and called at Covent Garden on the way back to breakfast. which we took little Ernie out into the Park for about an hour. After I hope you will let me stay until Wednesday, for I don't seem to have seen half I want to see yet. Give my love to father and sisters, and believe me, dearest mother, your affectionate son, BEN. Letter No. 37. From MRS. BARLOW to BEN BARLOW. MY DEAR BEN,— The Laurels, Woodbourne, July 3rd, 187-. I am very pleased to hear you are enjoying yourself, but fear you are doing too much in the time. I am glad you are not forgetting your invalid friend, little Ernie. Try and make his life a bit the brighter while you are there. Your father and I do not object to your staying until Wednesday, if you are sure your friends are not tired of you. We shall, therefore, expect you on Wednesday by the early mail as arranged. Remember me politely to your friends. Your father, and Clara, and Helen send love, so do I. Your own MOTHER. P.S.-Charlie Thornton and the rest of the boys broke up on Saturday. They want to know when you will return. Letter No. 38. From BEN BARLOW to MRS. BARLOW. MY DEAR MOTHER,— do Thanks for your permission to stay till to-morrow. Where you think I went on Sunday? We went to morning service in St. Paul's Cathedral. It was a beautiful service, and a grand sermon by one of the canons. In the afternoon we went to Westminster Abbey and heard Dean Stanley. He does preach beautifully. The Abbey is the most beautiful old place I have yet seen, and it is almost full of monuments. It seems as if every poet, statesman, soldier, or philosopher I ever heard of had got a mouument there. I saw Livingstone's grave. I could have spent a whole day in the Abbey. At night we went across the river to Mr. Spurgeon's Tabernacle. It is a tremendous place, and yet it is filled at almost every service. Mr. Spurgeon preached very earnestly, and told lots of anecdotes, some rather funny. Yesterday we went by underground railway to Westminster again, to see the Houses of Parliament. The exterior is very beautiful. The House of Commons is not so big as I expected. We also went into Westminster Hall, and peeped in at the Law Courts, where the judges in their wigs and gowns were presiding. The Law Courts reminded me of the little chapel at the end of the village-they are such close little places. In the afternoon we went to Madame Tussaud's Waxwork. It was a treat. I mistook several figures for real men and women. Ted did laugh at me. We saw the Napoleon relics, and the old coronation robes. But the Chamber of Horrors made me feel very queer, I can tell you. This morning we had a stroll through the streets. We saw the house where Dr. Johnson lived for a long time, the tavern where he and Reynolds and Goldsmith used to meet, and such a lot of streets and places that we read about in history. I should like to stay even longer, but for all that I shall be very glad to see you all again. It seems quite a long time since I left home. We shall leave to-morrow by the train father told me of, and hope to find you all well. With best love, I remain, your affectionate son, MY DEAR BEN, Letter No. 39. From TED INSTONE to BEN BARLOW. 3, Brighton Villas, Regent's Park, BEN. London, July 13th, 187-. I got safe home about noon yesterday. Everybody is_about as usual. Ernie just a little better. He cried for joy when I gave him your present. He has written himself to thank you. Excuse his writing and spelling, his ill-health has prevented him from making much progress in either. He was I wish Ernie could have been with me at Woodbourne. delighted when I told him about Upleigh Wood, your father's large garden, the great mill-pond, and all the rest of it. I never enjoyed myself so much as I did at Woodbourne. Remember to me to Thornton, Blunt, and Bland, and the rest of your jolly old schoolfellows. What do you think? My father went to school with your rector when they were boys. Give our kind regards to your dear father, and mother, and sisters. I am, your affectionate friend, TED INSTONE. Letter No. 40. From ERNIE INSTONE to BEN BARLOW. MY DEAR MASTER BARLOW, London, July 13th, 187-. it was Kind of you to rember what i said one Night when you were talking off your Rabits. i never thawt you would send me one, and there when ted come, i found you had Sent me the lovlyest it is very little Rabit i ever saw, and such a prety little Hutch too. Tame and eats out off my hand. we have told a Hauker to bring it Green stuf every day. i don't know how to Thank you for your hansom Presunt, but every time i see the Rabit i shall think off your kindnes to me. I remane, yours very greatfuly, ERNIE INSTONE. I am glad you like the rabbit. It was of no use to me, I have such a lot, and as for the hutch, our man Bob knocked it together in about an hour. I hope the rabbit will do well in London. You must not let it have too much green food. About two handsful twice a day will do. Mind and keep it safe from cats. I remember the cats I saw in London were big enough to worry a lamb, let alone a little rabbit. Hoping you are better, I remain, yours truly, BEN BARLOW. Letter No. 42. From BEN BARLOW to TED INSTONE. MY DEAR TED,— The Laurels, Woodbourne, July 20th, 187-. Your letter came duly to hand, but I have been off fishing nearly every day this week, and have put off replying. I am very glad you enjoyed your visit, and more pleased still that you should think well of my schoolfellows. I can tell you the good opinion is not all on one side. At first, you know, they were a bit shy, but when they saw you could handle a bat and pull an oar as well as here and there one, they soon came round. They say now that you are quite different from what they expected a Londoner to be. Bob says you are much the same sort as us village boys, but, like a well-groomed horse, you are a bit smoother on the surface. That is a high compliment for you, for Bob is a great judge of character and never flatters. Has your brother John gone back to his duties yet? Tell him I shall never be out of his debt for marching me up and down London as he did. Father says I saw as much in a week as some folks would in a month. Only two more weeks of holiday! I have had plenty of fun certainly, but it doesn't seem long till school begins again. With love to Ernie and yourself, and kind regards to your father, mother, and big brothers, I remain, yours affectionately, Letter No. 43. BEN BARLOW. MY DEAR BEN,— From TED INSTONE to BEN BARLOW. August 4th, 187—. Only four more days and we shall meet again—not at Philippi, but at Worcester! John went back to work ten days ago, and since then I have been somewhat moped. If it had not been for Ernie's rabbit, I might have gone melancholy. It has amused me as much as it has its owner. We let it run about the lawn occasionally, and as it jumps about it flirts that comical bit of a tail about in the funniest fashion. It always seems to be showing the white feather. Father has bought me a splendid new bat to take to school with me, so I shall go into cricketing strongly. I shall run you close for the highest score of the season. Don't forget your bat. Till we meet again, I remain, in resigned but dismal apprehension, yours truly, TED INSTONE. FOOTPRINTS OF GOD IN NATURE. XVIII.-THE ASS. HE animal we are now to consider does not occupy a very high place in the public esteem, but a more useful, patient, faithful, indefatigable creature does not exist. He possesses solid qualities of the most invaluable kind, and is worthy of far better treatment than in England he generally receives. But he seems to have been condemned to the commonest drudgery of life, and insult has been added to injury by the very meanness of his occupations being transferred to his character. Generally he has but a meagre allowance doled out to him, and he is compelled to pick up the remainder of a scanty subsistence by the wayside; and every mischievous lad seems to think it one of his most precious privileges to tease and torment him in the utmost degree. But in Spain good food and kind treatment, joined with the influences of a milder climate, transform him into a truly noble beast. Between the Spanish peasant and his ass there grows up a friendship like that which exists between the Arab and his horse. Everyone who has read "Don Quixote" must have been struck with the love that Sancho Panza is represented to have for "Dapple "-he attends to his comfort at the sacrifice of his own, and mourns his absence as he would that of a dear friend. His We do not affirm that the ass is master of brilliant abilities, but he unquestionably possesses those that are solid and useful. voice may not be very tuneful, nor his air majestic, nor his manners polished, but then every one cannot be a gentleman. His behaviour under all circumstances is natural and simple and unaffected. Unlike the horse, who indulges in all kinds of mad pranks when at liberty, the ass is perfectly sedate when turned loose to graze upon the common. When he has had his fill he does not seek to evade the halter, but will stand still with his back to the wind waiting for the "Kim up, Neddy," which is the law of his being. He marches along with a very uniform pace, and, though not remarkable for swiftness, he can yet go a long distance without resting. Unostentatious in all his proceedings, he works with steady perseverance, and finishes his work in silence-which is more than can be said of many servants that man employs. His food requires little preparation; he can subsist comfortably on coarse grass that other animals would disdain, and the prickly thistle he counts an actual delicacy. Whatever is offered to him he accepts with a thankful expression, and is always ready to resume his employment when his hasty meal is finished. If the duties he discharges appear mean, they are, after all, very important. The labours of the peasant and the artisan are of more direct advantage to the public weal than the occupations of many that are in stations far higher. For it is from their labours that our food and our clothes and our houses are obtained, and a most valuable ally they ever find in the ass for the transportation of fruit, vegetables, seed, sand, wood, etc. The number of donkeys employed in what we may call the commissariat department of London alone is prodigious. The labours of this animal constitute no insignificant portion of the vast arrangements needful to keep the teeming millions of the great metropolis supplied with the necessaries of life. The donkey is often strongly attached to his owner notwithstanding much ill-usage, and will readily distinguish him from all others in a crowd of people. The she ass is remarkably fond of her young, and will rush through fire or water to join or protect it. It is a pleasing thing to find that God has implanted in every creature a love that will lead them to sacrifice their own interests to the good of others. Asses were common in this country in the eighth and ninth centuries, but through some accident or other the race for several centuries became altogether or nearly extinct. Hollinshed informs us that in the reign of Elizabeth "our lande did yeelde no asses.' When soon after they were imported from Spain, they were so much an object of curiosity as to be worth about a hundred guineas each. |