S. Alas! is a life like mine, torn from country, friends, and all I held dear, and compelled to toil under the burning sun for a master, worth thinking about for old age? No-the sooner it ends, the sooner I shall obtain that relief for which my soul pants.

M. Is it impossible, then, to hold you by any ties but those of constraint and severity ?

S. It is impossible to make one who has felt the value of freedom, acquiesce in being a slave.

M. Suppose I were to restore you to your liberty— would you reckon that a favour?

S. The greatest; for although it would only be undoing a wrong, I know too well how few among mankind are capable of sacrificing interest to justice, not to prize the exertion when it is made.

M. I do it, then ;-be free.

S. Now I am indeed your servant, though not your slave. And as the first return I can make for your kindness, I will tell you freely the condition in which you live. You are surrounded with implacable foes, who long for a safe opportunity to revenge upon you and the other planters all the miseries they have endured. The more generous their natures, the more indignant they feel against that cruel injustice which has dragged them hither, and doomed them to perpetual servitude. You can rely on no kindness on your part to soften the obduracy of their resentment. You have reduced them to the state of brute beasts, and if they have not the stupidity of beasts of burden, they must have the ferocity of beasts of prey. Superior force alone can give you security. As soon as that fails, you are at the mercy of the merciless. Such is the social bond between master and slave.

414

THIRTJ ETH EVENING.

EARTH AND HER CHILDREN.

IN a certain district of the globe, things one year went on so ill, that almost the whole race of living beings, animals and vegetables, carried their lamentations and complaints to their common mother, the Earth.

First came Man. "O Earth," said he, " how can you behold unmoved the intolerable calamities of your favourite offspring! Heaven shuts up all the sources of its benignity to us, and showers plagues and pestilence on our heads-storms tear to pieces all the works of human labour-the elements of fire and water seem let loose to devour us-and in the midst of all these evils, some demon possesses us with a rage of destroying one another; so that the whole species seems doomed to perish. O, intercede in our behalf, or else receive us again into your maternal bosom, and hide us from the sight of these accumulated distresses!"

The other animals then spoke by their deputies, the horse, the ox, and the sheep. "O pity, mother Earth, those of your children that repose on your breast, and derive their subsistence from your fruitful bosom! We are parched with drought, we are scorched by lightning, we are beaten by pitiless tempests, salubrious vegetables refuse to nourish us, we fanguish under disease, and the race of men treat us with unusual rigour. Never, without speedy succour, can we survive to another year."

The vegetables next, those which form the verdant carpet of the earth, that cover the waving fields of harvest, and that spread their lofty branches in the air, sent forth their complaint. "O, our general

mother, to whose breast we cleave, and whose vital juices we drain, have compassion upon us! See how we wither and droop under the baleful gales that sweep over us how we thirst in vain for the gentle dew of heaven-how immense tribes of noxious insects pierce and devour us-how the famishing flocks and herds tear us up by the roots-and how men, through mutual spite, lay waste and destroy us while yet immature. Already whole nations of us are desolated, and, unless you save us, another year will witness our total destruction."

"My children," said Earth, "I have now existed some thousand years; and scarcely one of them has passed in which similar complaints have not arisen from one quarter or another. Nevertheless, everything has remained in nearly the same state, and no species of created beings has been finally lost. The injuries of one year are repaired by the suc ceeding. The growing vegetables may be blasted, but the seeds of others lie secure in my bosom, ready to receive the vital influence of more favourable seasons. Animals may be thinned by want and disease, but a remnant is always left, in whom survives the principle of future increase. As to man, who suffers not only from natural causes, but from the effects of his own follies and vices, his miseries arouse within hi the latent powers of remedy, and bring him to Lis reason again; while experience continually goes along with him to improve his means of happiness, if he will but listen to its dictates. Have patience, then, my children! You were born to suffer, as well as to enjoy, and you must submit to your lot. But cosole yourselves with the thought that you have a kind master above, who created you for benevolent urposes, and will not withhold his protection wher vow stand most in need of it."

A SECRET CHARACTER UNVEILED.

AT a small house in one of the old squares in London, there lived, for a number of years, a person rather advanced in life, whose household consisted of one male and one female servant. His person was slender, and rather above the middle size; he had a grave and pensive aspect; his dress was neat and plain, but seldom varied, being generally black, which in make, was never affected by the change of fashion. He wore his own hair, which had become thin and gray; in his appearance and simplicity of manner he much resembled a Quaker, though without the peculiarities of that sect. He kept up no intercourse with his neighbours, and for a long period was known to them only by sight. He was very regular in his habits, and was observed to go out and come in almost always on foot, and even in the worst weather, and a stranger was never observed to visit at his house. His servants paid ready money for every article they required. If there were a collection in the parish for any charitable object, he always contributed fully as much as was expected of him. His sentiments on raigion and politics were entirely unknown, though he was regularly observed to leave his house on Sunday a full half-hour before the church service commenced, from which it was conjectured that he was a regular attendant at some church in a distant part of the town. His manner commanded the respect of his neighbours, and he always returned

e salutation of the hat to those who gave it him; but in any conversation he might be led into by them e never exceeded a few words. Many were curious to know the name and employment of such a regular and inoffensive man-but, after all their inquiries,

they were only able to obtain his name, which, by the parish-books, appeared to be Moreland.

Though there were many conjectures as to his circumstances, the general supposition appeared to be, that in early life he had been unfortunate a business, and had been reduced to live retired on a small annuity which had been settled on him by a friend.

After he had thus lived a number of years, a train of circumstances occurred within a short time which fully displayed his real character.

In a narrow lane, at a little distance, there lived a poor widow, who had five children, the eldest a beautiful girl of nineteen. The mother had been very industrious, and supported her family by taking in sewing, in which she was assisted by her two eldest daughters. It happened that one of the children, and at length herself, fell ill of a violent fever, which reduced them to very great distress. Her two daughters did all in their power, but they were unable to earn beyond a few shillings a week, so that they were obliged to part with the greater portion of their goods for present subsistence. On the recovery of the poor widow and her child, a half-year's rent was due, which she was unable to pay. The cruel landlord threatened to seize the remainder of her effects, and turn her and her children into the street. The youth and beauty of the eldest girl had so excited his passion, that he unfeelingly informed the mother that it was in the power of her daughter to prevent his severity; but that pure virtue which frequently dwells in the heart of many that are reduced to distress, treated his proposal with disdain. The girl had a faithful lover, a journeyman shoemaker, who, during the illness of her family, had worked very hard, and divided his weekly earnings with them, and now, by his promises, endeavoured to soften the severity of the landlord, but to no purpose. As he was going one night to pay his accustomed