which he bent strait, and ground upon stones. He found some linen cloth, and sewed his shirts with a nail, and stitched them with the worsted he pulled out from his stockings. He had his very last shirt on when Captain Rogers found him on the island. He amused himself marking his name, and the days he spent there in the island, on one of the trees near his hut. At first he was terribly plagued with rats; they ate his clothes, and even gnawed at his feet when he was asleep; however, he tamed some wild cats by feeding them with goats' flesh, and they delivered him from the rats. He tamed some kids, too, to amuse himself, and would dance and sing with them and his cats, and at last he grew quite contented with his solitude; and I have told you he got away at last, when he was thirty years old, and I dare say was quite happy at home. Charlotte. He must have been so pleased when he got his cats and his goats. Did he write his own history; or did any thing more remarkable happen to him when he came home? Mr. Austin. Nothing of note, I believe. He made a rough sketch of his adventures in the solitary island, from which De Foe wrote your favourite and my favourite book of Robinson Crusoe. Edward. Old Mr. Leslie told me that he saw, about thirty years ago, the chest and musket which Selkirk had with him in the island: his great nephew, John Selkirk, a weaver, kept them in his house at Largo, in Scotland; so I suppose Crusoe died there. Charlotte. You remember the pretty lines "I'm monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, Gerald and Edward. Off! Off! Off! No lines! No Cowper! No spouting! Mrs. Austin. Charlotte, we must submit to the pleasure of the house, and retire. CHAP. VIII. SATURDAY EVENING. Florence. Papa, it is a long time since you have told us a story-a real story—that is, I mean an untrue story, in your own way. It is your turn now, and I wish you would tell us something very amusing, and not at all historical or biographical. you, Mr. Austin. That request is so characteristic of "Florence, of the light step, busy finger, and wandering mind." To speak in the language of our favourite Ossian, "Let the repose-loving maiden, of the soft speech and calm mind, relate a tale of old," as we have all done, and I will comply with your demand. Amy. I know you mean me, uncle; and as you all say I am so indolent, I will tell you the story of the Seven Sleepers. "Not even active enough to defend your own faults, Amy," said Mrs. Austin to the gentle girl, whose mild unaffected manners and singleness of heart made her a general favourite. "Florence, to all her other almost innumerable occupations, must add the undertaking of teaching you the noble art of self-justification." Florence. Indeed, mamma, I have almost forgotten that science, since you made me read Miss Edgeworth's essay. Mrs. Austin.. Well, I confess you are improved, and we must not bear too hard on you; for your constant good humour and cheerful acquiescence in reproof obtains the pardon of all your faults. Mr. Austin. But I expect better things from Florence than being content with being pardoned. Her cheerfulness and good temper must be the companions of her merits, not the allies of her faults. Florence thanked her parents for even this qualified commendation; for though profuse in kindness, they were sparing in praise to their children, and the slightest expression of their approbation, therefore, bore the value which always attends that which is not made too common; and Amy began her story as follows: "I asked Mrs. Bernard one day what was meant by the story of the Seven Sleepers, which was so often alluded to, not only in children's books, but in those we read to her, and she told me that it was a Monkish legend of seven noble Christian youths of Ephesus, who fled to a cave to conceal themselves, in the great persecution of the Emperor Decius. I remember all the names, for she made me write them down in my journal." Mr. Austin. That is an excellent plan, as all Mrs. Bernard's modes of instruction are. Names and dates serve as pegs to hang one's knowledge on. A word often recalls a long series of facts to the memory. Those who remember facts only, soon confound one thing with another, but a recollection of the names to which anecdotes belong, enables us to class our information clearly and accurately, and makes it of use to others. There is, I think, one great distinction between the information of your sex and ours. Your minds are stored with a variety of confused ideas; but whatever we know, we know distinctly. Florence, for instance, tells me many amusing stories of "some general," or some king," or 66 some queen; "but for what general, king, or queen she is talking about she is obliged to apply to Gerald, whose more methodical education has taught him the value of exact detail. But pray proceed in your story, Amy, and tell 66 |