The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Quaker; or, the Triumph of Virtue. A Tale for the Instruction of Youth
    
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Title: The Little Quaker; or, the Triumph of Virtue. A Tale for the Instruction of Youth

Author: Susanna Moodie

Release date: December 19, 2007 [eBook #23918]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Jacqueline Jeremy, and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This
        file was produced from images generously made available
        by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE QUAKER; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE. A TALE FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF YOUTH ***




Produced by Jacqueline Jeremy, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/CanadianLibraries.)










    THE
    LITTLE QUAKER;
    OR, THE
    TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE.

    A TALE
    FOR THE INSTRUCTION OF YOUTH.

    Teach me to feel another's woe,
      To hide the faults I see;
    That mercy I to others show,
      That mercy show to me.      POPE.

    LONDON:
    PRINTED FOR WILLIAM COLE,
    10, NEWGATE STREET.

    PRINTED BY G. H. DAVIDSON,
    IRELAND YARD, DOCTORS' COMMONS.




FRONTISPIECE.

[Illustration: _The little Quaker remonstrating with George &amp; William
Hope for their cruelty._      _p. 11._]




THE LITTLE QUAKER.


George and William Hope were the only children of a gentleman of
fortune, who lived in a fine house at the entrance of a pretty village
in Berkshire.

It was this worthy gentleman's misfortune to be the father of two very
perverse and disobedient sons; who, instead of trying to please him by
dutiful and obliging conduct, grieved him continually by their unworthy
behaviour, and then were so wicked as to laugh at the lessons of
morality their parent set before them.

When they returned from school to spend the holydays, they neglected
their studies to roam about the streets with low company; from whom
they learned profane language, vulgar amusements, and cruelty to
animals; but such conduct, as may well be supposed, did not conduce to
their happiness. They had no friends among the good and virtuous in
their own rank in life; and were even despised and condemned by the bad
companions, who, in the first instance, had encouraged their depravity.

Their idle pursuits gave Mr. Hope great pain, who tried, by gentle
remonstrances, to make them ashamed of their evil propensities; but,
finding that kindness had no effect in their ungenerous dispositions,
he determined for the future to punish them severely, whenever they
disobeyed his commands.

Mr. Hope had a very near neighbour, whose meadow and pleasure-garden
were only separated from his by a high row of paling. Mrs. Shirley, for
so this lady was called, was a very excellent and benevolent woman, and
a member of that respectable society of friends commonly known by the
name of Quakers.

Mrs. Shirley was a widow; and, having lost her own family, she brought
up her two grandchildren, a youth of fourteen years of age, and a pretty
little girl, who scarcely reckoned half that number of years.

Josiah Shirley was at once his kind Grandmamma's pride and comfort; and,
from his amiable and obliging conduct, was justly esteemed and beloved
by the whole village; and his name was never mentioned without the
praise his modest and gentlemanlike behaviour deserved.

Mr. Hope had often contrasted, with feelings of regret, this sweet boy's
conduct with that of his own sons; and, hoping that his gentle temper
and moral pursuits might have some effect on the perverted minds of
George and William, he invited him pressingly to his house, and bestowed
on the young Quaker many marks of his esteem and favour.

The approbation of the father only drew upon Josiah the dislike and
envy of his sons. Among other follies, they ridiculed him for being a
Quaker.

The cut of his clothes, the shape of his hat, his modest and retiring
manners, were all subjects of mirth to these unthinking boys, who tried
by the most provoking language to rouse him into retaliation: but Josiah
was a _maker_ of _peace_, not a _breaker_ of it; and, though he could
not help keenly feeling their unkindness, his good Grandmamma had early
taught him this excellent lesson, "To return good for evil;" and Josiah
not only treated their insults with the silent contempt they deserved,
but often earnestly entreated them to renounce their foolish ways, and
he would endeavour to assist them in the arduous task of reformation.

His advice was received with such rudeness, that the benevolent boy,
disgusted at length with their unprovoked malice, took his leave,
declining all acquaintance with the young gentlemen for the future.

"I wonder, young men, you do not blush at your disgraceful behaviour,"
exclaimed Mr. Hope, viewing his sons with unfeigned displeasure, the
morning Josiah took his leave. "Your folly has deprived you of the
friendship of an excellent and upright youth, whose good counsels
might have benefitted you through life."

"I hate Joe Shirley, Papa," replied George, with the greatest assurance;
"and never will attend to a word he says; a meddling impertinent fellow!
What business can he have to trouble his head with us?"

"Go! go! unworthy as you are to be called my sons," said Mr. Hope; "I
am glad your poor Mamma did not live to witness your depravity;--and
you, George, whom she loved so well, that she expired with you in her
arms!--it would have broken her heart to have seen you now. Go, cruel
and unfeeling as you are, I no longer wonder at the good Josiah
renouncing your acquaintance; but the time may come, when you will
bitterly lament not taking his advice." So saying, Mr. Hope set them
their accustomary tasks, and left the room.

His father's reproofs, instead of softening the heart of George, only
enraged his haughty spirit more violently against the unoffending
Josiah; and he was determined to annoy him every opportunity which
chance should afford him: nor was it long before he was enabled to
put his designs into execution.

One day, after Mr. Hope had dismissed his sons from their morning
studies, William inquired of his brother, where they should play.

"Not in the garden, William," replied George; "I have not forgotten
the stripes I received yesterday for treading down the flowers. I
hate flowers! We cannot steal a handful of green gooseberries without
spoiling the flowers."

"But we need not confine ourselves to the garden, George. We can play at
football on the lawn; or shoot arrows at a mark, in the court-yard."

"I am tired of these games," said George. "Let us climb over the pales
into the Quaker's meadow, and chase the geese."

"With all my heart," replied William; "but if Mrs. Shirley should see
us, and tell Papa, you know how our diversion would end."

"Why surely, Will, you are not such a coward, as to be afraid of the old
woman. If she catches us, she will only talk to us about cruelty and
such stuff, in her methodistical way. Come, let us play in their meadow,
if it is only to spite that sly-faced hypocrite, Josiah."

"It will certainly be good sport," replied William, "to see the geese
waddle and scream, flapping their wide wings, which look exactly like
young broadbrim's hat."

George laughed heartily at this sally. "Yes! yes! William, Master
Graveairs dare not fight, if he can _scold_; so make no more scruples,
but follow your leader:" and, with the greatest dexterity, climbing over
the pales, these wicked boys safely descended into Mrs. Shirley's
meadow.

When there, they raced the pony, and stoned the geese, till they flew
screaming into a large pond in the middle of the field, in what they
called a very diverting manner.

Josiah was busy working in the garden (in the cultivation of which he
spent most of his leisure hours), when the general outcry from the
poultry reached his ears; and, too well acquainted with the cause of
their disquiet, he threw down his spade, and ran to the scene of action;
and arrived just time enough to save the plumage of a hapless peacock
from being entirely demolished in their cruel hands.

"George and William Hope," said Josiah, mildly addressing himself to
the intruders, "desist from such unmanly sport, and leave these poor
creatures in the quiet possession of the field."

This speech was received with loud peals of laughter by the young
gentlemen; and George, with mock gravity, replied--

"Verily, friend, you had better leave off preaching, and join our
sport."

"I never could derive any pleasure from cruelty," returned Josiah.
"Humanity forbids me to join in diversions like these: I would I could
persuade George Hope to renounce such practices."

"So you will not play with us," said George: "and you have the impudence
to insult us, with what you term your _good advice_. Pray, Mr.
Consequence, do you remember to whom you are speaking?"

"Perfectly well," replied Josiah: "I fear I am wasting my words on the
sons of a very good man; I wish, for _his sake_, they were more like
their father."

Enraged at this speech, George darted forward, and struck Josiah such a
violent blow on the head, that it knocked him down; and the spiteful boy
was in the act of repeating it, when he was suddenly caught from behind,
and thrown with fury to the earth.

A large Newfoundland dog, belonging to Shirley, had followed his master
to the field; and, seeing him ill-treated, had thus revenged the insult,
with tenfold interest; and, keeping his captive fast down to the ground,
continued to growl over him in a frightful manner.

William Hope, who wanted much of the audacity of George, fled terrified
towards his own home: when the geese, willing to be revenged in their
turn, followed, hissing and screaming at his heels, beating him with
their broad beaks and wings; whilst the prostrate George called out in a
tone of agony:--

"Josiah, my good fellow, call off your dog, or he will certainly kill
me!"

"I find other bodies are as little proof against pain as the poor
animals they just now so wantonly tormented," said Josiah, as he raised
the crest-fallen George from the ground.

"Remember, George, this lesson for the future; and, when inflicting pain
on these helpless creatures, who are too weak to resist our power, be
assured that God hears their cries, and will avenge their sufferings on
all those who inhumanly delight in their agony."

He paused, expecting George to make some answer; but the sullen boy hung
down his head in obstinate silence; whilst Josiah, still hoping to
convince him of the error of his ways, continued:--

"George, I once more entreat thee to take my advice: forsake these idle
pursuits, which must end in shame and misery; whilst every effort made
towards self-improvement will be crowned with the blessings and esteem
of a worthy parent, and the approval of thine own conscience.

"I here freely forgive the injury I just now received, and will be thy
friend if thou wilt firmly resolve to renounce such evil courses."

The noble boy held out his hand as he finished speaking; but George,
unable to conquer his false feeling of pride, rudely dashed back the
proffered gift, and slowly and sullenly returned to his father's
mansion.

When Mrs. Shirley was informed, by her grandson, of what had passed in
the meadow, she wrote a letter to Mr. Hope, couched in the mildest
terms, merely requesting him to keep his sons from trespassing in her
field for the future, as they insulted her grandson, and ill-used her
property.

Mr. Hope was so much displeased at this fresh outrage, that, ordering
the culprits into his presence, he not only told them sternly of their
fault, but desired his butler to give them the most severe chastisement
they had ever received before; the recollection of which, he hoped,
would induce them to keep at home for the future.

Now George laid their present correction entirely on Josiah Shirley;
and, as the injurer is always the most implacable, because generally in
the wrong, he determined to requite the stripes he had received on the
unoffending young Quaker.

Full of these unworthy resolutions, the moment he was released from
confinement, he went into the stables to consult with a young man, whom
his father employed as an under groom; and of whom his thoughtless sons
had made a confidant and companion.

As he entered the stables, he was thus accosted by Daniel Simpson:--

"So, Master George, I hear you have been flogged. Nat Smith told me the
Squire was in a terrible passion, and ordered him not to spare the whip:
how came it all about?"

"Would you believe it, Dan, that spiteful young Quaker informed my
father of our frolic," said George, reddening with passion.

"Well, do not look so crest-fallen; I think it will be very strange if
we cannot match the tell-tale, Master George."

"Simpson, if you will but lend me your assistance to chastise him as he
deserves," said George, "I will give you that new half-sovereign Papa
presented me last week."

"Show me the money first," returned Dan, "and then I will tell you what
is to be done in the case."

"Well, there it is," said George, putting the money into Simpson's hand.
"If you can find out a sure method to punish young Shirley, and revenge
my present disgrace, you shall have no reason to call me a bad
paymaster."

He looked anxiously up in the groom's sordid countenance, as he finished
speaking; but the stable-helper remained provokingly silent, twirling
his hat in his hand, till George, losing all patience, pulled him
hastily by the sleeve.

"Had I been as long in giving you my money, as you are in bestowing your
advice, I should have been something in pocket."

"Nay, Master George, if you give yourself any airs," replied Dan, with a
sneer, "I will keep the cash, and tell your Papa of your frolics; and I
suppose you would not vastly relish that."

The burning blush of shame, for a few moments, suffused the countenance
of the misguided youth; he bit his lips, and remained for some time
silent, till, fearing that Simpson would realize his threat, he used the
most abject submission, to hinder him from betraying his wicked schemes
to his father; nor would the artful servant pacify his apprehensions,
till he had succeeded in frightening him out of every sixpence of
pocket-money he was worth.

"Well, Master George," said the groom, "I have hit upon a notable piece
of mischief; but I cannot put it into execution without your
assistance."

"You shall certainly have that, Simpson; but tell me first what your
plan is?"

"Young Prim is very fond of his garden," replied the groom; "and lays
out all his money in fine shrubs to ornament his favourite spot of
ground. The other day, as I was passing the pales, I stopped to watch
him at work; the young prig thought, forsooth, that I was admiring his
garden, and actually gathered me a fine nosegay, and showed me all his
American plants."

This amiable anecdote of the young Quaker was received by George with
peals of insulting laughter; whilst his worthless companion continued--

"Now, Master George, it would go nearer to his heart, and vex him more
than any mischief we could devise, to steal out, after the family are in
bed, and break all his fine trees."

George was at first transported at the idea of so full a revenge; then
pausing, whilst a secret dread as to the danger of the enterprise stole
over his mind, in a hurried voice he said--

"But, Simpson! it will be dark."

"So much the better," replied the wicked groom. "Are you afraid any
thing will eat you? Besides, it will be moonlight after twelve o'clock."

"Twelve o'clock!" repeated George, turning pale with apprehension: "I
dare not leave the house after midnight!"

"Then let it alone," replied Dan. "But, Simpson," said George, in a
fawning tone, "cannot you go without me?"

"Master George, if you take me for a fool," replied Dan, "you are
mistaken: it is you want to be revenged on young Shirley, not I: the
poor lad never offended me."

"Then give me back my money," said George.

"Indeed but I shall not," replied Dan, chinking it as he spoke. "But if
you are so cowardly as to be afraid of a little frolic, I wish you may
be insulted every day of your life."

"Say no more, Simpson; I will go," said George; "but if we should be
detected!--I have heard Papa say, that breaking young trees was
transportation."

"Ay, if they catch us," returned the worthless groom. "Leave me alone
for taking care of my neck: why, George, if you tremble at a trifle like
_this_, you will never make a fine gentleman."

This last speech overcame young Hope's remaining scruples; the idea of
not being thought a fine fellow extinguished the remaining spark of
virtue in his bosom: and with affected gaiety he said--

"Simpson, you are a clever fellow, but how shall we be able to steal
unobserved out of the house?"

"Oh! that is the easiest part of the business," said Dan, "particularly
as you have an apartment to yourself. After the family are in bed, I
will raise a ladder against your window; and, when I throw a pebble
against the sash, you must dress yourself, and come down directly. I
will provide tools for the business."

Here their conference was broken off owing to William Hope, who came to
call his brother to dinner, and the wicked servant and his weak young
master parted.

It was not that Simpson was afraid of doing this cruel piece of
mischief by himself, that he insisted on George Hope's accompanying
him, but he knew it would place the unfortunate youth so completely
in his power, that he could from that moment fearlessly defraud him
of his pocket-money, by basely threatening to inform Mr. Hope of his
son's depravity; and he was too good a judge of human nature to fear
that such a boy as George would ever have resolution to own his
transgression.

How carefully ought young people to guard against the gratification of
evil passions; for, however artfully a plan may be conceived, however
secretly carried into execution, sooner or later, detection always
follows crime.

It is always dangerous to listen to the advice of those whose education
and pursuits are greatly beneath us; or to make confidants and
companions of servants. Their offers of service to a young man, against
the wishes of his parent, cannot be sincere; if they will deceive their
_master_, think not they will spare his _son_; but, taking advantage of
his weakness, they will not only render him a tool to their own vices,
but too often prove his final ruin.

By nature, George Hope possessed good abilities; and he had arrived at
that age when he could scarcely be called a child; and he was therefore
perfectly conscious of the sin he was going to commit. All his faults,
more or less, might be traced up to his constant association with this
artful Simpson, who, bad himself, took a pleasure in perverting the
minds of the young and inexperienced; falsely considering that their
profligacy would be an excuse for his own.

But Simpson had his own malicious disposition to gratify, in this plan
against the peace of young Shirley; and he had formed a scheme so artful
and atrocious, that he flattered himself it would be sure of success,
and turn all suspicion from the real authors of it.

Just across Mrs. Shirley's meadow stood a small cottage, which was
occupied by a poor Irishman, who gained an honest livelihood by working
as a jobbing gardener; and Patrick Lary was so well respected, that he
was employed by all the gentlemen in that neighbourhood, and by Mr.
Hope, among the rest.

Lary, though a good-natured, hard-working fellow, had one great vice,
which was being too fond of strong drink; and often, when the labour of
the day was over, Paddy would go to the village, and set in the public
houses; and, when betrayed in liquor, he would swear, and play a
thousand mad pranks on those around, and often had money to pay for the
windows he broke coming home; and, though he was very sorry the next
day, when sober, for the mischief he had done the preceding evening, he
had not resolution enough to avoid the cause.

Once Lary had carelessly levelled his drollery against Simpson, which so
roused the malevolent disposition of the groom, that he had from that
hour viewed Lary in the light of a bitter enemy, and vowed, the first
opportunity that offered, to repay with interest the Irishman's foolish
joke.

He knew that Lary would be absent that night at a large fair which was
held at a considerable town, a few miles off; and the poor Irishman had
not fortitude to resist a temptation that beset him in the shape of a
fair.

Simpson remembered that Lary kept his gardening tools in a small
outhouse, which he used for a workshop, and that all his implements were
fully marked with his name.

The place was easy of access, and Simpson soon procured from thence two
small hatchets, such as gardeners use in lopping small branches, that
resist the strength of a knife; and, after Mr. Hope's family were in
bed, he repaired to the place appointed, and, raising the ladder with as
little noise as possible, gave the promised signal.

It was three times repeated before George started from sleep, and for a
few minutes he remained unconscious of the meaning of so unusual a
sound.

Gradually, with awakening sense, recollection returned; and, springing
from his bed, George dressed himself, with a trembling hand, whilst, for
the first time, a sense of his degrading situation stole over his mind;
and his heart throbbed with feelings which till this moment had been
strangers in his bosom.

The moon shone brightly down upon the gardens beneath; and the deep
silence and serene beauty of the night filled his mind with new and
unknown fears.

The mischievous pranks he had hitherto played had been more the result
of violent and uncontrolled spirits,--the hasty flashings of an
impetuous temper, than any actual wish to commit crime: they had been
performed in the day, in the sight of the injured; but he was now going
to steal out like a thief in the night, to commit a vile and
premeditated act of malice.

The better feelings of his heart strongly urged him to recede; but the
idea of being laughed at by his wicked companion overcame the scruples
of conscience, when he heard his rough voice grumble beneath the window.

"Is that you, Master George? Why do you not make more haste. It will be
morning before you are ready."

George cautiously unclosed the casement; but, as he descended the
ladder, his foot trembled so violently, that once or twice he had nearly
fallen to the ground, to the great diversion of Simpson, who laughed at
his visible agitation. Then withdrawing the ladder, for fear of
detection, he presented George with one of the above-mentioned tools,
and proceeded without further delay to the silent and peaceful dwelling
of Mrs. Shirley.

As they walked over the meadow, George had leisure to reflect on what he
was going to do; and he felt so heartily ashamed of himself, that he was
half tempted to return: and happy had it been for him, had he listened
to the voice that spoke within him.

Simpson marked his irresolution, and, being determined to make sure of
his victim, tauntingly said--

"I did not think, Master George, you had been such a _coward_, after
all the brag you made of your valour at school; but I suppose you and
the Quaker have shaken hands, since he so kindly procured you that smart
flogging. If I was you, I would wait on him, and humbly thank him for
his generosity."

This sarcasm did not fail in the desired effect. George felt all his
animosity rise in his heart against Josiah; and, quickening his pace,
they were soon within the quiet bounds of the Quaker's garden.

They had scarcely begun their cruel devastation, before the Newfoundland
dog set out barking in a furious manner.

"Let us return, Simpson," whispered George; his cheeks blanching with
terror as he remembered his rencounter with Rollo, on the preceding
morning. "I forgot the dog; he is roused, and we shall certainly be
caught."

[Illustration: _George and the Groom destroying the little Quaker's
garden at midnight._      _p. 29._]

"Not we!" calmly replied the groom. "Let him bark,--he cannot hurt us,
being chained in an outer yard, that comes against the road; and, as
'tis fair-night, they will only think he is barking at passengers, who
may be returning in liquor, at this late hour."

This was in fact the case; and the inmates of the house paid little
regard to the noise Rollo made, though he continued to shake his chain,
and growl in a frightful manner.

The garden being small, they soon destroyed most of the shrubs and
flowers it contained; till, satiated with mischief, they were about to
return; when, passing a root-house covered with ivy and creeping plants,
curiosity led them to examine what it contained; and their malice was
gratified, in discovering some beautiful foreign rabbits, confined in
strong hutches. These they set at liberty, laughing heartily at the idea
of what a hunt the young Quaker would have for them in the morning.

As they left the garden, Simpson purposely dropped the hatchet, with
Lary's name on it, near the gate which led to the meadow, where it
would be most likely to be discovered; and, safely depositing the other
in the place he took it from, they returned home. George re-ascended the
ladder, and retired undiscovered to bed; and soon falling asleep, the
events of the night appeared more like a troubled dream than reality.

The first rays of the sun had scarcely gilded the low white railing
which separated the field from the Quaker's garden before Josiah had
risen from his bed, and returned thanks to God, who had thus graciously
permitted him to behold, in health and strength, another day; and, with
a light heart and clear conscience, he bounded down stairs, to breathe
the fresh air, and to hail the first beauties of a fine morning in June.

This is indeed a pleasure unknown to those indolent beings who let the
sun gain his meridian splendour before they reluctantly leave their
slothful beds.

They see him, it is true, in the height of his power; but, at his
uprising, the air is filled with harmonious sounds, the insect tribes
are on the wing, and unite their feeble voice in the universal notes of
praise.

With the sun, the wild tribes of nature awake to adore the goodness of
their Creator; whilst the children of men, on whom he has conferred the
greatest marks of his divine favour,--who, in intellectual endowments,
so far surpass the animals round them, are often the last of all his
creatures to leave a state of indolent ease, to return him thanks for
the blessings he has bestowed on them.

Those who have ever seen, on a fine spring morning, the sparkling of the
dews upon the grass, who have smelt the delicious perfume of re-opening
flowers, who have heard the first joyous song of birds from among the
verdant boughs, will be more willing to exclaim with fervour and
devotion--

    "Awake, my soul! and with the sun
       Thy daily stage of duty run;
     Shake off dull sloth, and early rise,
       To pay thy morning sacrifice!"

Thus thought our little hero, as, opening the garden-door, he felt the
balmy breeze of a cloudless morning pass over his cheek, which glowed
with health and innocence; as, raising his eyes to the glorious heavens,
his spirit arose in devout aspirations to the divine author of his
being.

How shall I describe the feelings of regret which filled his bosom, when
he discovered the scene of ruin before him.

He rubbed his eyes, to assure himself that it was not a dream; that he
was actually awake, and in the open air.

The work of his hands for years past was utterly destroyed; and, mild
and forbearing as Josiah was, this unexpected misfortune overcame his
philosophy; and he struggled in vain to suppress the tears which filled
his soft blue eyes, and flowed down his rosy dimpled cheeks.

"What ails thee, dear Josiah?" said a sweet little girl, who had
followed him out of the house. "Will not Josiah tell Cousin Rachel the
cause of his grief?"

"Ah, Rachel!" he replied, wiping away his tears with the corner of her
little apron, "I am indeed ashamed of my weakness; but see, some
evil-disposed person has been here in the night, and destroyed all my
nice flowers."

Now, when Rachel beheld the devastation before her, and that even her
own little garden in the corner had not escaped from the general wreck,
she mingled her tears with Josiah's.

Josiah comforted his cousin, and at length succeeded in mastering his
own feelings.

"I know to repine is useless," he said; "time and industry will repair
my loss; and, though I feel it now severely, it may in the end be for
the best: for I own I was too proud and too fond of my garden; and often
dedicated hours to that, which I might have employed more profitably in
study."

As he ceased speaking, Dan Simpson passed; and, putting his head over
the pales, said in a careless manner--

"A fine morning for your work, Master Shirley! You are determined the
sun shall never call you lay-a-bed."

"My work, Daniel, is at an end," replied Josiah: "Step into the garden,
and see what somebody has done in the night for me."

With well-affected astonishment, Simpson surveyed the work of his own
hands; then exclaimed, with an air of commiseration--

"Who can have made it their business to come here, only to commit so
wicked a piece of mischief. I should not at all wonder if it was one of
Pat Lary's mad frolics; I hear he was intoxicated at the fair last
night, and broke several windows in his way home."

"That may be," returned Josiah; "but, as I never offended Patrick Lary
in my life, it would be very cruel to suspect him without a cause."

"True, Master Shirley; but you are too fond of gardening yourself, and
you have heard the old proverb, I suppose, that 'two of a trade seldom
agree.' Besides, he is such a swearing, drinking fellow."

"Daniel Simpson," returned Josiah, scarcely able to conceal the contempt
he felt towards him, "I have heard thee swear, and, if I am not greatly
mistaken, it is not long since I saw thee disguised in liquor. Is it
not, therefore, as easy for me to suspect _thee_?"

Simpson was confounded at this speech, and, had Josiah looked up in his
face, he certainly would have detected the real author of the mischief,
by the crimson glow which flushed the swarthy countenance of the wicked
groom; who, regaining his accustomed assurance, said, in a more
confidential tone--

"_I never injured you_, Master Shirley; but, if you will give me a
shilling or two to pay me for my trouble, I warrant you I would soon
bring the culprit to justice, if he is to be found within a few miles of
the place."

The face of Josiah Shirley glowed with indignation, as, turning his eyes
on the sordid wretch, he sternly replied--

"Daniel Simpson, I will spare thee so great a crime. That heart must be
hard indeed, that, for the sake of a few paltry pieces of silver, would
yield up an erring fellow-creature. Go! I neither want such advice or
assistance."

As Josiah finished speaking, his foot struck against something in the
path, and, on stooping to pick it up, it proved to be the poor
Irishman's hatchet.

The young Quaker, with his natural humanity, strove to hide this
convincing proof of Lary's guilt from the troublesome groom; but he saw
with grief, by the look of triumph which passed over the other's face,
that he had made the same discovery, as the name of Lary was too plainly
marked on the handle to need any close inspection.

"There!" cried Simpson, "I knew it was Lary: who besides him would think
of doing such a rascally job as this?"

"I am sure, if Lary had not been disguised in liquor," said Josiah, "he
never would have committed so base an action. Daniel Simpson, at times
we are all prone to do ill; and as for the few shillings thou just now
proposed, to give up the culprit, since my loss cannot affect thee,
there is a crown to keep the affair a secret; as the disgrace of this
thoughtless man might deprive his innocent wife and child of bread."

"You are a strange young gentleman, Master Shirley," replied Dan; "but
your secret shall remain safe for me, though, if I was in your place, I
think I should act differently:" and, stifling a laugh, he tossed the
money into his pocket.

He yet held the gate in his hand, when little Rachel, quite out of
breath, came running towards them.

"Oh, Josiah! my rabbits! my nice white rabbits; they are lost, they are
all gone!" said she, weeping bitterly. "Come, dry your tears, my little
cousin," said Josiah, kindly taking her hand, and striving to comfort
her; "they cannot be far off, for I am sure they were all safe last
night."

"Little Miss, I think I know where your rabbits are," said Dan Simpson.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Josiah; "who could be so mean as to rob this little
girl?"

"Only the neighbour who broke your trees," replied Dan; "for, as I
passed by Lary's cottage, his little boy was playing with some fine tame
rabbits. They had none yesterday, unless Pat bought them at the fair;
and I dare say he will tell you so."

Now Josiah could not help feeling convinced that they must be Rachel's
rabbits; and he said--

"Daniel Simpson, I thank thee for this piece of intelligence, and will
step across to Lary's cottage, and learn the truth of these things; so
good day for the present."

Simpson returned to his daily avocations, well pleased at his ingenuity;
and, relating his conference with Josiah to George Hope, they both
enjoyed a hearty laugh at the idea of having deceived the Quaker.

"He is gone now, Master George," said Simpson, "to cross-question Lary
about the hatchet; but the foolish fellow is still so bewildered with
drink, that he will never be able to give a correct account of himself;
now I am sure young Shirley already suspects him, and suspicious
thoughts travel fast, when they once get into the head: for the love of
fun, how I should like to hear their conference."

It was true that Josiah sought the cottage of Lary, but he was actuated
by feelings of the most noble and benevolent kind. He hoped, by
reasoning with the Irishman, to point out to him the error of his
conduct; and, by showing him the ill effects of intoxication, to
persuade him from falling into the like follies for the future: and,
full of these laudable intentions, he walked across the meadow, and
rapped at Lary's door.

For some minutes the knock remained unanswered, and, whilst Josiah stood
waiting for admittance, he saw, through their garden pales, young Lary
playing with a fine white doe, which he instantly recognised to be the
property of his cousin Rachel.

This circumstance did not fail to strengthen his suspicions; and,
knocking again at the door, it was opened by a very neat young woman,
who seemed rather confused at the sight of Josiah; and, holding the
door in her hand, she asked him, in a hesitating manner, "What he
wanted?"

"To speak to Patrick Lary. Is he at home?" said Josiah, in his usual
mild tone.

The woman, who evidently had been weeping bitterly, paused a moment,
then replied--

"Yes, Master Shirley, my husband is at home, but really he is not in a
fit state to speak to any one; but, if you will excuse the disordered
condition of our house, please to walk in: perhaps the sight of you may
warn him against giving way to drink for the future; for we well know
what a good, kind-hearted young gentleman you are."

Josiah felt grieved at the poor woman's panegyric, when he remembered
the cause of his visit, and was almost inclined not to proceed in the
business; but the hope of persuading Lary to renounce his evil habit of
drinking induced him to conquer his reluctance, and he silently followed
Mrs. Lary into the cottage.

The first object that met Josiah's eyes, on entering the room, was the
Irishman, seated on a low stool by the fire, with his head bound up with
a red handkerchief, and resting on his hands, which bandage served
partly to conceal two black eyes he had received at the fair.

His shirt was bloody, and his dress rent in several places, and covered
with dirt; and his whole appearance bespoke one suffering from the
effects of recent intoxication.

On hearing some one enter, he said, without attempting to raise his
head--"Wife! who's there?"

"It is Master Shirley, Patrick, who wants to speak to you."

On hearing the name of the visitor, Lary staggered up, and begged Josiah
to be seated.

"No, Patrick," replied Josiah, "as my business is one of a very
unpleasant nature, I prefer standing."

"With all humility, I suppose, Master Shirley," said Pat, striving to be
facetious; "but please yourself, you are a dear, good young gentleman,
and must have your own way;" and, unable to keep his legs any longer,
Lary sunk down, a dead weight, into his seat.

"But what do you want with Pat Lary, Master Shirley; some job in the
garden, I suppose?"

"Nay, Patrick," returned Josiah, not a little provoked at this speech;
"thou wast determined to provide a long job at my expense, when thou
left this hatchet in my garden;" and he produced the hatchet, and gave
it into the hand of the bewildered Lary.

"This is my hatchet, sure enough, Master Shirley; but I am pretty
certain I never left it in your garden."

"Doubtlessly it was done unintentionally," returned Josiah. "Those who
commit bad actions seldom willingly leave a witness of their guilt."

The Irishman coloured deeply, and, turning to Josiah, said, with great
vehemence--

"I should be sorry to use unbecoming language, Master Shirley; but
really I cannot comprehend what you mean."

Josiah then proceeded to inform him of the whole affair, from beginning
to end; and concluded by saying, he supposed Lary was in drink, and
therefore unconscious of the mischief he had occasioned.

The poor Irishman seemed lost with surprise at this strange account; and
he tried in vain to remember the events of the night; and, after having
turned the hatchet round and round, and carefully examined it at all
points, he turned to his wife, and said--

"I surely did not take this hatchet with me to the fair; did I, Fanny?"

"I cannot answer for what you did at the fair, Patrick," said his wife,
sorrowfully; "I know I left you at midnight in a very questionable
state, with some worthless idle fellows: did you stay at home, and mind
your business, you would not get into such disgraceful scrapes as
these."

Pat shrugged up his shoulders, and sighed heavily; then, turning to
Josiah, said--

"Your honour, I drank too much last night, and behaved like a madman, as
these blows will sufficiently witness, though I cannot remember how I
came by them, or what I did last night; but if this is my hatchet, which
I see by the mark it is, why I know 'tis no use denying the fact. I am
heartily sorry for it, and, if you will forgive me this once, I will
devote all my leisure hours in restoring your garden to its original
neatness."

Josiah accepted his submission; and, after a long lecture on the ill
effects of drinking, he said:--

"And now, friend Lary, I would thank thee to restore my cousin Rachel's
rabbits, which I suppose thee took by mistake last night."

"Rabbits!" exclaimed both the inhabitants of the cottage at once.
"Master Shirley, we have seen no rabbits."

"It is useless to deny the fact," said Josiah; "I saw them just now with
my own eyes, in thy son Roderick's arms."

"Saving your honour's presence, then your two little eyes must have seen
a great story!" cried Pat, colouring deeply. "I am a true-born Irishman!
and no thief, Master Shirley!"

At this moment the door opened, and Roderick entered, with the white doe
in his arms.

Lary started up, then sat down again, his face scarlet with agitation.
He turned his eyes from one to the other, and looked like a person just
awakened out of sleep, who as yet scarcely knew whether the objects that
met his eyes were real or imaginary; till, turning to his son, in a
voice trembling with passion, he said:--

"Roderick, if you have stolen the gentleman's rabbits, I will beat you
severely!"

"Hold, friend!" cried Josiah, stepping in between the enraged Irishman
and his son, "remember thy own offence, and calm this unreasonable
passion:" then turning to the boy, he said,--"Roderick, how came thee by
that rabbit?"

The boy boldly replied, "I found this, and some more with it (nice white
dears), feeding in the meadow, early this morning. Daddy says every
thing we find we may have, and I found these rabbits."

"My little fellow," said Josiah, as he took the animal out of his arms,
"never appropriate property that does not belong to thee, without first
diligently inquiring to whom it may appertain; for, though certainly it
is not so bad as stealing, it falls little short of the same crime."

Then earnestly entreating Lary to abstain from drink and bad company, he
took his leave, firmly persuaded in his own mind, that the Irishman was
the author of the mischief.

How often, following our own suspicions, do we condemn, on
circumstantial evidence, persons who may be perfectly guiltless of the
crimes laid to their charge. Yet, though the gardener and his son were
innocent of the faults they were accused of, had Lary staid at home,
instead of joining in a scene of riot and folly, he would not have
returned in a state which rendered him incapable of saying where he had
been, or what he had done, on the preceding evening.

After this circumstance, nothing happened to disturb the young Quaker's
peace; the Hopes returned to Eaton school; and, till after the Christmas
holydays commenced, Josiah and his little cousin enjoyed uninterrupted
tranquillity.

The new year was ushered in by a heavy fall of snow, which was succeeded
by such severe frosts, that the young gentlemen, unable to keep
themselves warm within doors, had recourse to the healthy diversion of
skating; and a fine piece of water, opposite Mrs. Shirley's dwelling,
was chosen for that purpose, where all the young people in the village
assembled to try their skill at this active game, and the young Hopes
came with the rest.

Josiah was quite a proficient at this sport, and took great pleasure in
practising with a young gentleman, a friend of his, who was the only son
of their good Vicar, Mr. West, who entertained the highest opinion of
Josiah's moral character; and, though differing so widely in their
religious principles, Shirley was always a welcome and favourite visitor
at the parsonage.

When the Hopes made their appearance on the ice, knowing their
quarrelsome disposition, Josiah would have returned home, but Henry West
prevented him, by saying--

"Never give way to their airs, my dear Josiah; I know they are cowardly
fellows (as the bad generally are), and will never dare to insult you,
surrounded by your friends."

Henry was perfectly right in his conjectures; for the Hopes, seeing
Josiah so well supported, confined their malice to a few contemptuous
sneers.

George was an admirable skater; and for some time his skill and
dexterity, and the ease with which he performed the most difficult
movements on the ice, added to the advantages of a tall and graceful
figure, drew forth the admiration, and in some instances the envy, of
his young compeers. Josiah, with his natural goodness of heart, paused
to extol the fine execution of his ungenerous persecutor; when George,
venturing too near a part of the pond which had been broken for the
cattle, and slightly frozen over again, the young Quaker mildly warned
him of his danger.

"I suppose, Mr. Shirley, I have the use of my sight, and know how to
skate as well as you; therefore, I beg you will keep such impertinent
advice to yourself," was the ungracious reply of the insolent boy; and
immediately, out of bravado, he directed his course towards the doubtful
spot.

The next moment a piercing scream informed the terrified party that the
daring boy had too surely tempted his own fate. All eyes were instantly
turned to the spot where George Hope had stood. One hand alone was seen
above the water, which continued to grasp one of the immense masses of
floating ice with convulsive agony; and, being covered with a thick
worsted mitten, for some minutes retained its desperate hold.

Whilst the young people ran shrieking away, and calling for help in all
directions, Josiah, who was an excellent swimmer, never paused to
consider the danger, but plunged boldly into the water, and, with the
timely assistance of Lary, who came with a rope to his aid, he succeeded
in bringing the senseless boy in safety to the land.

Dan Simpson happened to be passing at the very moment George fell into
the pond; and, on Henry West imploring him to come and rescue his
unfortunate young master from a watery grave, he had the brutality to
reply:--

"No! no! Master West, I am not such a fool as to risk my life for any
one, much less for George Hope; but here comes Lary with a rope, who
will do the job much better than I."

"Unfeeling man!" exclaimed Henry, turning indignantly away; "you may one
day know what it is to perish for want of assistance."

[Illustration: _The little Quaker plunges in the water to save George
from drowning._      _p. 52._]

But to return to Josiah Shirley; when he beheld the pale ghastly
countenance of the youth for whose life he had so nobly risked his own,
the first idea that entered his mind was that George had already paid
the debt of nature, and, turning to Lary, in a hurried voice, he said--

"Oh, Patrick! he does not breathe or move! I fear he is quite dead!"

"I doubt, Master Shirley," said Lary, as he raised the body in his arms,
"he is quite gone: his poor father will be distracted at his loss; for,
in spite of his faults, 'tis a fine youth."

"Oh! think not of his errors now," said Josiah; "he has most likely
dearly paid for them. Carry him to our house directly, and let some one
run for Mr. Carter, the surgeon!"

"His own father's mansion is as near, Master Shirley."

"Do not carry him there, Patrick; Mr. Hope is in London; those servants
hate him, and will not take care of him: but my dear Mamma will pay him
every attention."

They had now reached Mrs. Shirley's door, who, hearing the tread of many
feet, came out to inquire the cause, and, though greatly shocked at the
sight which met her eyes, she had courage sufficient to give the
necessary orders for George's recovery, and sent one of her servants
directly for Mr. Carter.

That gentleman soon arrived; and Josiah, anxious to know the fate of
George, was going to follow him into the room where the poor lad was;
but Pat Lary, in his rough honest manner, prevented him.

"Excuse my want of manners, my brave young gentleman; but you shall not
stir a step till you have changed these wet clothes; and, if you will
not take my advice, you may chance to be in a worse plight than Mr.
George himself."

So deeply was Josiah interested in the welfare of George, that he had
totally disregarded his own wet, miserable condition; and, thanking the
blunt Irishman, he instantly retired to make the necessary change.

He had scarcely completed his task, when the dreadful cries of poor
George, who was returning to a state of feeling, and that accompanied by
exquisite pain, filled the house; this, added to the exhaustion he now
felt from his late adventure, so completely overcame the mind of Josiah,
that he sank down into a chair, and burst into tears.

At this moment, Henry West entered the room; who, kindly taking his
hand, said--

"Compose yourself, my dear Josiah, George is in no imminent danger; Mr.
Carter has succeeded in restoring him to sensation; but, he says, the
reanimation of a body taken out of the water in frosty weather is always
accompanied by great pain."

"Oh, poor George!" exclaimed Josiah, shuddering, "I can feel for the
anguish of his present situation, when I consider what pain a thumb or
finger produces, numbed with the cold. How a whole body must suffer in
the same state."

"He is quite delirious at present," replied Henry; "and, when his senses
return, he will have little recollection of what he now endures: but, my
dear Josiah, your hands are as cold as ice; had not you better take
something to prevent any ill effects arising from your late perilous
adventure?"

"Entertain no apprehensions on my account, Henry," said Josiah: "I am
strong and healthy; early rising and exercise have inured my body to the
slight inconveniences of wet and cold. I only feel for poor George; and,
in contemplating his sufferings, such trifles are disregarded by me."

"Dear Josiah, the longer I know you, the more I esteem and love you,"
cried Henry, warmly pressing the young Quaker's hand. "You have
performed a great and noble action to-day; you almost make me guilty of
that wicked passion, envy, for I wish this day I was Josiah Shirley!"

The gentle boy shook his head. "Do not flatter me, Henry; I have not
merited such praise for performing a mere act of duty, which we all owe
to each other. Has not God himself commanded us to succour a
fellow-creature in distress; even if it were an enemy that stood in need
of our assistance. Let us, therefore, bestow our praises and thanks on
that great and awful Being who has wrought this act of mercy through our
feeble hands. Let us earnestly entreat him to shed his divine grace upon
the darkened mind of this deluded boy, and finally recall him from the
error of his ways."

George Hope could scarcely recover his senses sufficiently to remember
the accident that had nearly deprived him of life, before he was
attacked with a violent fever, which required the greatest care and
attention from his kind friends; indeed, they spared no pains to relieve
his sufferings. Josiah seldom left his bed-side: he gave him his physic,
adjusted his pillows, and cheerfully performed for him every little
service. Mr. Hope came every day to see his son; and expressed the
warmest gratitude to the good Quakers, for their unremitting kindness to
the unconscious sufferer. William always attended his father on these
visits; and the state in which he saw his brother had such an effect on
his mind, that, before he returned to school, he promised his excellent
parent, that he would obey his injunctions for the future, and never
more give him cause to complain.

"Already, my dear Josiah," said Mr. Hope, taking the hand of the young
Quaker, as he stood by the bed-side of his son, "to your goodness I owe
the reformation of one of my children, the life of the other; and, oh!
if it should please God ever to restore this unhappy boy to my prayers,
use your utmost endeavours, my good Josiah, to turn him from his present
forlorn state of mind: and your virtuous endeavours will be repaid by
the blessings of a grateful father."

"Oh, Sir!" returned Josiah, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, "I
have little doubt of his amendment. A bed of sickness brings an awful
picture before our eyes. When George comes to reflect on his late
providential escape from death, his heart will soften, and he will
remember his past conduct with feelings of painful regret; and such
reflections, I trust, will bring with them a sincere and lasting
repentance."

"God grant that your words may prove true, my excellent young friend,"
said Mr. Hope; "and rest assured, that your noble endeavours to reclaim
an erring fellow-creature (and one who, I am sorry to say, has given
you such just cause of displeasure), will meet with a reward both here
and in another world."

A few days after this conversation, George Hope was declared out of
immediate danger; and, when recollection returned, he found himself
supported in Shirley's arms.

A sense of his situation rushed over his mind. The strange room, the
strange bed, all confirmed the idea that Josiah was his preserver, and
that he was in the house of Mrs. Shirley; his heart, by nature not bad,
though by the force of evil example so sadly perverted, softened into
remorse and gratitude, and, burying his face in Josiah's bosom, he burst
into a flood of tears.

"Is it to you, Josiah Shirley, that I owe my life, whom I have so basely
and cruelly injured. Oh! if you did but know what a worthless wretch it
is you support thus tenderly in your arms, you would fling me from you
with disgust and horror."

"Calm these agitating feelings, my dear George," said Josiah, attempting
to sooth him; and forgetting, whilst he did so, his usual precision. "I
have long ago forgotten and forgiven our foolish dispute in the meadow;
let not the recollection of such trifles discompose thy mind in an hour
like this. Remember the past only as it refers to the improvement of the
future; and believe that Josiah Shirley is thy sincere and lasting
friend."

"God bless you for that word, Josiah!" exclaimed George, in a feeble
voice, as he sank back exhausted on the pillow. "How little have I
deserved this kindness from you. Oh, may I never be tempted to forfeit
your esteem for the future!"

"After this worthy resolution, friend George," said Josiah, playfully
putting his finger on his patient's lips, "I must insist on silence, for
it cannot be very prudent for thee to converse on any subject in thy
present weak state."

George smiled at this restraint on his tongue; but he very patiently
submitted to the young Quaker's request.

Most sincerely did George promise amendment for the future; and Josiah
was not backward in assisting him in the arduous task of
self-improvement.

Whilst watching by his sick pillow, for George was confined to his bed
many weeks, Shirley read to him passages from the best of our moral
works, and daily portions of the divine gospels, whilst, in his simple
language, he set before him the dreadful consequences which generally
followed disobedience to parents, and keeping company with vicious
people.

Every day added to young Hope's mental improvement; but his health
remained in so precarious a state, that a decline was apprehended, and
Mr. Hope granted Josiah's earnest request to let his son remain with
them till he should have gained sufficient strength to return to school.

Indeed, George had grown so fond of Josiah, that he could not feel happy
a moment out of his company. Often, when Shirley was busily employed in
his studies, George would silently watch his mild sweet countenance,
till he felt the tears tremble in his eyes, when he recalled the
unworthy treatment the noble youth had experienced at his hands.

Yet, though he deeply repented of the past, George could never summon up
courage enough to inform Josiah of his baseness in destroying his trees.
A hundred times a day he was on the point of declaring his guilt; but
false pride always hindered him from confessing so degrading an action.

As the spring advanced, he would rise early in the morning, and work
with Josiah in the garden, and help little Rachel to feed her rabbits,
and plant and tie up the flowers; and these small jobs he did with
greater alacrity, hoping that the earnestness with which he performed
any little office towards the re-embellishment of the garden would, in
some measure, atone for the wanton mischief he had been guilty of in the
summer; but he never entered the garden without a secret sigh, or saw
Josiah labouring to restore it to its former beauty, without bitter
feelings of self-condemnation.

Pat Lary came every day to inquire after the young Squire's health, and
George never shook hands with the honest creature without the keenest
remorse, while Simpson, who had been the author of all his vices, was
heard to say in the village, "that it was a pity young Shirley saved him
from being drowned; for he was a wicked lad, and he was sure he would
never come to a good end."

The spring came, and passed away, with all its flowers and verdure, but
George remained so feeble and dejected, that he was not able to return
to school that quarter. Mr. Hope was greatly alarmed at the increasing
debility of his son, though equally delighted with his mental
improvement; and was not behindhand in making handsome presents to Mrs.
Shirley, for the kind attention she payed to the suffering youth.

He likewise presented Josiah a beautiful pony, and a small library of
choice books, as a testimony of his gratitude and esteem, which the
young Quaker received with unfeigned pleasure; and, as he went to turn
his new favourite into the meadow, Mr. Hope followed him, and, taking
his arm, thus addressed him:--

"In spite of all your pains, my good Josiah, I fear my poor boy is fast
hastening to the grave. Mr. Carter told me this morning he could assign
no reason for his lingering illness; he thought it now rested entirely
on the mind of the patient. You have many opportunities of noticing him,
what is your opinion on the subject?"

"I agree with Mr. Carter, Sir," replied Josiah; "though I cannot
discover the reason of my friend's obstinate grief. I have often
questioned him, but to no purpose, as he only answers me on this head
with tears."

"I fear, my kind lad," said Mr. Hope, sighing heavily as he spoke, "that
it is some bad action he has committed before his illness, that lies
upon his conscience; which, if once removed, would restore his health
and spirits. If you can, my dear Josiah, possibly discover the cause of
his dejection, I shall be greatly obliged to you." Josiah promised to do
his best, and Mr. Hope wished him good morning.

It happened that day, that George was in better spirits than usual; and
Josiah, as he watched the bright glow which at times flushed his pale
cheeks, hoped he was fast improving in health. The evening was
uncommonly beautiful; and, after they returned from their accustomary
walk, Rachel invited them to take a turn in the garden, and eat some
nice ripe strawberries she had gathered in their absence.

They gladly accepted her offer, and retired to a bench at the bottom of
the garden, which was overshadowed by a noble oak, which, in the
language of that delightful poet of nature, Bloomfield--

    "Had reached its full meridian height
     Before our father's father breathed."

"Hark! how merrily the Reading bells are ringing," said Josiah. "Listen,
Rachel and George, how delightfully the sound, softened by distance,
floats over the woods."

"Yes, they sound very pretty," replied Rachel; "but I wish they were not
ringing, for we shall not hear the nightingale, as we did last night;
and I prefer her sweet melancholy notes to the sound of those jingling
bells."

"I wonder what they are ringing for?" said George, thoughtfully. "I
shall never hear the sound of bells with pleasure again."

"Why not, my dear friend?" asked Josiah, not a little curious to learn
the cause of his dislike.

"Indeed, Josiah, I have not fortitude enough to tell you," returned
George, hiding his face with his hands. "I once heard them ring as
merrily as they do now, on as beautiful and calm an evening as this; but
I have never been happy since, and, whilst the events of _that night_
weigh upon my mind, I shall never be happy again."

"And will not George reveal to his friend the cause of his grief?" said
Josiah, kindly taking his hand. "Whence is this want of confidence and
affection; surely I have deserved neither at thy hands?"

George flung himself into Shirley's arms, and the long-concealed truth
trembled on his lips, when little Rachel cried out in a joyful tone--

"Oh, here comes Henry West! he will tell us what the bells are ringing
for!"

"And that I will, and give you a fairing to boot, pretty Rachel," said
Henry, as he stooped down to kiss her rosy cheek. "Why, what's the
matter with Josiah and George? I thought I should have seen you both at
the fair."

"Nay, Henry, I am sure such a thought never entered thy head," replied
Shirley, "well knowing my aversion to such places of amusement."

"Well, I will own I did not much expect to see you there, Mr. Prim,"
said Henry, laughing; "but George has no such scruples of conscience, I
dare say."

He turned to young Hope as he finished speaking, but was astonished and
frightened to see the ghastly paleness which had overspread his
countenance. "Josiah! your friend is ill: I think you are very
imprudent to expose him to the evening air."

Josiah started up, and regarded George's varying countenance with
interest and commiseration.

"Oh! no, no! I am not ill," exclaimed George, in a hurried voice; "I
feel much better in the open air:" then, in a mournful tone, he added,
"Are you sure, Master West, that to-day was Reading fair?"

"I am certain," said Henry, smiling, "for I am just come from thence;
Mrs. Wilson took me in her carriage, and I was very well entertained by
all the fine things that were to be seen, which my good friend, Josiah,
will allow to be very babyish in a great fellow like me. But, Joe, to
make my peace, I have brought you two small copies of verses for your
scrap-book; and, as the subjects are serious, perhaps you will edify us
all, by reading them aloud by the light of this glorious moon."

"With all my heart," said Josiah, unfolding the paper, and, hoping to
divert George from his present state of dejection, he read the following
lines:--

    Awake, lute and harp, all thy melody pouring--
      To heaven with the wild notes of triumph ascend;
    While the children of earth, their Creator adoring,
      The sweetness of song with their thanksgivings blend.

    On the breezes of night, when the anthem is swelling,
      With shadowy splendour the air seems to glow,
    While fancy could hail each bright star as the dwelling
      Of spirits released from their bondage below.

    When o'er the raised soul high sensations are stealing,
      The glorious spark immortality gave
    Seems to lose, in the glow of devotional feeling,
      Its portion of suffering, and soar o'er the grave.

    To those regions of gladness, eternally glowing,
      With the glory of Him who created the spheres,
    From the light of whose countenance blessings are flowing,
      To wipe from the eyes of the mourner all tears.

    Where glorified spirits, each other outvying,
      The praise of the Godhead triumphantly sing;
    Such strains as might steal on the Saviour when dying,
      As angels supported their crucified King.

    To those mansions of bliss, for the faithful preparing,
      Who the ordeal of suffering undauntedly tried,
    With their master and king in his glory are sharing,
      And exult that, to live, they in agonies died.

    On the soul while such visions of splendour are burning,
      It sighs for that peace the world cannot bestow;
    Till the shadows of night, on the spirit returning,
      Awake it again to its portion of woe.

There was something in these lines that greatly softened the heart of
George Hope; and, turning to Josiah, he said with a deep sigh:--

"Josiah, does God always take vengeance on our crimes?"

"Not if we sincerely repent of them, and faithfully promise to sin no
more;" returned Shirley; "and, should we again fall into temptation, God
knows the weakness of our nature, and is ever more willing to forgive
than we to implore his mercy."

"I have deeply repented of my past errors," said George; "and yet I feel
as if my transgressions were not pardoned."

"You must banish such thoughts as these, my dear George," returned
Henry, "or you will never be happy. I have heard my Father say, that if
we sincerely repent of any crime we have committed, we must not doubt
the mercy of our God. Surely you have every reason to be more cheerful
than you are. Do but contrast your present character with your idle
pursuits last year; and I am sure you will rejoice at the change."

George shuddered, while Henry continued--

"You were universally and justly despised by the whole village; and I
will frankly own, I felt for you the most hearty contempt. Now, every
one mentions you with interest and commendation; and you have gained the
unfeigned love of Josiah and myself. Such a change in your favour should
raise, not depress your spirits."

"I am perfectly sensible of your goodness, my kind friends," returned
George, "and feel that gratitude towards you which no words can express.
To-morrow I may feel in better spirits; but I cannot conquer the
depression that clouds my mind to-night. But I see Josiah is going to
read something else to us."

"It is a paraphrase on the twenty-ninth psalm," said Josiah; "and,
though the author has failed in conveying the awful grandeur of the
original, I think the verses will please my friends:--

    "Ye sons of the mighty, a sacrifice bring
      To the footstool of power, and your thanksgivings raise;
    For the Lord is your strength, your Creator, and King,
      Who demands from his children the tribute of praise.

    "Yea, the voice of our God, in its fury, controls
      And stills the wild waves of the tempest-swoll'n deep;
    When borne on the thunder as slowly it rolls,
      We hear midst its terrors Omnipotence speak.

    "The voice of our God is a glorious sound:
      When it moves on the waters, or speaks through the storm,
    The cedars of Lebanus bend to the ground,
      And the mountains and hills from their fabric are torn.

    "The voice of the Lord, in his wrath, can divide
      The red rushing flames, and their fury awake;
    When forth on the wings of destruction they ride,
      And beneath them the powers of the wilderness shake.

    "Yea, the voice of our God is mighty in power
      On his bounty the wild tribes of nature depend:
    The hind rears her young in the green forest bower;
      From his altars the prayers of his children ascend.

    "The voice of the Lord, in his glory, shall bring
      To his people the fulness and blessings of peace;
    The Lord o'er the water-flood reigneth a King,
      And his portion, eternity, never shall cease."

Josiah had scarcely concluded the psalm, when Mrs. Shirley came to fetch
the young people from staying out longer in the night air; and Henry,
bidding Josiah good night, and shaking George heartily by the hand,
hoping to see him in better health and spirits the next day, took his
leave.

The sun was scarcely up the following morning, when George tapped at
Shirley's door, and proposed a long walk into the country before
breakfast.

The young Quaker was already dressed, and he accepted the invitation
with pleasure, hoping, by the way, to induce his friend to reveal the
cause of his grief. In the parlour they were joined by little Rachel,
who begged so earnestly to accompany them, that George insisted on her
request being granted.

The morning was delightful, the dews sparkled on the grass, and the
blackbird poured his merry lay from among the high hawthorn hedges that
rose on either side of them.

The spirits of the little party rose in proportion to the beauty of the
morning; and they directed their course down a long, lonely, but very
romantic lane, over-arched with old oaks, that formed a rich canopy
over their heads.

Rachel ran laughing on before, filling a little basket she had in her
hand with flowers; then, having passed a sudden angle in the lane, the
friends were alarmed by her giving a loud scream.

"What can have happened?" cried Josiah, hurrying forward. "I am afraid
she has trod upon a snake among the flowers."

He had scarcely finished speaking, before Rachel came running towards
them, out of breath, and very pale; and, flinging her arms round Josiah,
she sobbed in the most agitated manner.

"Turn back! turn back, Josiah! There is something dreadful in the road."

"Do not be alarmed, Rachel; it shall not hurt thee," said Josiah, still
fancying she had seen a snake.

"Oh no, it is dead! and the ground is all bloody! and it looks as pale
as George did, when they took him out of the pond."

Frightened in his turn, Josiah burst from the hold of the terrified
child; and, bidding her sit down on the bank till he returned, the two
friends, with faces almost as white as Rachel's, proceeded to the spot
she described.

What language can describe the horror they felt, when, on turning the
projection of the lane, they beheld the mangled body of Daniel Simpson,
lying dead across the path.

This wretched young man had stayed drinking late at the fair; and,
returning home in a taxed cart, in a state of intoxication, the horse
took fright, and, turning suddenly down this narrow lane, Simpson lost
his balance, and fell out of the cart, with violence to the ground; and,
the wheel going over his head, he was killed on the spot.

Thus did this wicked young man come to a deplorable end, on the very
night that a twelvemonth before he had so successfully plotted against
the peace of the poor Irishman and Josiah Shirley.

George was so dreadfully agitated at this shocking sight, that Josiah
could scarcely keep him from fainting; and, calling Rachel, he bade her
lead George home, and fetch assistance from the village, whilst he
remained by the body.

Pat Lary, with some working hands, immediately ran to the spot, and,
raising the mangled remains of Simpson on a hurdle, they were conveyed
to the next house, there to remain till the Coroner's inquest could be
held on the body.

When Josiah returned home, he found George leaning against the window in
the parlour, pale and in tears. Knowing his unfortunate association with
the deceased, Josiah was not surprised, that the untimely death of this
unfortunate young man should deeply affect his friend; and, kindly
taking his hand, the amiable boy strove to comfort him.

"George! dear George! pray dry these tears: they really distress me.
Though Simpson merited his death, remember that God is merciful, and
all-sufficient to save."

"Oh, Josiah! I, too, have merited death!" exclaimed the agitated George,
burying his face in Shirley's bosom, and giving way to a fresh burst of
grief.

"We are all liable to err, George, and merit death every hour in the
day, if it were only for our vile ingratitude to that great and
munificent Being from whom we received the principles of our existence,
and upon whose bounty we depend from day to day. We cannot be saved by
our own righteousness; did not we read together last night, in the
Psalms--That God did not find one perfect amongst the children of men.
Then dry these unavailing tears, and return thanks to that divine
Providence that has saved thee from a similar fate."

George returned no answer to this speech for some minutes, but seemed to
be struggling with intense and overpowering feelings; at length, turning
toward Josiah, with a face burning with conscious shame, he said--

"Yes, Josiah, God has indeed called me to a sense of my past wickedness;
and I will no longer withhold from you the base cruelty with which I
suffered an innocent fellow-creature to bear the disgrace of my own
infamous conduct."

Then casting his eyes to the ground, in faltering accents, he
continued--

"Josiah, you suspected that poor Irishman of having broken your trees.
The dear, honest creature is innocent. I was the perpetrator, in
conjunction with that wretched Simpson."

Josiah started back, whilst the surprise he felt was strongly marked on
his countenance.

"Thee, George Hope! Oh, poor Lary, how basely I have injured him."

"Oh, do not--do not say so!" cried George, weeping bitterly. "I only am
to blame. Ah, Josiah! dear good Josiah! I fear you will never love me,
or call me friend or brother, after this disgraceful disclosure. Yet do
forgive me? and I will never act so unworthily again." He would have
thrown himself at his feet, but the noble boy prevented him, by raising
him in his arms.

"Indeed, George, I did not suspect thee of such a crime; but I forgive
thee, from my very heart. But poor Lary! I cannot pardon myself for
having suspected him, without being certain of his guilt; and then the
circumstance of the hatchet being found in the garden, and Rachel's
rabbits being in his son's possession--how could all that come about?"

"Oh, Josiah!" replied George, "the more I reveal of this dreadful
business, the more shocking it will appear; but, as I have commenced the
narration, I will continue it to the end."

He then faithfully informed the young Quaker of the whole transaction,
not sparing himself at all in the relation. Josiah was shocked and
astonished at the depravity of heart, and the depth of dissimulation,
that had been shown throughout this disgraceful affair; and, when George
finished speaking, he grasped his hand firmly, and said:--

"Bless the hour, George, when the waters ingulfed thee, and the long and
lingering illness which bowed down thy exhausted frame, if they were
the means of snatching thee from guilt like this."

"And, above all," cried George, pressing Josiah's hand to his heart,
"the kind friend who not only forgave the injuries I had so undeservedly
heaped upon his head, but saved my worthless life, at the peril of his
own, and, by his unremitting care and advice, has brought me to a full
conviction of my past guilt."

"Say no more, George; I have only one request to make, which will
sufficiently repay me for all my trouble. Let us go instantly to poor
Lary and state the case to him; I cannot be happy till I have asked his
pardon for the unjust suspicion which I have attached to his name. I
know the honest creature so well that I am sure we shall never have any
reason to repent trusting to his generosity."

This George willingly consented to do; and he felt so much happier since
he had opened his mind to his friend, that he no longer dreaded the
interview with Lary; and, after breakfast, the two friends stepped
across to Lary's cottage.

They found the poor Irishman sitting on the bench before his door,
trimming some plants to put in 'Squire Hope's garden; and, taking a seat
on either side of him, the young gentlemen informed him of the cause of
their visit. The Irishman listened to them with surprise and wonder;
but, when they proceeded to ask his forgiveness, Pat interrupted them,
by saying, "That it was not fit for young gentlemen like them to ask
pardon of a poor fellow, such as the likes of Pat Lary; and that he
forgave them from his very soul; and as to the poor lad that's gone,
he has been punished enough, Heaven knows; Pat Lary bears no malice
against him."

"But, Patrick, why did not thee boldly deny the charge I brought against
thee?" said Josiah.

"Why, your honour, I was not sober, and I thought I might have done it,"
replied honest Pat; "besides, was there not my hatchet staring me in
the face, as much as to say, 'Pat Lary, you know you did it?' Would it
have been right, Master Shirley, to have denied my own? However, I
always thought one day I should find out I did not do it."

This speech would have upset the young gentlemen's gravity at another
time: and Josiah could scarcely forbear smiling, as Pat continued--

"And since you gave me that good advice, Master Shirley, I have never
been intoxicated since; and, now I have seen the shocking end of that
poor lad, I think I shall never give way to strong drink again."

"In truth, friend," said Josiah, shaking hands with him, "if thou hadst
been soberly inclined, Simpson never dare have taken thy tools, and I
never had suspected thee."

They then made the poor gardener a handsome present, and returned home.

When once this painful load was removed from George Hope's mind, he
rapidly improved in health and spirits; and, before the midsummer
vacation commenced, Mr. Carter proclaimed him sufficiently recovered to
return to school.

The young friends parted mutually attached to each other; and, on
leaving the house of the good Quakers, George grasped Josiah firmly by
the hand, and said--

"Accept, my dear Josiah, my boundless gratitude and affection. You have
taught me a lesson I never shall forget during the remainder of a life I
owe to your care,--that moral virtues are confined to no rank or station
in life; that such exist among every class and sect of people; and that
the greatest of all weaknesses is that of despising any one because he
may differ in opinion from ourselves.

"For your sake, I will never judge any one before I have gained a
thorough knowledge of his character; and, whatever my prejudices may
have been, I frankly own, that to the day of my death I shall have
reason to bless the name of a Quaker."


THE END.




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     5. Pretty Alphabet; or, Path to Learning strewed with Flowers.

     6. Peacock's Alphabet; or, Birds taught their Letters.

     7. Flora's Alphabet.

     8. Pomona's Alphabet.

     9. Butterfly's Alphabet.

    10. Gold Fish at School.

    11. Lion turned Teacher.

    12. Imperial Alphabet.

    13. Parables of Jesus Christ.

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    27. School's Up; or, a Trip to the Fair.

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    70. The Hen and her Chickens.

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    +-------------------------------------------------------+
    |Transcriber's Note:                                    |
    |                                                       |
    |In the list of Instructive Toy-Books, numbers 14 and 15|
    |were not included in the original book.                |
    +-------------------------------------------------------+







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