ant, and above all his

papa

and mamma. And the

nurse had a warming-pan in her hand, which she had just been rubbing up and down his back, and the housemaid was applying some bottles of hot water to the palms of his hands. And the doctor was rubbing and chafing his limbs, and his mamma had her hand laid upon his heart to see if it was beating. Can you imagine what a surprise it was? And need I describe how his mamma burst into tears, and cried out to his papa that he was come to life again; and how Willy, though he felt very sick and in great pain all over his limbs, was rejoiced to escape from the Witch's Forest and the Ogre's kitchen; or how, when he became better, he told his papa and mamma all that happened to him, or how his papa and mamma listened attentively, and thought a great deal, and learnt a great deal, and talked to each other a great deal, and ever after took great care not to do the same kind of things, which had brought their little boy into such a terrible scrape. And, indeed, I have heard that Willy's wonderful adventure and escape made such an impression upon them that they are now among those many good, generous, and benevolent manufac

turers who keep their mills at work even at a loss rather than their workmen should starve; and who, I suspect, will one day be among the richest as well as the happiest manufacturers in Manchester.

'And now, my dears,' said Uncle Peter, 'the Story of the Giant is finished, and you must go to bed.'

209

CHAPTER XIX.

THE DOUBTS.

THERE was a short pause for a few minutes, for the children had been rather frightened at the idea of Willy being roasted alive. But they now began to recover themselves, and drew breath again. And once more one of them, I cannot remember which it was, exclaimed: 'O I am so glad! I was so afraid he would have been roasted to death. dreadful it would have been :'

How

'Yes, my dear,' said Uncle Peter, 'very dreadful; but not so uncommon as you may suppose. I could mention to you cases, where being roasted alive, and even eaten, was not the worst thing which befell persons who spent their lives in making money as the Ogress taught Willy to make it. When poor people have been unkindly and mercilessly treated, and have fallen into starvation, and never received any sympathy, or respect, or

P

assistance from persons better off than themselves, whom they see indulging in luxuries, they become very savage, and treat their masters and mistresses, and, indeed, all rich persons, as the Ogress would have treated Willy. When you come to read your histories, you will find that planters in the West Indies, and noblemen' in France, and wealthy people in Naples, have been sometimes roasted alive and eaten, and even worse.'

And this, then,' observed Willy, 'was what you meant, Uncle Peter, by the Counts and Countesses coming to the ball as burglars, and robbers, and banditti.'

'Yes, my dear, even in England, noblemen's houses have been visited in that manner, and gentlemen's parks, and bishop's palaces. When the poor are starving, and not cared for, not educated, not guided, not loved and respected as well as pitied by the rich, and when they hear that a great feast has been prepared for the rich, they are often tempted to break into the houses where the feast is. And Woe, not only to the feast, but to the feasters, and even to their wives and children!'

'And, if you please, Uncle Peter,' said Emma,

who wished not to be behindhand with Willy in her philosophical and sedate remarks, I think I can guess whom you meant by the Ogre and Ogress, only I cannot think of the Witch. Who was she? May I tell you in your own ear what I think?'

'Yes,' said Uncle Peter. And so Emma put her lips to her Uncle's ear, and whispered; but her Uncle shook his head.

'I know,' exclaimed Arthur, and whispered in his turn; but still the head was shaken.

'O, do tell us, do tell us!' all the children exclaimed.

'My dears,' said Uncle Peter, 'this enlightened age in which we are living, seems to me to have so much light of its own that, by way of relief, I suppose it is wonderfully fond of darkness. At least, so I judge from the most popular works of poetry and philosophy, and even history; not to speak of novels, in reading which, I am perpetually puzzling myself in vain to find out the meaning, or the object for which they were written, or the truths they were intended to inculcate. And I believe it is now a generally received axiom of criticism, that books should be