Rivulet that rises among the Hills, amid Weeds
and Moss, and gradually works itself a widening Channel, filtering over
Beds of Gravel, and obstructed here and there by Fragments of Rock, that
sorely chafe and trouble it, at the very Time that, to the distant
Observer, it looks most picturesque and beautiful."

"Well, I suppose I was never distant enough to see it in this picturesque
Point of View," says Uncle. "Legitimate Monarchy was, to my Mind, the
Rock over which the brawling River leaped awhile, and which, in the End,
successfully opposed it; and as to your _Oliver_, he was a cunning
Fellow, that diverted its Course to turn his own Mill."

"They that can see any Virtue or Comeliness in a _Charles Stuart_," says
Father, "can hardly be expected to acknowledge the rugged Merits of a
plain Republican."

"Plain was the very last Thing he was," says Uncle, "either in speaking
or dealing. He was as cunning as a Fox, and as rough as a Bear."

"We can overlook the Roughness of a good Man," says Father; "and if a
Temper subject to hasty Ebullitions is better than one which, by Blows
and hard Usage, has been silenced into Sullenness, a Republic is better
than an absolute Sovereignty."

"Aye; and if a Temper under the Control of Reason and Principle," rejoins
Uncle, "is better than one unaccustomed to restrain its hasty
Ebullitions, a limited Monarchy is better than a Republic."

"But ours is not limited enough," persists Father.

"Wait awhile," returns Uncle, "till, as you say, we have filtered over
the Gravel a little longer, and then see how clear we shall run."

"I don't see much present Chance of it," says Father. "Such a King, and
such a Court!"

"The King and Court will soon shift Quarters, I understand," says Uncle;
"for Fear of this coming Sickness. 'Twould be a rare Thing, indeed, for
the King to take the Plague!"

"Why not the King, as well as any of his Commons?" says Father. "Tush!
I am tired of the Account People make of him. 'Is _Philip_ dead?' 'No;
but he is sick.' Pray, what is it to us, whether _Philip_ is sick or
not?"

"Which of the _Phillipses_, my Dear?" asks Mother. "Did you say _Jack
Phillips_ was sick?"

"No, dear _Betty_; only a King of _Macedon_, who lived a long Time ago."

"Doctor _Brice_ commends you much for your grounding the _Phillipses_ so
excellently in the Classicks," says Uncle.

"He should think whether his Praise is much worth having," says Father,
rather haught