at all, or if they did, were foiled in the chase by the numerous ways and turnings in the earth, communicating with each other, so as to afford easy means of escape. Indur delighted much in this secure and social life; and taking a mate, was soon the father of a numerous offspring. Several of the little ones, however, not being sufficiently careful, fell a prey either to hawks and crows continually hovering over the warren, or to cats, foxes, and other wild quadrupeds, who used every art to catch them at a distance from their holes. Indur himself ran several hazards. He was once very near being caught by a little dog trained for the purpose, who kept playing round for a considerable time, not seeming to attend to the rabbits, till having got near, he all at once darted into the midst of them. Another time he received some shot from a sportsman who lay on the watch behind a hedge adjoining the warren.

The number of rabbits here was so great, that a hard winter coming on, which killed most of the vegetables, or buried them deep under the snow, they were reduced to great straits, and many were famished to death. Some turnips and hay, however, which were laid for them, preserved the greater part. The approach of spring renewed their sport and pleasure; and Indur was made the father of another family. One night, however, was fatal to them all. As they were sleeping, they were alarmed by the attack of a ferret, and running with great speed to the mouth of their burrow to escape it, they were all caught in nets placed over their holes. Indur with the rest was dispatched by a blow on the back of the neck, and his body was sent to the nearest market-town.

His next change was into a young Mastiff, brought up in a farm-yard. Having nearly acquired his full size, he was sent as a present to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who wanted a faithful guard for his house and grounds. Indur presently attached himself to his master and all his family, and shewed every mark of a noble and generous nature. Though fierce as a lion whenever he thought the persons or properties of his friends invaded, he was as gentle as a lamb at other times, and would patiently suffer any kind of freedoms from those he loved. He permitted the children of the house to lug him about, ride on his back, and use him as roughly as their little hands were capable of; never, even when hurt, shewing any displeasure further than by a low

growl. He was extremely indulgent to all the other animals of his species in the yard; and when abroad, would treat the impertinent barking of little dogs with silent contempt. Once, indeed, being provoked beyond bearing, not only by the noise, but by the snaps of a malicious whelp, he suddenly seized him in his open mouth; but when the bystanders thought that the poor cur was going instantly to be devoured, they were equally diverted and pleased at seeing Indur go to the side of a muddy ditch, and drop his antagonist unhurt into the middle of it.

He had, however, more serious conflicts frequently to sustain. He was accustomed to attend the servant on marketdays to the neighbouring town, when it was his office to guard the provision cart, while the man was making his purchases in the shops. On these occasions, the boldest dogs in the street would sometimes make an onset in a body; and while some of them were engaging Indur, others would be mounting the cart, and pulling down the meat baskets. Indur had much ado to defend himself and the baggage too; however, he never failed to make some of the assailants pay dearly for their impudence; and by his loud barking, he summoned his human fellow-servant to his assistance, in time to prevent their depredations.

At length his courage was exerted on the most important service to which it could be applied. His master returning home late one evening, was attacked near his own house by three armed ruffians. Indur heard his voice calling for help, and instantly flew to his relief. He seized one of the villains by the throat, brought him to the ground, and presently disabled him. The master, in the meantime, was keeping off the other two with a large stick; but had received several wounds with a cutlass; and one of the men had presented a pistol, and was just on the point of firing. At this moment Indur, leaving his vanquished foe on the ground, rushed forward, and seizing the man's arm, made him drop the pistol. The master took it up; on which the other robber fled He now advanced to him with whom Indur was engaged, and fired the pistol at him. The ball broke the man's arm, and thence entered the body of Indur, and mortally wounded him. He fell, but had the satisfaction of seeing his master remain lord of the field: and the servants now coming up, made prisoners of the two wounded robbers. The master threw himself by the side of Indur, and expressed the warm

D

est concern at the accident which had made him the cause of the death of the faithful animal that had preserved his life. Indur died, licking his hand.

So generous a nature was now no longer to be annexed to a brutal form. Indur, awakening as it were from a trance, found himself again in the happy region he had formerly inhabited, and recommenced the innocent life of a Brachman. He cherished the memory of his transmigrations, and handed them down to posterity, in a relation from which the preceding account has been extracted for the amusement of my young readers

Seventh Evening.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE.

A DRAMA.

Scene-A scattered Village almost hidden with Trees.

Enter HARFORD and BEAUMONT.

Harford. THERE is the place. This is the green on which I played many a day with my companions; there are the tall trees that I have so often climbed for birds' nests; and that is the pond where I used to sail my walnut-shell boats. What a crowd of mixed sensations rush on my mind! What pleasure, and what regret! Yes, there is somewhat in our native soil that affects the mind in a manner different from every other scene in nature.

Beaumont. With you it must be merely the place; for I think you can have no attachments of friendship or affection in it, considering your long absence, and the removal of all your family.

Harf. No, I have no family connexions, and indeed can scarcely be said ever to have had any: for, as you know, I was almost utterly neglected after the death of my father and mother, and while all my elder brothers and sisters were dispersed to one part or another, and the little remaining property was disposed of, I was left with the poor people who nursed me, to be brought up just as they thought proper; and the little pension that was paid for me entirely ceased after a few years.

Beaum. Then how were you afterward supported?

Harf. The honest couple who had the care of me continued to treat me with the greatest kindness; and poor as they

were, not only maintained me as a child of their own, but did all in their power to procure me advantages more suited to my birth, than my deserted situation. With the assistance of the worthy clergyman of the parish, they put me to a dayschool in the village, clothed me decently, and being themselves sober religious persons, took care to keep me from vice. The obligations I am under to them will, hope, never be effaced from my memory, and it is on their account alone that I have undertaken this journey.

Beaum. How long did you continue with them?

Harf. Till I was thirteen. I then felt an irresistible desire to fight for my country; and learning by accident that a distant relation of our family was a captain of a man-of-war, I took leave of my worthy benefactors, and set off to the seaport where he lay, the good people furnishing me in the best manner they were able with necessaries for the journey. I shall never forget the tenderness with which they parted with me. It was, if possible, beyond that of the kindest parents. You know my subsequent adventures, from the time of my becoming a midshipman, to my present state of first lieutenant in the Britannia. Though it is now fifteen years since my departure, I feel my affection for these good folks stronger than ever, and could not be easy without taking the first opportunity of seeing them.

Beaum. It is a great chance if they are both living.

Harf. I happened to hear by a young man of the village, not long since, that they were; but I believe much reduced in their circumstances.

Beaum. Whereabouts did they live?

Harf. Just at the turning of this corner.

But what's this

-I can't find the house. Yet I am sure I have not forgot

the situation. Surely it must be pulled down! dear old friends, what can have become of you? Beaum. You had best ask that little girl.

Oh! my

Harf. Hark ye, my dear!-do you know one John Beech,

of this place?

Girl. What, old John Beech! O yes, very well, and Mary Beech too.

Harf. Where do they live?

Girl. A little further on in the lane.

Harf. Did they not once live hereabouts?

Girl. Yes, till farmer Tything pulled the house down to make his hop-garden.

Harf. Come with me to shew me the place, and I'll give you a penny.

Girl. Yes, that I will. (They walk on.) There—that low thatched house-and there's Mary spinning at the door.

Harf. There, my dear, (gives money, and the girl goes away.) How my heart beats!-Surely that cannot be my nurse! Yes, I recollect her now; but how very old and sickly she looks.

Beaum. Fifteen years in her life, with care and hardship, must go a great way in breaking her down.

Harf. (Going to the cottage door.) Good morning, good woman; can you give my companion and me something to drink? We are very thirsty with walking this hot day.

Mary Beech. I have nothing better than water, Sir, but if you please to accept of that, I will bring you some.

Beaum. Thank you-we will trouble you for some.

Mary. Will you please to walk in out of the sun, gentlemen; ours is a very poor house indeed; but I will find you a seat to sit down on, while I draw the water.

Harf. (to Beaumont.) The same good creature as ever! let us go in.

Scene II.-The Inside of the Cottage. An old Man sitting by the

Hearth.

Beaum. We have made bold, friend, to trouble your wife. for a little water.

John Beech. Sit down-sit down-gentlemen. I would get up to give you my chair, but I have the misfortune to be lame, and am almost blind too.

Harf. Lame and blind! Oh Beaumont! (aside).

John. Ay, Sir, old age will come on! and, God knows, we have very little means to fence against it.

Beaum. What, have you nothing but your labour to subsist on?

John. We made that do, Sir, as long as we could; but now I am hardly capable of doing anything, and my poor wife can earn very little by spinning, so we have been forced at last to apply to the parish.

Harf. To the parish! well, I hope they consider the ser vices of your better days, and provide for you comfortably. John. Alas, Sir! I am not much given to complain; but what can a shilling a week do in these hard times?

Harf. Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you?