Anne. One hundred and twenty three millions, four hundred and fifty six thousand, seven hundred and eighty nine.
Mrs. Harley. Right; it is absolutely necessary to be able to read figures perfectly, before you can learn arithmetic.
Anne. What is arithmetic, mamma?
Mrs. Harley. The act of numbering, or computing by numbers, my dear. The four principal rules of arithmetic are addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division.
Anne. I wish you would explain them to me.
Mrs. Harley. Addition teaches to collect several numbers together in order to know their total value. The answer to a question in addition is therefore called the sum, total, or amount; subtraction teaches to take a less number from a greater, in order to know the remainder. The answer in subtraction is called the remainder, or difference.
Multiplication teaches to find the amount of any given number repeated a certain number of times. The answer in multiplication is called the product. The three terms made use of in multiplication are, the multiplicand, or number to be multiplied; the multiplier, or number that multiplies; and the product or answer, which is the amount of the multiplicand and multiplier.
Division teaches to find how often one number is contained in another. The answer in division is called the quotient. The four terms made use of in division are, the dividend or number to be divided, the divisor, or number that divides, the quotient or answer which is the number of times one number is contained in another, and the remainder or what is left after dividing.
This explanation of arithmetic must serve you for the present, you shall learn the multiplication table, and do some sums every day, and when you are thoroughly acquainted with these rules, we will proceed to the others.
CHAPTER III.
SATURDAY
Mrs. Harley. Come hither my dear Anne. Your smiling countenance tells me I may give you a story, so take the book and let us hear the
One fine autumnal morning in the year 1789, John and Cicely Wortham, with their little son Robert, began a long journey into the North of England. They had hitherto resided at a small village near Abergavenny in South Wales, and there they would most probably have ended their days, had not John been informed of the death of a distant relation at Durham, to whose property he knew himself to be the rightful heir, though to secure it, he found it necessary to repair thither. Having, therefore, disposed of his Welsh hut, and converted all his furniture into money, he removed to London, and after spending a few days there, secured places on the outside of a stage-coach, which was to convey him with his family about half way on their journey.
Their conversation chiefly turned on the friends they had left, and the hopes of finding as kind ones in the country whither they were going. Robert was too young to be interested in either the hopes or fears of his parents; at the age of six months he slept as comfortably on his mother's red cloak as if he had been placed on a bed of down.
Towards the close of their second day's journey the sky began to darken, and a violent storm of hail and rain completely penetrated the cloaths of our poor travellers. However, as they had been always accustomed to the inclemency of the weather they did not much mind it, and Cicely, who was an excellent mother, took care to prevent her boy from feeling any inconvenience. In this manner they proceeded for several miles, till at length a large stone in the winding of the road overturned the carriage and dashed all the outside passengers with violence to the ground. Poor Cicely was killed on the spot; John had his leg and three of his ribs broken, but little Robert escaped unhurt. This unfortunate family were carried to a neighbouring farm-house, a surgeon was sent for who set John's leg, but all attempts to recover Cicely were fruitless, a stronger and more powerful hand than that of the surgeon had for ever closed her eyes! The melancholy intelligence was for some hours concealed from her husband, but at length he enquired for his wife, and soon discovered in the mournful countenances of those around him that she was no more. This fatal news, together with the pain of his leg and side, so agitated his mind, that his fever increased to a very alarming degree; and the third day from that on which the accident happened, poor John Wortham lay a lifeless corpse by the side of his beloved Cicely.
The humane farmer into whose house they had been carried when the coach overset, ordered them to be decently buried. Little Robert attended at their funeral, but was quite unconscious of his loss, though he sadly cried for that nourishment he would never more receive from the breast of a mother.
When the undertaker's bill and other expences were paid, farmer Hodson found that no more than six guineas remained for the young orphan. The trunks and pockets of his parents were carefully searched, but no paper appeared that gave the least information either of the name or residence of the unfortunate pair. Hodson made every enquiry that seemed most likely to lead to a discovery of little Robert's remaining relations: he advertised the circumstance in several papers, but in vain, and he at length gave up the fruitless search. Though by no means in flourishing circumstances himself, yet he had not the heart to send the poor orphan to the parish, and as he had no children of his own, it was agreed, with his wife's consent, to bring him up as their adopted son. Dame Hodson took the greatest care of her little nursling, and she had the satisfaction of seeing his daily improvement in health and good humour.
As Robert grew in years, he discovered to his kind friends a heart framed for the reception of every noble and virtuous sentiment: by the time he attained his twelfth year he was their chief delight, and the affectionate supporter of their declining years. Time passed on, Hodson could not labour as he had done, and two bad years, joined to his infirmities, reduced the family to much distress. Now was the time for the farmer to reap the reward of his generous compassion to a forlorn infant. Robert, ever industrious, earned enough with his own hands to maintain his benefactors. Were they sick, Robert was their nurse—were they sad, Robert was their comforter—he read to them, cheered their drooping spirits, and smoothed the pillow of declining years.
It happened about this time, that a gentleman of the name of Goldworthy, bought a large estate in the county where farmer Hodson resided; he heard the story of young Robert, and felt greatly interested for the whole family. He visited them, and found the accounts that had been given him were strictly true, and from that time he resolved to be their friend. Mr. Goldworthy, though master of a large fortune, and consequently placed above the reach of many misfortunes to which the more indigent are exposed, yet possessed a heart always alive to the distresses of others.—He determined with Hodson's consent, to take charge of young Robert, and fit him for some respectable employment, where he might have a larger scope for the exercise of his virtues and more abundant means for gratifying his generous disposition. Hodson with gratitude accepted Mr. Goldworthy's proposal; but no temptation, however alluring to his youthful mind, could induce our hero to quit his old and earliest friends, till Mr. Goldworthy promised to remove them to a cottage adjoining his own house, where they should be furnished with every thing necessary to their support. Here they spent many happy years, and had the heartfelt satisfaction of seeing their beloved boy grow up a respectable and worthy member of society, a useful assistant to his benefactor, and a friend to the poor.
"Dear mamma," said Anne, "I am quite delighted with farmer Hodson and his wife: they deserved Mr. Goldworthy's kindness to them, and what a sweet little boy Robert must have been!"
Mrs. Harley. Yes, my dear, he was an excellent youth, and his good conduct met its reward in the affection of his friends. I wish you, my dear child, to be convinced, from this story, that there is no situation in life, however humble, which does not afford opportunities for exercising those duties recommended to us by our Saviour.—To feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, and to comfort the afflicted, is, to a certain degree, in the power of us all. You may be in a situation that will enable you to dispense comfort to many; but in relieving strangers, never forget the duties you owe to your