Mr Barlow.—The people who inhabit that country are of a different opinion, and prefer it to all the countries in the world. They are great travellers, and many of them follow different professions in all the different countries of Europe; but it is the only wish of almost all to return, before their death, to the mountains where they were born and have passed their youth.
Tommy.—I do not easily understand that. I have seen a great many ladies and little misses at our house, and whenever they were talking of the places where they should like to live, I have always heard them say that they hated the country of all things, though they were born and bred there. I have heard one say the country is odious, filthy, shocking, and abominable; another, that it is impossible to live anywhere but in London; and I remember once seeing a strange lady, who wrote down her observations in a book, and she said the country was all full of barbarians, and that no person of elegance (yes, that was her word) could bear it for a week.
Mr Barlow.—And yet there are thousands who bear to live in it all their lives, and have no desire to change. Should you, Harry, like to leave the country, and go to live in some town?
Harry.—Indeed, sir, I should not, for then I must leave everything I love in the world. I must leave my father and mother, who have been so kind to me; and you, too, sir, who have taken such pains to improve me, and make me good. I am convinced that I never shall find such friends again as long as
I live; and what should anybody wish to live for who has no friends? Besides, there is not a field upon my father's farm that I do not prefer to every town I ever saw in my life.
Tommy.—And have you ever been in any large town?
Harry.—Once I was in Exeter, but I did not much like it; the houses seemed to me to stand so thick and close, that I think our hog-sties would be almost as agreeable places to live in; and then there are little narrow alleys where the poor live; and the houses are so high, that neither light nor air can ever get to them, and the most of them appeared so dirty and unhealthy, that it made my heart ache to look at them. And then I walked along the streets, and peeped into the shops—and what do you think I saw?
Tommy.—What?
Harry.—Why, I saw great hulking fellows, as big as our ploughmen and carters, with their heads all frizzled and curled like one of our sheep's tails, that did nothing but finger ribbons and caps for the women! This diverted me so, that I could not help laughing ready to split my sides. And then the gentlewoman, at whose house I was, took me to a place where there was a large room full of candles, and a greater number of fine gentlemen and ladies, all dressed out and showy, who were dancing about as if they were mad. But at the door of this house there were twenty or thirty ragged, half-starved women and children, who stood shivering in the rain, and begged for a bit of bread; but nobody gave it to them, or took any notice of them. So
then I could not help thinking that it would be a great deal better if all the fine people would give some of their money to the poor, that they might have some clothes and victuals in their turn.