THE

CHILDHOOD OF CHARLES SPENSER.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF AT THE AGE OF THIRTEEN.

I NEVER could believe that there was not such a person as the real Robinson Crusoe: some one told me, when first I read the account of his adventures, that they were written by a person named Defoe. I could not help doubting. "Defoe has been suspected," it was added, "of having unjustly given himself out as the author of Robinson Crusoe, but he really composed the book from the journal of Alexander Selkirk; a man, whose residence on a desert island, in many circumstances resembled that of Robinson Crusoe. I thought this account more probable, I felt highly indignant at the conduct of Defoe,

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but still I could hardly believe that Robinson Crusoe was an assumed name, there seemed so much truth in the story.-Perhaps I was a silly child, then; but I know it seemed very fine to believe all about Robinson Crusoe.

I always have intended, since I read Robinson Crusoe, to write my own adventures; and I have always had a sort of strange wish to be cast on the shore of some desolate island. If my father had not been unhappy, I think I should have run away sometimes; once, in particular, I remember, after I had been walking with George Harman, and talking about foreign countries— I forgot to say who George Harman is, though; why, he is a midshipman, who has been now six years in the navy-I was almost tempted to become a sailor; but, as I said before, I could not bear to make my father unhappy. This wish of mine was wrong, I know; but I must speak of my faults. The reason I am now writing, is, that I am unable to leave the house: I was climbing to the top of one of the oaks behind our house, and I fell down and sprained my ankle.

Why I should have said so much about Robinson Crusoe, I hardly know; for I have always lived at home, and met with very few adventures; none like his, of course.

I had stopt here, for, on thinking it over, it seemed very foolish in me to write my own history. My ankle, too, got well before I felt disposed to go on writing; and I have lived in the open air almost ever since, during the whole summer; except when I was learning my lessons in my father's study, and at prayer time, and dinner time, &c., and when sound asleep in bed.

Last night I found this copy book, in which I had begun to write my adventures, open on the table in my bed-room; on the blank inside of the cover, is written, I can't tell by whom, "Charles Spencer is requested to continue writing his adventures, by one whom he has always appeared happy to oblige." It's very odd! I could not think, at first, how any one could have found my book; but I soon recollected, that, a few days before, when I wanted a piece of paper to write my Latin exercise on, I tore a leaf out of this book, which, I recollected too, I had left in the breakfast room, lying open on my desk. I carried it down there, because I did not wish to tear out a page without first searching for another sheet of paper in my desk. I went away great hurry, and did not miss the book till last night. I wonder whose writing that is! It may be my father's, but I don't like to ask him. I

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forgot also to say, that in a smaller hand is written, "Do not try to find out who makes this request;" so I shall be silent. The person does not ask to see what I write-I am glad no such conditions have been made. I have stared often at my father, to observe if he looked as if he had written it; but I have always withdrawn my eyes, and felt quite unable to judge, from his grave countenance; my grandmother too, and Elizabeth, do not look as if the writing were theirs.It can't be George Harman, though he was in the breakfast room when I left it. Oh, no; for George left home the day before yesterday, and I am quite certain this book was only put on my table yesterday.

Whoever reads this, will, I think, be tired of the long beginning. I shall call it my preface, and begin directly to scribble all that I can remember. I am afraid I shall write a great deal not worth reading, but I only write to please the unknown person who wrote in my book; not to shew my production to him even, unless it please me.

Let me remember all that I can, while my mother lived; whom I loved so very much, and who I am sure loved me quite as well, as I did her. I always knelt before her, when I said my

prayers; and leaned my clasped hands on her knees. I gave her a great deal of trouble; but she never seemed angry with me; and whenever I had behaved badly, she always used to say: "you should pray to God, Charles, after these fits of passion, that he may forgive you, and help you to govern your temper." I always used to stop, after I had said: "Lord, I beseech Thee;" and turning round to my mother, ask, what I ought to say next. "What would you say, if you wished me to do any thing for you, Charles?" still she generally helped me out in my prayer. I was very happy, when she kissed me afterwards; and I always felt as if I could not displease God again; but perhaps, the very day after, I was as naughty as ever.

I never knew any one so gentle as my mother. Elizabeth is most like her; and so she ought to be, as she is her own daughter. My mother gave me some books, which I have taken care of: though they are all written for children, I like now to read in them, better than other books. One is, Sellon's Abridgement of the Holy Scriptures; the others, Barbauld's Hymns; Edgeworth's Early Lessons; and Trimmer's Sacred History. My mother used to read to me, the account of the infancy of the Prophet Samuel;