them, rather than another should unjustly reap the fruit of my labours. But I checked myself, and I am glad I did. We took lodgings in a neighbouring village, and I went round among the gentlemen of the country to see if I could get a little employment. In the mean time, the former steward came down to settle accounts with his successor, and was much concerned to find me in such a situation. He was a very able and honest man, and had been engaged by another nobleman to superintend a large, improveable estate in a distant part of the kingdom. He told me, if I would try my fortune with him once more, he would endeavour to procure me a new settlement. I had nothing to lose, and therefore was willing enough to run any hazard, but I was destitute of means to convey my family to such a distance. My good friend, who was much provoked at the injustice of the new steward, said so much to him, that he brought him to make me an allowance for my garden; and with that I was enabled to make another removal. It was to the place I now inhabit.

"When I came here, sir, all this farm was a naked common, like that you crossed in coming. My lord got an enclosure bill for his part of it, and the steward divided it into different farms, and let it on improving leases to several tenants. A dreary spot, to be sure, it looked at first, enough to sink a man's heart to sit down upon it. I had a little unfinished cottage given me to live in; and, as I had nothing to stock a farm, I was for some years employed as head labourer and planter about the new enclosures. By very working and saving, together with a little help, I was at length enabled to take a small part of the ground I now occupy. I had various discouragements, from bad seasons, and other accidents. One year the distemper carried off four out of seven cows that I kept; another year I lost two of my best horses. A high wind once almost entirely destroyed an orchard I had just planted, and blew down my largest barn. But I

hard

was too much used to misfortunes to be easily disheartened, and my way always was to set about repairing them in the best manner I could, and leave the rest to Heaven. This method seems to have answered at last. I have now gone on many years in a course of continued prosperity, adding field to field, increasing my stock, and bringing up a numerous family with credit. My dear wife, who was my faithful partner through so much distress, continues to share my prosperous state; and few couples in the kingdom, I believe, have more cause to be thankful for their lot. This, sir, is my history. You see it contains nothing very extraordinary; but if it impress on the mind of this young gentleman the maxim that patience and perseverance will scarcely fail of a good issue in the end, the time you have spent in listening to it will not entirely be lost."

Mr. Carleton thanked the good farmer very heartily for the amusement and instruction he had afforded them, and took leave, with many expressions of regard. Theodore and he walked home, talking, by the way, of what they had heard.

Next morning, Mr. C., looking out of the window, saw Theodore hard at work in his garden. He was carefully disinterring his buried flowers, trimming and cleaning them, and planting them anew. He had got the gardener to cut a slip of the broken rose-tree, and set it in the the middle to give it a chance for growing. By noon, everything was laid smooth, and neat, and the bed was well filled. All its splendour, indeed, was gone for the present, but it seemed in a hopeful way to revive. Theodore looked with pleasure over his work; but his father felt more pleasure in witnessing the first fruits of farmer Hardman's story.

s

THE GOLDFINCH AND LINNET

A GAUDY Goldfinch, pert and gav
Hopping blithe, from spray to spray,
Full of frolic, full of spring,

With head well plumed, and burnish'd wing
Spied a sober linnet hen,

Sitting all alone,

And bow'd, and chirp'd, and bow'd again;
And, with familiar tone,

He thus the dame address'd,
As to her side he closely press'd:
"I hope, my dear, I don't intrude,
By breaking on your solitude;
But it has always been my passion
To forward pleasant conversation;
And I should be a stupid bird
To pass the fair without a word;
I, who have been for ever noted
To be the sex's most devoted.
Besides, a damsel unattended,
Left unnoticed and unfriended,
Appears (excuse me) so forlorn,
That I can scarce suppose,
By any she that e'er was born,

"Twould be the thing she chose.
How happy, then, I'm now at leisure,
To wait upon a lady's pleasure;
And all this morn have nought to do

But pay my duty, love, to you.

What, silent!-Ah! those looks domure,

And eyes of languor, make me sure

That, in my random, idle chatter,

I quite mistook the matter!
It is not spleen, or contemplation,
That draws you to the cover;
But 'tis some tender assignation:
WWell who's the favour'd lover P

I met, hard by, in quaker suit,
A youth sedately grave and mute;
And, from the maxim, 'Like to like,'
Perhaps the sober youth might strike.
Yes, yes, 'tis he, I'll lay my life,
Who hopes to get you for his wife.
"But, come, my dear, I know you're wise,
Compare and judge, and use your eyes;
No female yet could e'er behold
The lustre of my red and gold,
My ivory bill and jetty crest,
But all was done, and I was blest.
Come, brighten up, and act with spirit,
And take the fortune that you merit."
He ceased: Linetta thus replied,
With cool contempt and decent pride :~ -
""Tis pity, sir, a youth so sweet,
In form and manner so complete,
Should do an humble maid the honour
To waste his precious time upon

A

poor, forsaken she, you know,

Can do no credit to a beau ;

And worse would be the case,

her.

If, meeting one whose faith was plighted He should incur the sad disgrace

Of being slighted.

"Now, sir, the sober-suited youth, Whom you were pleased to mention, To those small merits, sense and truth, And generous love, has some pretension And then, to give him all his due, He sings, sir, full as well as you, And sometimes can be silent, too. In short, my taste is so perverse, And such my wayward fate, That it would be my greatest curse

my

To have a Coxcomb to This said, away she scuds,

mate."

And leaves beau Goldfinch in the suds.

342

TWENTY-FIFTH EVENING.

THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.

"GOOD news! great news! glorious news!" cried young Oswald, as he entered his father's house. “We have got a complete victory, and have killed, I don't know how many thousands of the enemy; and we are to have bonfires and illuminations."

"And so," said his father, "you think that killing a great many thousands of human creatures is a thing to be very glad about."

Os. No I do not quite think so, neither; but surely it is right to be glad that our country has gained a great advantage.

F. No doubt, it is right to wish well to our country, as far as its prosperity can be promoted without injuring the rest of mankind. But wars are very seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when they are ever so useful or necessary, so many dreadful evils attend them, that a humane man will scarcely rejoice in them, if he consider at all on the subject.

Os. But if our enemies would do us a great deal of mischief, and we prevent it by beating them, have we not a right to be glad of it?

F. Alas! we are in general little judges which of the parties may have had the most mischievous intentions. Generally, they are both in the wrong, and success will make either of them unjust and unreasonable. But putting this out of the question, he who rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the misery of many thousands of his species; and the thought of that should make him pause a little. Suppose a surgeon were to come, with a smiling countenance, and tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half-adozen legs to day-what would you think of him?

Os. J. should think him very hard-hearted.