Such was the account which the negro gave to Tommy, in different conversations, of his birth and education. His curiosity was gratified with the recital, and his heart expanded in the same proportion that his knowledge improved. He reflected, with shame and contempt, upon the ridiculous prejudices he had once entertained; he learned to consider all men as his brethren and equals; and the foolish distinctions which pride had formerly suggested were gradually obliterated from his mind. Such a change in his sentiments rendered him more mild, more obliging, more engaging than ever; he became the delight of all the family; and Harry, although he had always loved him, now knew no limits to his affection.
surprised by an unexpected visit from his father, who met him with open arms, and told him that he was now come to take him back to his own house. "I have heard," said he, "such an account of your present behaviour, that the past is entirely forgotten; and I begin to glory in owning you for a son." He then embraced him with the transports of an affectionate father, who indulges the strongest sentiments of his heart, but sentiments he had long been forced to restrain.
Tommy returned his father's caresses with genuine warmth, but with a degree of respect and humility he had once been little accustomed to use. "I will accompany you home, sir," said he, "with the greatest readiness; for I wish to see my mother, and hope to give her some satisfaction by my future behaviour. You
have both had too much to complain of in the past, and I am unworthy of such affectionate parents." He then turned his face aside and shed a tear of real virtue and gratitude, which he instantly wiped away, as unworthy the composure and fortitude of his new character.
"But, sir," added he, "I hope you will not object to my detaining you a little longer, while I return my acknowledgments to all the family, and take my leave of Harry." "Surely," said Mr Merton, "you can entertain no doubt on that subject; and to give you every opportunity of discharging all your duties to a family to which you owe so much, I intend to take a dinner with Mr Sandford, whom I now see coming home, and then to return with you in the evening."
At this instant, farmer Sandford approached, and very respectfully saluting Mr Merton, invited him to walk in. But Mr Merton, after returning his civility, drew him aside, as if he had some private business to communicate. When they were alone, he made him every acknowledgment that gratitude could suggest, "but words," added Mr Merton, "are very insufficient to return the favours I have received, for it is to your excellent family, together with the virtuous Mr Barlow, that I owe the preservation of my son. Let me therefore entreat you to accept of what this pocket-book contains, as a slight proof of my sentiments, and lay it out in whatever manner you please for the advantage of your family."
Mr Sandford, who was a man both of sense and humour, took the book, and examining the inside, found that it contained bank-notes to the amount of some hundred pounds. He then carefully shut it up again, and, returning it to Mr Merton, told him that
he was infinitely obliged to him for the generosity which prompted him to such a princely act; but, as to the present itself, he must not be offended if he declined it. Mr Merton, still more astonished at such disinterestedness, pressed him with every argument he could think of; he desired him to consider the state of his family; his daughters unprovided for, his son himself, with dispositions that might adorn a throne, brought up to labour, and his own advancing age, which demanded ease and respite, and an increase of the conveniences of life.
"And what," replied the honest farmer, "is it but these conveniences of life that are the ruin of all the nation? When I was a young man, Master Merton (and that is near forty years ago), people in my condition thought of nothing but doing their duty to God and man, and labouring hard; this brought down a blessing upon their heads, and made them thrive in all their worldly concerns. When I was a boy, farmers did not lie droning in bed, as they do now, till six or seven; my father, I believe, was as good a judge of business as any in the neighbourhood, and turned as straight a furrow as any ploughman in the county of Devon; that silver cup which I intend to have the honour of drinking your health out of to-day at dinner—that very cup was won by him at the great ploughing-match near Axminster. Well, my father used to say that a farmer was not worth a farthing that was not in the field by four; and my poor dear mother, too, the best-tempered woman in the world, she always began milking exactly at five; and if a single soul was to be found in bed after four in the summer, you might have heard her from one end of