- A large company were ina glass of wine with you.'

vited to dine on turtle, at an inn in I will just take one draught more the village. This dinner was given of ale first; I believe there is but one by a gentleman, whose interest in the other draught in the tankard.' county, Mr. Barnet opposed, of course

Mr. Barnet, having finished his ale, he was not invited to the feast; but Upon my word,' said he, 'this ale the inn-keeper, who had private reais excellent--and now, my dear, I fons for cultivating the good will of am ready to join you in a glass of Mr. Barnet, and knew by what means wine. -Here, my dear, is your very that was to be most effectually obtaingood health, with all my heart, not ed, gave him to know that a copious forgetting our dear Louisa.'

bason of the turtle should be sent to After Mr. Barnet had drank a few him.-Mr. Barnet having prepared glasses more, and praised the port as himself for the occasion, by a longer lound, and ftomachic, and of a good' airing than ufual, was waiting with body; • I am glad to see you here impatience for the accomplishment of again, my dear," said he ; they may the inn-keeper's promise, when he was talk of the comforts and conveniences informed, that in conveying the soup of London as they please, but I think from the inn, the servant had stumbled, there is no place where one finds every and spilt the rich cargo on the ground. thing so neat, and so clean, and fo This melancholy accident affected Mr. comfortable, as in one's own house Barnet so deeply, that his wife plainly here, and at one's own, good, warm, perceived it would be vain to expect fnug firefide.'

that he should, for that day at least, Mrs. Barnet, desirous of interesting think of any body's misfortune but his her husband in the poor hoy, thought own. this a good opportunity, and after The following morning, Mrs. Barexpreffing her own satisfaction in the net, on the pretext of paying an early thoughts of his finding home so agree- visit, drove to the old woman's cotable, the proceeded in the following tage, to enquire after the poor boy. terms: · Yet, my dear, in the midit She foon observed him fitting on a of those comforts which Providence ftone before the old woman's door, has so bountifully bestowed upon us, apart from the other children, who it is impossible not to feel uneasiness in were playing on the heath. reflecting on the numbers of our fel He fprung, with extended arms, low-creatures, who, inftead of those toward Mrs. Barnet, as soon as he faw. conveniences which we enjoy, are fain, her. after fatigue and labour, to seek a lit “Why are you not playing with the tle refreshment, and repose upon straw, other children ?' said ine. in cold uncomfortable habitations, and • Because,' said he, you promised from scanty provisions ! The fine boy, to come and see me, and I have whom I already mentioned, was go- watched for you ever since." ing from a workhouse, to the mifera · That he has, indeed, madam,' ble cottage of a wretched old woman, said the old woman, who came out of who had no natural interest in him, the hovel, when she saw the carriage and

sop;' he has been constantly on the Here Mrs. Barnet stopped, because look-cut from morning to night, alfhe perceived that her husband had though I told himYou filly fool,' fallen alleen

faid I, do you think that that there

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fine lady will take the trouble to come cake herself. Here, here,' resumed to see such a poor little wretch as you the, as soon as the could articulate ; —and what does your ladyship think I assure you it is very nice, so there he answered ?'

is a piece for you.' «What did he answer?' said Mrs. • I cannot eat it now; replied he, Barnet.

rejecting the cake, and looking mournYes, I do think it,' says he; fully

, at Mrs. Barnet. • for she promised to do so,' said he, I will come and see you again, • and the parson of the work-house my dear,' said Mrs. Barret, tapping fchool told us, that good folks always his cheek; • but I am obliged to go kept their promise,' says he. And at present : pray be a good boy.' I am sure,' continued the old woman, * I cannot be a good boy,' resumed

that your ladyship always will, par- he, ready to cry; when you are ticularly to me, whereof your lady hip going away.' must remember that you promised to I will soon return,' said she, but reward me, if fo be I treated this boy pray be good.' kindly, which God he knows I have I will try,' said the boy, with a done, 'as in duty bound.'

sob; but I fear I cannot.' • Have you had any breakfast, my Mrs. Barnet had not only a warm dear?' faid Mrs. Barnet to the boy. benevolent heart, but also fomething

• I was just going to give him fome,' of a warm imagination. The accianswered the old woman, when your dental manner in which she had met ladyship arrived.- Was I not, child ?' with this boy, and the sudden and

i I don't know,' said the boy. growing interest which his appear

• He does not understand politeness ance, behaviour, and forlorn conas yet, please your ladyship,' said the 'dition created in her breast, she conold woman; but I will soon teach fidered as the impulse of Providence him in time; for indeed I was just urging her to save a fine boy from going to give him some breakfast, as vice, infamy, and ruin. in duty bound.

Fraught with this idea, she returnMrs. Barnet continued to talk with ed to her own house a little before the boy for a considerable time, and her husband arose; and by the time was highly pleased with all he said. he was dressed, she had every thing She then gave some money to the wo- arranged for his breakfast. man, repeating her injunctions, that Mr. Barnet entered the parlour The should be careful and attentive to with a newspaper in his hand, and the boy; and now, .my dear, here what was feldom the case, with a is something for you,

added the ; cheerful countenance. presenting him with a large sweet I fancy you have good news to cake.

communicate,' said Mrs. Barnet. Are you going away already?' Why, yes, faid he ; · I'find stocks faid the boy, with a sorrowful look. have risen one and a half per cent. by

Yes, my dear, I must go,' re- which I fall gain a pretty round plied fhe.

sum.' • There,' said the boy, giving the -"I am glad to hear it,' faid she, cake to the old woman, you may presenting him with a bason of tea. divide that among the children.' • I do not see why we should not

First take some yourself,' rejoined have a dish of john-dorys for dinner the old woman ; tearing off a piece, to-day, let them cost what they will,' and offering it to the boy.

resumed he. • No,' said he ; • I do not like it * You shall have it, my dear,' said now.'

Mrs. Barnet ; • I'll give orders about • You cannot choose but like it, it directly.' faid the, taking a large bite of the While Mrs. Barnet was giving the

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orders, her husband helped himself like the other children,' said the hufa very plentifully to the toalt, which he band. found buttered to his taste.--He con « The other children have all fome tinued to eat, with every appearance relation to inquire about them,' said of fatisfaction, for a considerable time Mrs. Barnet; - but this poor boy is after his wife returned ; and when he quite destitute of relation, friend, or could eat no more, he presented her protector. The poor creature hima' plate of toast, with his usual phrase self told me that the only friend he on like occasions I really wilh you ever had, died last week. would eat a little bit yourfelf, my • And who was he?" said Mr. Bara dear.'

• With all my heart,? said Mrs. • A poor old footman,' replied his Barnet, for I rejoice to see you look wife. fo cheerful and well this morning.' And are you making all this fuss,

Why truly,' said he, stroking his Jane, about a little friendless vagabelly, 'I do feel myself pretty com- bond, whom nobody knows 7' faid fortable.'

Mr. Barnet. Mrs. Barnet thinking this the • If this poor boy were known and lucky moment for resuming the story had friends, he would not stand in need of the poor boy--described his fine of our protection,' replied Mrs. Bare looks and helpless condition in such net. eloquent and pathetic terms, that her That is very true,' said Mr. Barhusband, in spite of his natural indif- net; but on the other hand, it is ference to every thing which did not very hard on us, to be the only propersonally regard himself, seemed a tector of poor friendless vagabond little affected.

---Mrs. Barnet perceiv. boys." ing this, continued :

This is but one boy,' replied Mrs. I do assure you, my dear, that Barnet; perhaps. Providence will you never faw a prettier boy.' never throw another so particularly in

• I make no manner of doubt of it, our way.' said Mr. Barnet ; ' but as for the old Why truly, Jane, you surprise woman,' resumed his wife, she seem- me,' said the husband; - you seem to ed to be an unfeeling creature, and be as much concerned about this boy, smelt of gin.'

as if he were your own.' "I make no manner of doubt of . So would you, if you had only seen it,' said Mr. Barnet ; ' for I have him; he is a most bewitching little known several old women smell of fellow, and although he is somewhat gin.'

pale and emaciated, I never in my "I am sure she will neglect the life beheld a boy with 'finer features poor boy,' resumed the.

and a more interesting countenance : • Well, my dear, since you are per- - he brought to my remembrance our suaded of that, I think we must send own poor George, who is dead and for the old woman, and advise her to gone.'-Here The burst into tears, and take care of him; and I am willing to was unable to speak for a few minutes. give her a few shillings out of my Pray, do not afflict yourself for pocket for fo doing ;' said Mr. Bar- what cannot be helped,' said Mr. Bar

net ; you know, my dear, we did « That would make her promise to all we could for George, and the apotake care of him,' said Mrs. Barnet, thecary did all he could also; he could • and make her appear very kind to not have prescribed a greater number him when you or I are with her, but of draughts, and cordials, and julaps, what will become of the poor child to the only son of a duke ; for his bill when we are not present ?'

was as long as a spit, so there is no Why, he muit take his chance, cause for forrow or reflection. And

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as for this hospital boy, although he • My drift has never been to tease is nothing to me, yet fince he bears you, but always to make you happy, such a resemblance to George, I am my dear. I own I am affected with willing to make a weekly allowance, the friendless condition of this poor out of my own pocket, to the old wo- orphan, and struck with his reman, to make her careful of him.' semblance to the child who was torn Mrs. Barnet shook her head. from us at the same age :- as for the

Why, what would you have me poor young creature's maintenance, it do?' resumed the husband; you will be a mere trifle to us, but of inwould not surely have me take him finite importance to him ; it may

fave quite out of the hands of the old wo- him from vice, and the worst kind of man, and be at the whole burden of ruin. The reflection of having done his maintenance myself !!

fo charitable an office to a lovely boy, Mrs. Barnet smiled with a nod of like you own departed son, would no assent.

doubt afford you everlasting fatisfac* Good gracious, my dear! You tion: but,' continued she, perceiving do not reñect,' added the husband, that her husband began to be affected,

how ftrange a thing it would be for I desire you to do nothing which is us to take a poor miserable wretch of not prompted by the generous feelings a boy, perhaps the son of a footman, of your own heart ; for of this I am under our care, and be at the whole certain, that your a&ting up to them expence of, maintaining him. I should will render you more prosperous even be glad to know who will thank us in this world, and secure you a refor it?"

ward of an hundred fold in the next.' Our own hearts,' faid Mrs. Bar The earneftness of Mrs. Barnet's net.

manner, and the recollection of a fon My heart never thanked me for whom he had loved as much as he any such thing since I was born,' said could love any thing, had already Mr. Barnet ; * and I am fure all our touched the heart of the husband; acquaintances would laugh at us, and and this last intimation of immediate turn us into ridicule.",

prosperity and future reward, -found• All the laughters in the world ing in his ears something like accucannot turn benevolence into ridicule,' mulated interest and a large premium, said Mrs. Barnet;' and the narrow came nearest his feelings, and overminded may

be hurt to see you do came him entirely. what they cannot imitate ; but malice • Well, my dear,” said he, « since itself can neither prevent the pleasure this is you opinion, let the boy be which a charitable action will afford brought hither a3 foon

as you to your own breast, my dear, nor the please.' respect which will attend it.'

Mrs. Barnet threw her arms a* So your drift is,' replied the hus- round her husband's neck, and thankband, - to tease me till I take this ed him with all the warmth of an boy into my house.

overflowing and benevolent heart.

THE BRITISH MUS E.

LUBIN AND HIS DOG TRAY:

For not a lambkin e'er was lost, [From. Poems by G. D. Harley, late of But Lubin ever was to blame,

Or wether stray'd to field remote ; the Theatre Royal, Covent-Garden.]

Nor careful he, nor penn'd his cote. 'YOUNG Lubin was a shepherd boy, Yet not a truttier lad was known,

Who will ch'd a rigid maiter's sheep, To climb the promontory's brow ; And many a night was heard 10 ligh, Nor yet a tenderer heart e'er beat, And inady a day was seen to weep : Beside the brook in vale below.

From him stern winter's drifting snow, Unlike to worldly friends were they, Its pelting fleet, or frost severe ;

Who separate in fortune's blast
Or scorching summer's sultry ray, They still were near when fair the sky,

Ne'er forc'd a murmur, or a tear. But nearer ftill when overcast.
For ah! the varying seasons had When Lubin's random step involv'd

To every hard hip form’d his frame; His body ’neath the drifted snow,
Tho' ftill his tender feeling heart,

Tray help'd him forth; and when Tray By nature nurs'd, remain'd the same.

fell, But whither shall the orphan fiy

Poor Lubin dragg'd him from below. To meet protection's fostering power ?

Thus, 'mid the horrors of the night, Oppression waits the iuture day,

They enter'd on the houseless heath;

Above their heads no comfort broke,
When misery marks the natal hour.

Nor roundabout, nor underneath.
An orphan lad poor Lubin was,
No friend, no relative had he !

No little chạering star they saw,
His happiest hour was darb'd with woe,

To light them on their dreary way; His mildest treatment-tyranny.

Nor yet the distant twinkling blaze It chanc'd that o'er the boundless heath

Of cottage industry saw they. One winter's day his flocks had spread; Nay e'en that most officious guide

Of those who roam and those who mope; By hunger urgʻd to seek the blade, That lurkū beneath its' snowy bed.

Retiring Will o'th' Wisp, refus’d

To trim the lamp of treach'rous hope. And hous'd at eve, his feecy charge,

He, forrowing, mifs'd a favourite lamb, Nor parish bell was heard to strike, That shunnid the long persisting search,

The hour of tardy-gaited night;} Nor answer'd to its bleating dam.

No noise-but winds and screams of thofe

Ill-omen'd birds that hun the light. With heavy heart he shap'd his way, And told to true, fo fad a tale,

Benumb'd at length his ftiff’ning joints, That almost pierc'd the marble breast

His tongue to Tray cou'd scarcely speak; Of ruthless Rufus of the vale.

His tears congeal'd io icicles

His hair_hung clatt ring 'gainst his Poor Lubin own'd his flocks had ftray'd,

cheek. Own'd he had suffer'd them to go; Yes ! - he had learnod to pity them,

As thus he felt his falt'ring limbs For often he had hunger'd too :

Give omen of approaching death,

Aurora from her eastern hill And had he to their pinching wants,

Ruth'd forth, and staid bis Ateting The unnipp'd neighb’ring bounds de.

breath : nyd; They sure had dropp'd-as surely too,

And few'd to his imperfect fight The pirying thepherd boy had died.

The harmless caule of all his woe! Then die !-th' unfeeling master said,

His little lambkin, cold and stiff ! And spurn'd him from his closing door ;

Stretch'd on its bed of glilt’ning snow! Which, till he found his favourite lamb,

His heart's best chord was yet in tune, He vow'd should ne'er admit him more.

Unthapp'd by cold feverity:

Touch'd was that chord-his dim eye Dark was the night, and o'er the waste

beam'd, The whittling winds did fiercely blow, And 'gainst his poor un shelter d head,

Suffus'd' with sensibility. With arrowy keenneis came the snow : ' 'Tis juit !' he said, 'that where thou lielt, The small thick snow, that Eurus drives

The careless shepherd boy thou'd lie ; In freezing fury o'er the plain,

Thou died'st, poor tool! for want of

food! And with unsparing vengeance, scores The callous face of hardiest (wain.

I fall, for suffering thee to die, Yet thus he left his master's house, . But oh, my, master !'-broken-fortAnd shap'd his sad uncertain way :

Was every half-word now he spoke By man unnotic'd and forsook,

•Severe has been thy constant will, 'And follow'd but by-trusty Tray And galling sure thy heavy yoke, Poor trusty Tray! a faithful dog;

or in all my best,” have I Lubin and he were young together.: Without a plaint my hard Skips bore is Still wou'd they grace each other's side, Rufus!-may all thy pang's be part

Whate'er the time, whate'er the weather, Master !my sufferings are no more!

But yet

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