James. But, Sir, you must have some poultry. James. Indeed, Sir, you should.. Love.. Well, then, kill the old hen, for she has done laying. James. Mercy! Sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already. Love. Eh? why, what do the people say, pray? James. Ah, Sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. Love. Not at all; for I am always glad to hear what the world says of me. James. Why, Sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account. One says you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages. Love. Poh! poh! James. Another says you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses. Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any. James. In a word, you are the by-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned but by the names of covetous, stingy, scraping, old Love. Get along, you impudent fellow! James. Nay, Sir, you said you would not be angry. THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD. KING, MILLER, and COURTIER. King. No, no; this can be no public road, that's certain. I have lost my way, undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shews me no respect; I cannot see better, nor walk so well as another man. When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men? His wisdom knows not which is north and which is south; his power a beggar's dog would bark at, and the beggar himself would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes! Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man. But, hark! somebody sure is near. What is it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it. Miller. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there? U Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun? King. Not I, indeed. Miller. You lie, I believe. King. Lie-lie! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. Upon my word, I don't, Sir. Miller. Come, come, Sir, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you? King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard the report of a gun, to be sure, and was afraid some robbers might have been near. Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What's your name? King. Name? Miller. Name! ay, name. Where do you come from? You have a name, haven't you? What is your business here? King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man. Miller. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer; so, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please. King. With you? What authority have you to— Miller. The king's authority: if I must give you an account. Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his Majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood, and I will let no suspicious fellow pass this way, unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you. King. Very well, Sir; I am very glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and, since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it. Miller. You don't deserve it, I believe; but let me hear what you can say for yourself. King. I have the honour to belong to the king as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way. Miller. This does not sound well; if you have been a hunting, pray where is your horse. King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him. Miller. If I thought I might believe this, now! King. I am not accustomed to lie, honest man. Miller. What, do you live at court, and not lie! Ha, ha, ha! That's a likely story, indeed! King. Be that as it will, I speak truth now, I assure you; and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble, and, if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire. Miller. Ay, now I am convinced you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again; John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what he ought, without a bribe. King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must confess, and I should be glad, methinks, to be further acquainted with thee. ... Miller. I pray thee, don't thee and thou me, at this rate. I suppose I am as good a man as yourself at least. King. Sir, I beg pardon. Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only I don't love to be too familiar with you, until I am satisfied as to your honesty. King. You are right. But what am I to do?' Miller. You may do what you please. You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road and direct you the best I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and in the morning I will go with you myself. King. And cannot you go with me to-night? Miller. I would not go with you to-night, if you were the king himself. King. Then I must go with you, I think. Courtier. Ah! is your Majesty safe? We have hunted the forest over to find you. Miller. How! are you the king? Your Majesty will pardon the ill usage you have received. [The king draws his sword.] His Majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully? King. No, my good fellow. So far from having anything to pardon, I am much your debtor. I cannot think but so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honourable knight. Rise, SIR JOHN COCKLE, and receive this sword as a badge of knighthood, and a pledge of my protection; and to support your nobility, and in some measure requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall be your revenue-Doddridge. HARD by a green meadow a stream used to flow, so clear one might see the white pebbles below; to this cooling stream the warm cattle would stray, to stand in the shade on a hot summer's day. A cow, quite oppressed with the heat of the sun, came here to refresh, as she often had done; and standing stock still, leaning over the stream, was, musing perhaps, or perhaps she might dream. But soon a brown ass of respect, able look, came trotting up also to taste of the brook, and to nibble a few of the daisies and grass: "How d'ye do?" said the cow; "How d'ye do?" said the ass. "Take a seat," cried the cow, gently waving her hand; "By no. means, dear Madam," said he, "while you stand;" then stooping to drink, with a complaisant bow, "Ma'am, your health," said the ass; 66 66 "Thank you Sir," said the cow. When a few of these compliments more had been past, they laid themselves down on the herbage at last; and waiting politely, as gentlemen must, the ass held his tongue that the cow might speak first. Then with a deep sigh, she directly began, "Don't you think, Mr. Ass, we are injured by man? 'Tis a subject that lies with a weight on my mind: we certainly are much oppressed by mankind. Now what is the reason? I see none at all, that I always must go when Suke choses to call; whatever I'm doing, 'tis certainly bard, at once I must go to be milked in the yard. I've no will of my own, but must do as they please, and give them my milk to make butter and cheese; I've often a vast mind to knock down the pail, or give Suke a box on the ear with my tail." But, Ma'am;" said the ass not presuming to teach-O dear, I beg pardon,-pray finish your speech,-I thought you had done, Ma'am, indeed," said the swain, "go on, and I'll not interrupt you again.' "Why, Sir, I was only about to observe, I'm resolved that these tyrants no longer I'll serve; but leave them for ever to do as they please, and look somewhere else for their butter and cheese." Ass waited a moment, to see if she'd done, and then, "Not presuming to teach," he begun-" with submission, dear Madam, to your better wit, I own I am not quite convinced by it yet. That you're of great service to them is quite true, but surely they, too, are of service to you; 'tis their nice green meadows in which you regale; they feed you in winter when grass and weeds fail. 'Tis under their shelter you snugly repose, when, without it, dear Ma'am you perhaps might be froze; for my own part, I know, I receive much The from man, and for him, in return, I do all that I can.' cow upon this cast her eyes on the grass, not pleased at thus being reproved by an ass; yet, thought she, "I'm determined I'll benefit by't, for I really believe that the fellow is right." A QUEER SERMON. The BELOVED, let me crave your attention. I am a little man, come at a short notice, to preach a short sermon, from a short text, to a thin congregation, in an unworthy pulpit. Beloved, my text is Malt. I can not divide it into sentences, there being none; nor into words, there being but one. I must, therefore, of necessity, divide it into letters, which I find in my text to be these four-M A L' T. M is Moral. A is Allegorical. L is Literal. T is Theological. The Moral is, to teach you rustics good manners; therefore, M—my Masters; A-All of you; L-Leave off; T-Tippling. The Allegorical is, when one thing is spoken of and another meant. thing spoken of is malt; the thing meant is the spirit of malt,' which you rustics make, M-your Meat, A—your Apparel, L-your Liberty, and T-your Trust. The Literal is, according to the letters, M-Much, A-Ale, L-Little, T-Trust. The Theological is, according to the effects it works; in some, M-Murder; in others, A-Adultery; in all, L-Looseness of Life; and in many, T-Treachery. I shall conclude the subject-First, by way of exhortation. M-my Masters, A—All of you, L-Listen, T-to my Text. Second by way of caution. M-my Masters, A-All of you, L-Look for, T-the Truth. Third, by way of communicating the truth, which is this: a drunkard is the annoyance of modesty, the spoil of civility, the destruction of reason, the robber's agent, the ale-house benefactor, his wife's sorrow, his children's trouble, his own shame, his neighbour's scoff, a walking swill-tub, the picture of a beast, the monster of a man.-Dodd. THE ORPHAN BOY. STAY, Lady! stay for mercy's sake, and hear a helpless orphan's tale! Ah! sure, my looks must pity wake; 'tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, and my brave father's hope and joy; but in the Nile's proud fight |