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THE FAITHFUL AMERICAN Dog. AN officer in the late American army, on his station at the westward, went out in the morning with his dog and gun, in quest of game. Venturing too far from the garrison, he was fired upon by an Indian, who was lurking in the bushes, and instantly fell to the ground.

2. The Indian, running to him, struck him on the head with his tomahawk, in order to despatch him; but, the button of his hat fortunately warding off the edge, he was only stunned by the blow. With savage brutality, he applied the sca'ping knife, and hastened away with this tro'phy of his horrid cruelty, leaving the officer for dead, and none* to relieve or console him, but his faithful dog.

3. The afflicted creature gave every expression of his attachment, fidelity and affection. He licked the wounds with inexpressible tenderness, and mourned the fate of his beloved master. Having performed every office which sympathy dictated, or sagacity could invent, without being able to remove his master from the fatal spot, or procure from him any signs of life, or his wontedt expressions of affection to him, he ran off in quest of help.

4. Bending his course towards the river, where two men were fishing, he urged them, with all the powers of native rhetorick, to accompany him to the woods. The men were suspicious of a decoy to an ambuscade, and dared not venture to follow the dog ; who, finding all his caresses fail, returned to the care of his master, and, licking his wounds a second time, renewed all his tenderness; but with no better success than before.

5. Again he returned to the men, once more to try his skill in alluring them to his assistance. In this attempt he was more successful than in the other. The men, seeing his solicitude, began to think the dog might have discovered some valuable game, and determined to hazard the consequences of following him.

6. Transported with his success, the affectionate creature hurried them along by every expression of ardour. Presently they arrive at the spot, where, behold !-an officer wounded, scalped, weltering in his own gore, and faint with the loss of blood.

* Pronounced nūn. wŭnt'ed.

7. Suffice* it to say, he was yet alive. They carried him to the fort, where the first dressings were performed. A suppuration immediately took place, and he was soon conveyed to the hospital at Albany, where, in a few weeks, he entirely recovered, and was able to return to his duty.

8. This worthy officer owed his life, probably, to the fidelity of this sagacious dog. His tongue, which the gentleman afterwards declared gave him the most exquisite pleasure, clarified the wound in the most effectual manner, and his perseverance brought that assistance, without which he must soon have perished.

THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD.

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Enter the king alone, wrapped in a cloak. King. No, no; this can be no publick road, that's certain. I have lost my way undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king ? Night shows me no respect;

I neither see better, nor walk so well as another man. When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men ? His wisdom knows not which is north, and which is south ; his power a beggar's dog would bark at, and the beggar himself would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes! Well, in losing the monarch, I have found the man. But hark! somebody is near.

What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside then, and let manhood do it.

Enter the miller.
Miller. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there?
King. No

I

rogue,

assure you. Miller. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that gun?

King. Not I, indeed.
Miller. You lie, I believe.

* Pronounced suf-fize'.

you here ?

King. (Aside.) Lie! lie! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. (Aloud.) Upon my word, I do not, sir.

Miller. Come, come, Sirrah,* confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you?

King. No, indeed; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, to be sure, and was afraid some robbers were near.

Miller. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray who are you? What's your name?

King. Name!

Miller. Name! aye, name. You have a name, haven'ı you? Where do you come from, and what business have

King. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man.

Miller. May be so, but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer. So, if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me till you can.

King. With you! What authority have you to

Miller. The king's, if I must give you an account. Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood ; and I will let no suspected person pass this way, unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

King. Very well, sir ; I am glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and, since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favour to hear it.

Miller. You don't deserve it, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself.

King. I have the honour to belong to the king as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done him. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and, the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

Miller. This does not sound well; if you have been hunt. ing, pray where is your horse?

King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down unde me, and I was liged to leave him. Miller. If I thought I might believe this now

* Pronounced Săr-ralt'.

story,

King. I am not used to lie, honest man.
Miller. What, live at court and not lie ? that's a likely

indeed!
King: Be that as it will, I speak the truth now,

I assure you; and, to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottinghain, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble, (offering money,) and, if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

Miller. Aye, aye; now I am convinced you are a courtier ;* here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for tomorrow, both in one breath. Here, take it again; John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what is right without a bribe.

King. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own, and I should be glad, methinks, to know more of thee.

Miller. Prithee don't thee and thou me at this rate. I dare say I am as good a 'man as yourself, at least.

King. Sir, I beg pardon.

Miller. Nay, I am not angry, friend ; only I don't love to be too familiar with you, while your honesty is suspected.

King. You are right. But what else can I do to convince you.

Miller. You may do what you please. It is twelve miles to Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but, if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road, and direct you as well as I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay here till morning, and then I will go with you myself.

King. And cannot you go with me to-night ?
Miller. No, not if you were the king himself.
King. Ther. I will go with you, I think.

Enter a courtier in haste. Courtier. Is your majesty safe? We have hunted the forest over to find you.

Miller. How! the king! then I am undone. (Kneels.) Your majesty will pardon the ill usage you have received. (The king draws his sword.). His majesty surely will not kill a servant for doing his duty too faithfully.

* Pronounced kört'yur.

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King. No, my good fellow. So far from having any thing to pardon, I am much your debtor. I cannot think but so good and honest a man will make a worthy and honourable knight. Rise up, Sir John Cockle, and receive this sword as a badge of knighthood, and a pledge of my protection ; and, to support your nobility, and in some measure to requite you for the pleasure you have done us, a thousand crowns a year shall be your revenue.

OF QUEEN MARY AND THE MARTYRS.

Mary possessed few qualities either estimable or amiable. Her person was as little engaging as her manner. And, amidst the complication of vices which entered into her composition, obstinacy, bigotry, violence, cruelty, we scarcely find any virtue but sincerity ; unless we add, vigour of mind, a quality which seems to have been inherent in her family.

2. During this queen's reign, persecution for religion was carried to the most terrible height. The mild counsels of cardinal Pole, who was inclined to toleration, were overruled by Gardner and Bonner; and multitudes, of all conditions, ages and sexes, were committed to the flames.

3. The persecutors began with Rogers, preb'endary of St. Paul's, a man equally distinguished by his piety and learning, but whose domestick situation, it was hoped, would bring him to compliance.

4. He had a wife, whom he tenderly loved, and ten children; yet did he continue firm in his principles. And such was his serenity after condemnation, that the jailers, it is said, awaked him from a sound sleep, when the hour of his execution approached. He suffered at Smithfield.

5. Hooper, bishop of Gloucester, was condemned at the same time with Rogers, but was sent to his own diocess to be punished, in order to strike the greater terrour into his flock. His constancy at his death, however, had a very con

trary effect.

6. It was a scene of consolation to Hooper to die in their sight, bearing.testimony to that doctrine which he had formerly taught among them. And he continued to exhort

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