old ones were converted to my use, I honestly own I wished the devil had Tom. As a point of economy, perhaps, this could not be avoided; but it engendered a hatred towards my brother which often made me, in my own little malignant mind, find excuses for the conduct of Cain.
Tom was, to be sure, what is called a good boy; he never soiled his clothes, as I did. I was always considered as a rantipole, for whom any thing was good enough. But when I saw my brother tricked out in new clothes, and his old duds covering me, like a scarecrow, I appeal to any honourable mind whether it was in human nature to feel otherwise than I did, without possessing an angelic disposition, to which I never pretended; and I fairly own that I did shed not one fiftieth part so many tears over Tom's grave, as I did over his dirty pantaloons, when forced to put them on.
As for my sisters, I knew little about them, and cared less: we met during the holidays, and separated, without regret, after a month's
