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great here, and greater too, being nearer the equinox; besides, as I was obliged to be much abroad, it was a most useful thing to me, as well for the rains as the heats. I took a world of pains with it, and was a great while before I could make anything likely to hold: nay, after I thought I had hit the way, I spoiled two or three before I made one to my mind ;2 but at last I made one that answered indifferently well; the main difficulty I found was to make it let down.3 I could make it spread, but if it did not let down too, and draw in, it was not portable for me any way but just over my head, which would not do.4 However at last, as I said, I made one to answer, and covered it with skins, the hair upwards, so that it cast off the rain like a pent-house, and kept off the sun so effectually, that I could walk out in the hottest of the weather with greater advantage than I could before in the coolest, and when I had no need of it, could close it and carry it under my arm.

Some time after, as I was very weary, I laid me down in the shade to rest my limbs, and fell asleep ; but judge you, if you can, that read my story, what a surprise I must be in, when I was awaked out of my sleep by a voice calling me by my name several times, “Robin, Robin, Robin Crusoe; poor Robin Crusoe ! Where are you, Robin Crusoe? Where are you? Where have you been ?” I was so dead asleep,5 being fatigued with rowing the first part of the day, and with walking the latter part, that I did not wake thoroughly; but dozing between sleeping and waking, thought I dreamed that somebody spoke to me; but as the voice continued to repeat, “Robin Crusoe, Robin Crusoe,” at last I began to wake more perfectly, and was at first dreadfully frightened, and started up in the utmost consternation ; but no sooner were my eyes open, but I saw my Poll sitting on the top of the hedge, and immediately knew that it was he that spoke to me ; for just in such bemoaning language I had used to talk to

I took a world of pains with it, J'y pris une infinité de peines._2 To my mind, À mon idée.—3 To make it let down, De le faire fermer.—4 It was not portable for me any way but just over my head, which would not do, Je ne pouvais le porter autrement qu'au-dessus de ma tête, ce qui ne remplissait pas mon but.—5 So dead asleep, Si profondément endormi._6 Sitting, Perché.

him, and teach him; and he had learned it so perfectly that he would sit upon my finger, and lay his bill close to my face, and cry, “ Poor Robin Crusoe! Where are you? Where have you been? How came you here ?” and such things as I had taught him.

DANIEL DE FOE.

1663–1731.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE. A KIND of dread had hitherto kept me back ;1 but I was restless now, till I had2 accomplished my wish. I set out one morning to walk; I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon; after a slight breakfast at my inn, where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again (old Thomas Billet, he has often made angle-rods 3 for me when a child,) I rambled over all my accustomed haunts.*

Our old house was vacant, and to be sold; I entered, unmolested,5 into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood : I felt like a child ; I prayed like one. It seemed as though old times were to return again ; I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew ; but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. The little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass.

I visited by turns every chamber ;6 they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold : I touched the keys; I played some

I Had hitherto kept me back, M'avait jusque-là empêché d'avancer.—2 But I was restless now, till I had, Mais dès ce moment je n'eus pas de repos que je n'eusse. -3 Angle-rods, Manches de lignes.-4 All my accustomed haunts, Tous les lieux que j'avais si souvent fréquentés.--5 Unmolested, Sans obstacle.—6 Chamber, Pièce.

old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations1 revived with the music, so that I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

I wandered scarce knowing where, into an old wood, that stands at the back of the house ; we called it the Wilderness. A wellknown form” was missing that used to meet me in this place : it was thine, Ben Moxam, the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles without a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam, that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to3 lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees. I remember them sweeping to the ground.

I have often left my childish sports to ramble in this place; its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, nurturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking, which have accompanied me to maturer years.

In this Wilderness I found myself after ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood :4 the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon ; all was as I had left it; my heart softened 5 at the sight; it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades.

My parents were both dead ; I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof.6 The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where He had laid them. I paced round the Wilderness, seeking a comforter.

This state of mind could not last long, and I returned, with languid feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner, green peas and a sweetbread : it had been a favourite dish with me in my child

1 Past associations, Mes souvenirs.--2 A well-known form, Une figure bien connue.-3 That thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to, C'est que tu as conspiré avec une viei le fille de tante à moi pour. See also $ 23. – 4 With all their lu xuriant company of under wood, Avec leur accompagnement de taillis touffu.5 My heart softened, Mon cœur se fondit. -6 No sweet voice of reproof, Pas une douce voix pour me reprendre.

hood; I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it come upon the table ; but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful ; my tears choked me.

CHARLES LAMB.

1775–1834.

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.2 I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door at all hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in ; he has followed me out of town into the country; he has written to me from immense distances when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has died, and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory scene; he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a great-coat, to go to India in ; a pound, to set him up in life for ever ;3 a pair of boots to take him to the coasts of China ; a hat, to get him into 4 a permanent situation) under Government. He has frequently been exactly sevenand-sixpence short of independence.6 He has had such openings at Liverpool-posts of great trust and confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure 7—that I wonder he is not mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment.

The natural phenomena, of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two children, who have never grown up; who have never had anything to cover them

1 I was allowed to have it on my birthdays, On ne m'en servait qu'aux anniversaires de ma naissance.—2 The begging-letter writer, Le mendiant par lettres.3 To set him up in life for ever, Pour l'établir à tout jamais.—4 To get him into, Pour le faire entrer dans.—5 A permanent situation, Une place fixe.-6 He has frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence, Il lui est souvent arrivé, faute de sept shillings sixpence, de manquer sa fortune.-7 Which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure, Que la bagatelle de sept shillings sixpence aurait suffi pour lui assurer.

religious contemplation ; each year, during the month of Ramadan, he withdrew from the world, and in the cave of Hera, three miles from Mecca, he consulted the spirit of fraud or enthusiasm, whose abode is not in the heavens, but in the mind of the Prophet. The faith which, under the name of Islam, he preached to his family and nation, is compounded of an eternal truth, and a necessary fiction, THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE GOD, AND THAT MAHOMET IS THE APOSTLE OF GOD.

GIBBON. 1737-1794.

THE VULTURE AND HIS CHILDREN. “My children,” said an old vulture to his young ones, “ you will the less want my instructions, because you have had my practice before your eyes. You have seen me snatch from the farm the household fowls, you have seen me seize the leveret in the bush, and the kid in the pasture; and you know how to fix your talons,3 and how to take your flight when you are laden with your prey. But you remember the taste of more delicious food. I have often regaled you with the flesh of man.” “Tell us,” said the young vultures, “where man may be found, and how he may be known; his flesh is surely the natural food of the vulture. Why have you never brought a man in your talons to the nest ?“He is too bulky,” said the vulture; “when we find a man we can only tear away his flesh, and leave his bones upon the ground.” “Since man is so big,” said the young ones, “how do you kill him ? You are afraid of the wolf and of the bear; by what power are vultures superior to man? Is man more defenceless + than a sheep ?” “We have not the strength of man,” returned the vulture, “and I am sometimes in doubt whether we have the subtlety ;5 and the vultures would seldom feast upon his flesh, had not nature, that devoted him? to our uses, infused into him

1 My practice, Mon exemple.—2 See $ 55, 39.—3 To fix your talons, Enfoncer vos serres. -4 Is more defenceless, A moins de défense.—5 And I am sometimes in doubt whether we have the subtlety, Et je doute quelquefois que nous ayons autant de finesse.—6 See § 5, 8. _7 That devoted him, Qui l'a destiné.

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