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THE FAITHFUL AMERICAN DOG.
AN oficer 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 scalping knife, and hastened away with this trophy 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. Haying performed every office which sympathy dictated, or sagacity could invent, without being able to remove his master from the fatal spot, or procure froin him any signs of life, or his wonted 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. Pres. ently they arrive at the spot, where, behold !--an officer
wounded, scalped, weltering in his own gore, and faint with the loss of blood.
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.
Enter the King alone, wrapped in a cloak.
no, this can be no publiek 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 can 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.
King. Not I, indeed.
King. (Aside.) Lie, lie! how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. (Aloud.) Upon my word I do
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
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't you? Where do you come from, and what business have
King. These are questions I have not been used to, hon
Miller. May be so; but they are questions no lionest man would be afraid to answer. So if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along
till you can. King. With you! What authority leave you toMiller. 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, unles 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 have to 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 hunting, pray where is your horse ?
King. I have tired my horse, so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him.
Miller. If I thought I might believe this now
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 Nottingham, 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 to-morrow, 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?
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 daty too faithfully.
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 iny 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, perearstion 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, prebendary 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 his condemnation, that the jailors, it is said, awaked him from a sound sleep, when the hour of his execution approached. He suffered at Sunithfield.
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 contrary effect.
6. It was a scene of consolation to Hooper to die in their siglit, bearing testimony to that doctrine which he had