fall into the hands of their cruel oppressors, a life of laborious servitude, which scarcely affords them sufficient time for sleep, deprives them of every opportunity of improving their minds. There is no reason to suppose that they differ from us in any thing but colour; which distinction arises from the intense heat of their climate. There have been instances of a few, whose situation has been favourable to improvement, who have shown strong powers of mind. Those masters, who neglect the religious and moral instruction of their slaves, add a heavy load of guilt to that already incurred, by their share in this unjust and inhuman traffic.

Charles. My indignation rises at this recital. Why does not the British parliament exert its powers to avenge the wrongs of these oppressed Africans? What can prevent an act being passed to forbid Englishmen from buying and selling slaves!

Father. Many persons of great talents and virtue, have made several fruitless attempts to obtain an act for the abolition of this trade. Men interested in its continuance have hitherto frustrated these generous designs; but we may rely upon the goodness of that Divine Providence, who cares for all creatures, that the day will come when their rights will be considered: and there is great reason to hope, from the light already cast upon the subject, that the rising genera tion will prefer justice and mercy, to interest and policy; and will free themselves from the odium we at present suffer, of treating our fellow creatures in a manner unworthy of them, and of ourselves.

Mother. Henry, repeat that beautiful apostrophe to a negro woman, which you learned the other day out of Barbauld's Hymns.

Henry. "Negro woman, who sitteth pining in captivity. and weepest over thy sick child, though no one sees thee, God sees thee; though no one pities thee, God pities thee. Raise thy voice, forlorn and abandoned one; call upon him from amidst thy bonds, for assuredly he will hear thee."

Cecilia. I think no riches could tempt me to have any share in the slave-trade. I could never enjoy peace of mind, whilst I thought I contributed to the woes of my fellow-creatures.

Mother. But, Cecilia, to put your compassion to the

G

proof; are you willing to debar yourself of the numerous indulgences you enjoy, from the fruit of their labour?

Cecilia. I would forego any indulgence to alleviate their sufferings.

The rest of the children together. We are all of the same mind.

Mother. I admire the sensibility of your uncorrupted hearts, my dear children. It is the voice of nature and virtue. Listen to it on all occasions, and bring it home to your bosoms, and your daily practice. The same principle of benevolence, which excites your just indignation at the oppression of the negroes, will lead you to be gentle towards your inferiors, kind and obliging to your equals, and in a particular manner condescending and considerate towards your domestics; requiring no more of them, than you would be willing to perform in their situation; instructing them when you have opportunity; sympathizing in their afflictions, and promoting their best interests to the utmost of your power.*

A YOUNG man named Robert, was sitting alone in his boat in the harbour of Marseilles. A stranger stepped in, and took his seat near him, but quickly rose again; observing, that since the master was not preseut, he would take another boat. "This, sir, is mine," said Robert: "would you sail without the harbour?"I meant only to move about in the basin, and enjoy the coolness of this fine evening. But I cannot believe you are a sailor."—" Nor am I: yet on sundays and holydays, I act the bargeman, with a view to make up a sum.' "What! covetous at your age! your looks had almost prepossessed me in your favour." "Alas! sir, did you know my situation, you would not blame me."" Well; perhaps I am mistaken.

It will, doubtless, be gratifying to the young reader, to be informed, that since this Dialogue was written, the Slave Trade has been happily abolished by the British Parliament. This memorable though late triumph of justice and humanity was affected in the year 1807.

Let us take our little cruise of pleasure; and acquaint me with your history."

The stranger having resumed his seat, the dialogue after a short pause, proceeded thus. "I perceive, young man, you are sad. What grieves you thus ?"--"My father, Sir, groans in fetters, and I cannot ransom him. He earned a livelihood by petty brokerage; but in an evil hour, embarked for Smyrna, to superintend in person the delivery of a cargo, in which he had a concern. The vessel was captured by a Barbary corsair; and my father was conducted to Tetuan, where he is now a slave. They refused to release him for less that two thousand crowns, a sum which far exceeds our scanty means. However, we do our best. My mother and sisters work day and night. I ply hard at my stated occupation of a journeyman jeweller; and, as you perceive, make the most I can of sundays and holydays. I had resolved to put myself in my father's stead; but my mother, apprised of my design, and dreading the double privation of a husband and an only son, requested the Levant captains to refuse me a passage. Pray do you ever hear from your father! Under what name does he pass? or what is his master's addres?" "His master is overseer of the royal gardens at Fez; and my father's name is Robert at Tetuan, as at Marseilles." "Robert overseer of the royal gardens ?"——__66 Yes, Sir." "I am touched with your misfortunes; but venture to predict their termination.”

Night drew on apace. The stranger, upon landing, thrust into young Robert's hand a purse containing eight double Tours d'ors, with ten crowns in silver, and instantly disappeared.

Six weeks passed after this adventure; and each returning sun bore witness to the unremitting exertions of the good family. As they sat one day at their unsavory mea! of bread and dried almonds, old Robert entered the apartment, in a garb little suited to a fugitive prisoner; tenderly embraced his wife and children, and thanked them, with tears of gratitude, for the fifty louis they had caused to be rcmitted to him on his sailing from Tetuan, for his free passage, and a comfortable supply of wearing apparel. His astonished relatives eyed one another in silence. At length the mother, suspecting that her son had secretly concerted

the whole plan, recounted the various instances of his zeal and affection. "Six thousand livers, continued she, "is the sum we wanted; and we had already procured somewhat more than the half, owing chiefly to his industry. Some friends, no doubt, have assisted him upon an emergency like the present." A gloomy suggestion crossed the father's mind. Turning suddenly to his son and eyeing him with the sternness of distraction, "Unfortunate boy," exclaimed he, "what have you done? How can I be indebted to you for my freedom, and not regret it? How could you effect my ransom without your mother's knowledge, unless at the expense of virtue? I tremble at the thought of filial affection having betrayed you into guilt. Tell the truth at once, whatever may be the consequence," Calm your apprehensions, my dearest father," cried the son, embracing him. "No, I am not unworthy of such a parent, though fortune has denied me the satisfaction of proving the full strength of my attachment. I am not your deliverer: but I know who is. Recollect, mother, the unknown gentleman who gave me the purse, He was particular in his inquiries. Should I pass my life in the pursuit, I must endeavour to meet with him, and invite him to contemplate the fruits of his beneficence." He then related to his father all that had passed in the pleasure-boat, and removed every distressing suspicion.

Restored to the bosom of his family, the father again partook of their joys, prospered in his dealings, and saw his children comfortably established. Some time afterwards, on a sunday morning, as the son was walking on the quay, he discovered his benefactor, clasped his knees, and entreated him as his guardian angel, as the preserver of a father and a family, to share the happiness he had been the means of producing. The stranger again disappeared in the crowd-but, reader, this stranger was Montesquieu. MUIRHEAD'S TRAVELS.

SECTION V.

THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPILS.

Eyes and no eyes; or the art of seeing.

WELL, Robert, where have you been walking this after

noon? (said a Tutor to one of his pupils at the close of a holyday.)

Robert. I have been to Broom-heath, and so round by the windmill upon Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river side.

Tutor. Well, that is a pleasant round.

Robert. I thought it very dull, Sir; I scarcely met with a single person. I would much rather have gone along the turnpike-road.

Tutor. Why, if seeing men and horses is your object, you would, indeed, be better entertained on the high-road. But did you see William?

Robert. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I walked on and left him.

Tutor. That was a pity. He would have been company for you.

Robert. O, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and that! I would rather walk alone. I dare say he is not got home yet. Tutor. Here he comes.

you been?

Well, William, where have

William. O, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom-heath, and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green meadows by the side of the river.

Tutor. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he complains of its dulness, and prefers the high road.

William. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not delight me; and I have brought home my "handkerchief full of curiosities.

Tutor. Suppose then, you give us an account of what amused you so much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert

as to me.

William. I will do it readily. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close and sandy, so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way. However, I spied a curious thing enough in a hedge. It was an old crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of something green, quite different from the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.

Tutor. Ah! this is a misletoe, a plant of great fame for the use made of it by the Druids of old, in their religious