ned in the family of Sam Bickerstaff, till the time
of my present cousin Samuel, the father of the young people we have just
now spoken of.

Samuel Bickerstaff, esquire, is so happy as that by several legacies
from distant relations, deaths of maiden sisters, and other instances
of good fortune, he has besides his real estate, a great sum of ready
money. His son at the same time knows he has a good fortune, which the
father cannot alienate; though he strives to make him believe he depends
only on his will for maintenance. Tom is now in his nineteenth year.
Mrs. Mary in her fifteenth. Cousin Samuel, who understands no one point
of good behaviour as it regards all the rest of the world, is an
exact critic in the dress, the motion, the looks, and gestures, of his
children. What adds to their misery is, that he is excessively fond of
them, and the greatest part of their time is spent in the presence of
this nice observer. Their life is one of continued constraint. The girl
never turns her head, but she is warned not to follow the proud minxes
of the town. The boy is not to turn fop, or be quarrelsome, at the same
time not to take an affront. I had the good fortune to dine with him
to-day, and heard his fatherly table-talk as we sat at dinner, which,
if my memory does not fail me, for the benefit of the world, I shall set
down as he spoke it; which was much as follows, and may be of great use
to those parents who seem to make it a rule, that their children's turn
to enjoy the world is not to commence till they themselves have left it.

"Now, Tom, I have bought you chambers in the inns of court. I allow you
to take a walk once or twice a day round the garden. If you mind your
business, you need not study to be as great a lawyer as Coke upon
Littleton. I have that that will keep you; but be sure you keep an exact
account of your linen. Write down what you give out to your laundress,
and what she brings home again. Go as little as possible to the other
end of the town; but if you do, come home early. I believe I was as
sharp as you for your years, and I had my hat snatched off my head
coming home late at a stop by St. Clement's church, and I do not know
from that day to this who took it. I do not care if you learn to fence a
little; for I would not have you made a fool of. Let me have an account
of everything, every post; I am willing to be at that charge, and I
think you need not spare your pains. As for you, daughter Molly, d