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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

1 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.

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THE NATIVE VILLAGE. A KIND of dread had hitherto kept me back ;1 but I was restless now, till I had? 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 retum 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 old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associationsl revived with the music, so that I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings.

1 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.

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. 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

i 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 situations 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?—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

i 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 bagatelie de sept shil. lings sixpence aurait suffi pour lui assurer.

at night; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of fever or measles, which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke as a disinfectant. As to his wife, what that suffering woman has undergone nobody knows. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; he could have perished-he would rather-in short-but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging-letters when he looked at her ?

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit.3 He has been in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman ;4 he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge ; he can quote Latin in his letters, but generally misspells some minor English word; he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging better than you know it.

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at last ; he has enlisted 5 into the Company's service, and is off directly—but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the sergeant that it is essential to his propects 6 in the regiment that he should take out a single Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to? fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what has passed ; but if he calls at nine to-morrow' morning, may he hope to find a cheese ? and is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal ?

On a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over,) in which he gave me to understand that,

i Which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke as a disinfectant, ce qui, je suppose, explique pourquoi il parfume ses lettres de l'odeur du tabac comme désinfectant.—2 See § 36, 4.-3 He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit, Il a suivi toutes les carrières imaginables.-4 As a gentle. man, Comme un jeune homme de bonne famille.—5 To enlist, S'enrôler. _6 To his prospects, Pour son avenir.—7 Weighing from twelve to, Du poids de douze à.8 Eight or nine shillings would buy it, Cela coûterait huit ou neuf shillings. 9 Tomorrow, Le lendemain.

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