Mr. S. Yes, and I'll be hanged if I'll go near the gold.

Mr. P. But how is it about the crockery, and the spoons, and the thousand dollar shawl, and the grand house that you was going to build?

Mr. S. Ah! 'Squire Prudent, I shall never again despise the comforts of our snug little cottage, with its humble furniture; and I am proud to say that Peggy has got more good sense than her husband, as she values the solid blessings of a New England home more than all the thousand dollar shawls in the universe.

Mr. P. I am glad to find you giving your wife credit for so much wisdom; but what are you going to do with that confounded old lapstone of yours?

Mr. S. The lapstone! why I am going to keep that lapstone, 'Squire Prudent, as my best friend; and people will yet say that Simeon Sanguine is the happiest shoemaker that ever pounded sole leather. The lapstone for me, after all.

DIALOGUE VI.

TRUE VIRTUE WILL PREVAIL.

(Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon.)

Dionysius. Amazing! What do I see? It is Pythias just arrived. It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend!

Pythius. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confinement with no other views than to pay to Heaven the vows I had made, to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice, and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil and satisfied.

Dio. But why dost thou return? Hast thou no fear of death? Is it not the character of a madman to seek it thus voluntarily ?

Py. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. Every principle of honor and goodness forbids me to allow my friend to die for me.

Dio. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself? Py. No; I love him as myself. But I am persuaded

that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which was designed, not for him, but for me only.

Dio. But thou supposest that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee as upon thy friend.

Py. Very true; we are both perfectly innocent; and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer.

Dio. Why dost thou, then, assert that it were injustice to put him to death, instead of thee?

Py. It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly culpable to let Damon suffer that death which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only.

Dio. Dost thou, then, return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view than to save the life of a friend, by losing thy own?

Py. I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice which it is common for tyrants to inflict; and, with respect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me.

Dio. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. Didst thou not really fear that Pythias would never return; and that thou wouldst be put to death on his account?

Da. I was but too well assured that Pythias would punctually return; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise than to preserve his life. Would to Heaven, that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men; and I should have the satisfaction of dying for him!

Dio. What! does life displease thee?

Da. Yes; it displeases me when I see and feel the power of a tyrant.

Dio. It is well! Thou shalt see him no more. I will order thee to be put to death immediately.

Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to

submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. refuse me this consolation in my last hour.

Do not

Dio. I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power at defiance.

Da. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue.

Dio. No: cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue, which contemns life, which dreads no punishment, and which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure.

Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue which is not insensible to the dictates of honor, justice, and friendship.

Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution! We shall see whether Damon will continue to despise my authority.

Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favor; but I have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy power, in order to save him; be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice, and put me to death.

Py. Hold, Dionysius! remember, it was Pythias alone who offended thee; Damon could not

Dio. Alas! what do I see and hear! where am I? How miserable; and how worthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my power and honors are insufficient to produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly, unreservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation.

Py. How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, expect to have friends? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast feared mankind; and they fear thee; they detest thee.

Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit mè as a third friend, in a connection so perfect. I give you your lives, and I will load you with riches.

Da. We have no desire to be enriched by thee; and,

in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it, till thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, disinterested, beneficent, and know how to live in a sort of equality with those who share' and deserve thy friendship.

DIALOGUE VII.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

Woman. Sir, for the love of God, some small relief To a poor woman!

Traveller. Whither art thou bound?

'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs;
No house for miles around us, and the way
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already
Makes one's teeth chatter; and the very sun,
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds,
Looks cold. 'T will be a bitter night!

Woman. Ay, sir,

breath :

'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every
Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end;
For the way is long before me, and my feet, -

God help me!-sore with travelling. I would gladly,
If it pleased God, at once lie down and die.

Trav. Nay, nay, cheer up! a little food and rest
Will comfort you; and then your journey's end
May make amends for all. You shake your head,
And weep.
Is it some mournful business, then,

That leads you from your home?

Woman. Sir, I am going

To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt

In the late action, and in the hospital

Dying, I fear me, now.

Trav. He may yet live.

But if the worst should chance, why, you must bear
The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not
Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen
Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself,
You will not, in unpitied poverty,

Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country,

Amid the triumph of her victory,

Remembers those who paid its price of blood,
And with a noble charity relieves

The widow and the orphan.

Woman. God reward them!

child!

God bless them! It will help me in my age.
But, sir, it will not pay me for my
Trav. Was he your only child?
Woman. My only one,-

The stay and comfort of my widowhood! —
A dear good boy!

- When first he went to sea,

I felt what it would come to something told me
I should be childless soon. But tell me, sir,
If it be true that for a hurt like his

There is no cure. Please God to spare his life,
Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!
I can remember there was a blind man

Lived in our village,· one, from his youth up,
Quite dark; and yet he was a merry man;
And he had none to tend on him so well

As I would tend my boy!

Trav. Of this be sure;

His hurts are looked to well; and the best help
The land affords as rightly is his due

Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?

Wa

as a seafaring life his early choice?

Woman. No, sir: poor fellow! - he was wise enough

To be content at home; and 't was a home

As comfortable, sir, even though I say it,

As any in the country. He was left
A little boy, when his poor father died,-
Just old enough to totter by himself,

And call his mother's name. We two were all,
And as we were not left quite destitute,

We bore up well. In the summer time I worked
Sometimes afield. Then I was famed for knitting.
And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel
Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbors too,
And never felt distress. So he grew up

A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed.
I taught him well: there was not in the parish
A child who said his prayers more regular,
Or answered readier through his catechism.