OUR family had now made several attempts to be fine; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected.
I endeavored to take the advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good-sense in proportion as they were frustrated
in ambition. "You see, my children," cried I, "how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world in coping with our
betters. Such as are poor and will associate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they
follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous to the weaker side: the rich having the pleasure, and the poor the
inconveniences that result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable that you were reading today, for the good
of the company."

   "Once upon a time," cried the child, "a Giant and a Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that they
would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was

with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry blow. It did the
Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's arm. He was now in a woeful plight, but
the Giant coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the dead man's
head out of spite. They then travelled on to another adventure.This was against three bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying
away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before, but for all that struck the first blow, which was
returned by another that knocked out his eye; but the Giant was soon up with them, and had they not fled, would ,certainly
have killed them every one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who was relieved fell in love with the
Giant, and married him. They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met with a company of robbers. The Giant,
for the first time, was foremost now; but the Dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the Giant
came, all fell before him; but the Dwarf had like to have been killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the two
adventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was now with an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single
wound. Upon which he cried out to his little companion: 'My little hero, this is glorious sport; let

us get one victory more, and then we shall have honor forever.'-'No,' cries the Dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, 'no, I
declare off. I'll fight no more; for I find in every battle that you get all the honor and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.' "

   I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell,
upon my daughters' intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from
it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed but the
second part of those which were received with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah,
instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamor. The conclusion of
her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all. She knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for
what they advised; but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the future. "Madam," cried Burchell, with
looks of great composure, which tended to inflame her the more, "as for secret reasons, you are right. I have secret reasons,
which I forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer those of which I make no secret; but I find my visits here are
become troublesome. I'll take my leave, therefore, now, and perhaps come once more

to take a final farewell when I am quitting the country." Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of Sophia,
whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going.

   When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove
hard to hide her concern with a forced smile and an air of assurance, which I was willing to reprove.

   "How, woman!" cried I to her, "is it thus we treat strangers? Is it thus we return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that
these were the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your lips!"-"Why would he provoke me
then?" replied she; "but I know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my girls from going to town, that he
may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here at home. But whatever happens, she shall choose better
company than such low-lived fellows as he."-"Low-lived, my dear, do you call him?" cried I; "it is very possible we may
mistake this man's character; for he seems upon some occasions the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my
girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his attachment?"-"His conversation with me, sir," replied my daughter, "has
ever been sensible, modest and pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. Once indeed, I remember to have heard him say he never

knew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor."-"Such, my dear," cried I, "is the common cant of all the
unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it would be even madness to
expect happiness from one who has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I have now better prospects
for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice."

   What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I can't pretend to determine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that
we were rid of a guest f rom whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little; but I quickly
silenced that monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which
conscience gives the man who has already done wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not
strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse.