received two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds. Hum. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble; so seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan into jail for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy! I must relieve the poor fellow's distress. Fred. And I must kick his attorney.

Hum. The curate's horse is dead.

Sir R. Pshaw! there 's no distress in that.

Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why wont Punmonk, the vicar, give him another nag?

Hum. Because 't is cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.

Sir R. What's the name of the black pad I purchased last Tuesday at Tunbridge?

Hum. Beelzebub.

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the Curate, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.

Fred. And if you have a tumble-down-tit, send him to the vicar, and give him a chance of breaking his neck.

Sir R. What else?

Hum. Somewhat out of the common-there 's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer, and a widower, come to lodge at farmer Harrowby's in the village; he's very poor, indeed, it seems; but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.

Fred. That sounds like a noble character.

Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance.

Hum. He'd see you hanged first; Harrowby says, he'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling!—there's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that has served in the wars with him-he keeps them all upon half pay.

Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey!
Fred. [Going.] Uncle, good morning.

Sir R. Where, you rogue, are you running now?
Fred. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington.

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him?

Fred. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant in honor

able indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments. [Hurrying away.]

Sir R. Stop, you rogue, I must be before you in this

business.

Fred. That depends upon who can run fastest; so start fair, uncle, and here goes. [Runs off. Sir R. Stop; why Frederic-a jackanapes-to take my department out of my hands. I'll disinherit the dog for his

assurance.

Hum. No, you wont.

Sir R. Wont I? hang me if I-But we'll argue that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey.

LESSON LI.

Truth and Falsehood, An Allegory.-JOHNSON,

WHILE the world was yet in its infancy, Truth came among mortals from above, and Falsehood from below. Truth was the daughter of Jupiter and Wisdom; Falsehood was the progeny of Folly impregnated by the wind. They advanced with equal confidence to seize the dominion of the new creation; and as their enmity and their force were well known to the celestials, all the eyes of Heaven were turned upon the contest.

Truth seemed conscious of superior power and juster claim, and therefore came on towering and majestic, unassisted, and alone; Reason indeed always attended her, but appeared her follower rather than companion. Her march was slow and stately, but her motion was perpetually progressive, and when once she had grounded her foot, neither gods nor men could force her to retire.

Falsehood always endeavored to copy the mien and attitudes of Truth, and was very successful in the arts of mimicry. She was surrounded, animated, and supported by innumerable legions of Appetites and Passions, but, like other feeble commanders, was obliged often to receive law from her allies. Her motions were sudden, irregular, and violent; for she had no steadiness nor constancy. She often gained conquest by hasty incursions, which she never hoped to keep by her own strength, but maintained by the

help of the Passions, whom she generally found resolute and faithful.

It sometimes happened that the antagonists met in full opposition. In these encounters, Falsehood always invested her head with clouds, and commanded Fraud to place ambushes about her. In her left hand she bore the shield of Impudence, and the quiver of Sophistry rattled on her shoulder. All the Passions attended at her call. Vanity clapped her wings before, and Obstinacy supported her behind. Thus guarded and assisted, she sometimes advanced against Truth, and sometimes waited the attack; but always endeavored to skirmish at a distance, perpetually shifted her ground, and let fly her arrows in different directions; for she certainly found that her strength failed, whenever the eye of Truth darted full upon her.

Truth had the awful aspect though not the thunder of her father, and when the long continuance of the contest brought them near to one another, Falsehood let the arms of Sophistry fall from her grasp, and, holding up the shield of Impudence with both her hands, sheltered herself amongst the Passions.

Truth, though she was often wounded, always recovered in a short time; but it was common for the slightest hurt received by Falsehood, to spread its malignity to the neighboring parts, and to burst open again when it seemed to have been cured.

Falsehood, in a short time, found by experience that her superiority consisted only in the celerity of her course, and the changes of her posture. She therefore ordered Suspicion to beat the ground before her, and avoided with great care to cross the way of Truth, who, as she never varied her point, but moved constantly upon the same line, was easily escaped by the oblique, and desultory movements, the quick retreats and active doubles which Falsehood always practised, when the enemy began to raise terror by her approach.

By this procedure, Falsehood every hour encroached upon the world, and extended her empire through all climes and regions. Wherever she carried her victories, she left the Passions in full authority behind her; who were so well pleased with command, that they held out with great obstinacy, when Truth came to seize their posts, and never failed to retard her progress, though they could not always stop it: they yielded at last with great reluctance, frequent ral

lies, and sullen submission; and always inclined to revolt when Truth ceased to awe them by her immediate presence. Truth, who, when she first descended from the heavenly palaces, expected to have been received by universal acclamation, cherished with kindness, heard with obedience, and invited to spread her influence from province to province, now found, that wherever she came, she must force her passage. Every intellect was precluded by Prejudice, and every heart preoccupied by Passion. She, indeed, advanced, but she advanced slowly; and often lost the conquests which she left behind her, by sudden insurrections of the Appetites, that shook off their allegiance, and ranged themselves under the banner of her enemy.

Truth, however, did not grow weaker by the struggle, for her vigor was unconquerable; yet she was provoked to see herself baffled and impeded by an enemy, whom she looked on with contempt, and who had no advantage but such as she owed to inconstancy, weakness, and artifice. She therefore, in the anger of disappointment, called upon her father Jupiter, to re-establish her in the skies, and leave mankind to the disorder and misery which they deserved, by submitting willingly to the usurpation of Falsehood.

Jupiter compassionated the world too much to grant her request, yet was willing to ease her labors and mitigate her vexation. He commanded her to consult the Muses by what method she might obtain an easier reception, and reign without the toil of incessant war.

It was then discovered, that she obstructed her own progress by the severity of her aspect, and the solemnity of her dictates; and that men would never willingly admit her, till they ceased to fear her; since, by giving themselves up to Falsehood, they seldom made any sacrifice of their ease or pleasure, because she took the shape that was most engaging, and always suffered herself to be dressed and painted by Desire.

The Muses wove, in the loom of Pallas, a loose and changeable robe, like that in which Falsehood captivated her admirers; with this they invested Truth, and named her Fiction. She now went out again to conquer with more success; for when she demanded entrance of the Passions, they often mistook her for Falsehood, and delivered up their charge; but when she had once taken possession, she was soon disrobed by Reason, and shone out, in her original form, with native effulgence and resistless dignity,

LESSON LII.

The Escape.-MISS SEDGWICK.

ON a point of land, at the junction of the Oswegatchie with the St. Lawrence, is a broken stone wall, the remains of a fortification. Tradition says, that a commandant of this fort (which was built by the French to protect their traders against the savages,) married a young Iroquois, who was, before or after the marriage, converted to the Catholic faith. She was the daughter of a chieftain of her tribe, and great efforts were made by her people, to induce her to return to them. Her brother lurked in this neighborhood, and procured interviews with her, and attempted to win her back by all the motives of national pride and family affection; but all in vain.

The young Garanga, or, to call her by her baptismal name, Marguerite, was bound by a threefold cord-her love to her husband, to her son, and to her religion. Mecumeh, finding persuasion ineffectual, had recourse to stratagem. The commandant was in the habit of going down the river on fishing excursions, and when he returned, he would fire his signal gun, and Marguerite and her boy would hasten to the shore to greet him.

On one occasion, he had been gone longer than usual. Marguerite was filled with apprehensions natural enough, at a time, when imminent dangers and hair breadth escapes were of every day occurrence. She had sat in the tower and watched for the returning canoe, till the last beam of day had faded from the waters;-the deepening shadows of twilight played tricks with her imagination.

Once she was startled by the water-fowl, which, as it skimmed along the surface of the water, imaged to her fancy the light canoe, impelled by her husband's vigorous arm-again she heard the leap of the heavy muskalongi, and the splashing waters sounded to her fancy like the first dash of the oar. That passed away, and disappointment and tears followed. Her boy was beside her; the young Louis, who, though scarcely twelve years old, already had his imagination filled with daring deeds.

Born and bred in a fort, he was an adept in the use of the bow and the musket; courage seemed to be his instinct, and danger his element, and battles and wounds were 'house