Mrs. Lacour was accustomed to lay out for her daughter, a girl about eight years old, a great deal of money in playthings. One morning Eliza (that was her name) was in raptures over a new wax-doll, which her mamma had given two guineas for in Fleet street. By means of a concealed wire, it had been made to open and shut its eyes, to the no small surprise of the little girl, not unmixed with a certain degree of terror, when her mother first exhibited the phenomenon; but having had the principle explained to her, she had spent the greatest part of the morning in moving the wires up and down, and making them alternately open and shut the eyelids. It is true the mechanism had one defect, which we record, in hopes that the ingenuity of future doll-makers may find a remedy for it. The doll shut her eyes after the manner of a bird, by drawing up the membrane over the eye, instead of letting the eyelid fall over it, as is the custom in human creatures; but as Eliza had not studied comparative anatomy, this slight irregularity was not noticed. She was still in raptures over her new acquisition, when she was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Dorcas, a maiden sister of her father, who sometimes called upon her. “Look here, my dear aunt,” said she, “what a charming doll I have got; see, now its eyes are shut, now they are open again—how curious! I dare say you cannot guess how I do it. I can hardly help fancying it alive. To-morrow I shall begin to dress it, for it must have a fine worked cap, with a laced border, and a long muslin robe and shoes. I do not know whether it should have shoes yet, for it is only a baby; and I shall lay it in the cradle, and rock it; and when I want it to go to sleep, its eyes shall be shut, and in the morning they shall be open again, just as if it were really alive: I wish it could eat and drink—why could they not make its mouth to open?”

Mrs. D. Your doll is very pretty, indeed, and I commend you for intending to make its clothes yourself, but would not you like better to have a real live doll to dress?

Eliza. O yes! that I should, indeed; but I believe—I am afraid there is no such doll.

Mrs. D. I will find you such a one if you will dress it.

Eliza. And will it open its mouth and eat?

Mrs. D. Yes, it will.

Eliza. And can it speak, too?

Mrs. D. I do not say it can speak yet; it has not been taught; but you shall hear its voice, and you shall see it breathe; your doll does not breathe. [Eliza took her doll and placed her hand upon its waxen bosom, as if she expected to feel it heave.] And the clothes you will make will warm it too. A wax-doll is not warmed by its clothes. Your doll is as cold when she is wrapped up in a quilt and placed in the cradle as if she were laid naked upon a marble slab.

Eliza. Is she?

Mrs. D. Yes; you may convince yourself of that whenever you please; but this live doll will not only be warmed by the clothes you make, but perhaps she may die if you do not make them.

Eliza. O! do not let her die—I will set about making the clothes directly.

Mrs. D. Then come along with me.

Eliza sallied forth with her aunt Dorcas: she was all the way silent, and breathless with expectation. After leading her through a few streets, her aunt stopped at a house, and asked to be shown into the workroom. It was a room where a number of young girls were sitting at a long table, with cheerful and busy looks. The table was covered with workbags, needlecases, thread-papers, and such like sewing implements, and spread with flannel, calico, dimity, and old linen; one of the girls was making a cap, another a petticoat, a third a frock—the elder ones were cutting out the cloth—some of the little ones were stretching out their hands to hold a skein of thread for the others to wind; not one was unemployed. “What are they all doing?” said Eliza.

Mrs. D. They are all working for live dolls.

Eliza. But where are the dolls?

Mrs. D. You cannot see them yet; they would suffer if the clothes were not prepared for them before they came.

Eliza. But here are no laces nor worked muslins; here is nothing very pretty.

Mrs. D. No, because pretty things seldom have the property of keeping the wearers warm.

Eliza. But who are they working for?

At that instant, a woman, with a child upon her bosom, pale, but with a countenance shining with joy and gratitude, entered the workroom, pouring out her thanks to the good young ladies, as she truly called them, for their well-timed bounty. “But for you,” she said, “this dear little infant might perhaps have perished, or at least its little limbs would have been chilled with cold for want of good and substantial clothing. My husband was ill, and could not work, and I had no money to buy anything but necessary food. If I could have bought the materials, or if you had given them me, I could not have cut them out and contrived them, and made them up myself: for I was never taught to be handy at my needle as you have been, ladies. I was only set to coarse work. Look what a sweet little infant it is, and how comfortable he looks. God bless you, dear ladies! and make you all happy wives and mothers, when the time comes!” The girls, with great pleasure, rose when she had finished her address to them; and after congratulating the mother, took the infant, and handing it from one to another, kissed and played with it. Eliza, too, advanced, but timidly, and as if she had not yet earned a right to caress it. “Approach, my niece,” said Mrs. Dorcas, “kiss the lips of this infant, and imbibe that affection which is one of the characteristics of your sex. Women are made to love children, and they should begin to love them while they themselves are children; nor is there any surer way of learning to love a being, than by doing good to it. You see now why I brought you hither. This is the live doll I promised you; its limbs are not the work of a clumsy mechanic, they are fashioned by consummate wisdom and skill, and it will not always remain as it is: this little frame has a principle of improvement in it—it has powers that will unfold themselves by degrees—the limbs will stretch and grow; after a while it will walk, it will speak, it will play, it will be like one of you. How precious then is the life of such a creature! But it has pleased the Creator of all things that this excellent being should come into the world naked and helpless; it has neither hair, nor wool, nor fur, nor feathers to keep it warm; if not clothed and cherished, it would soon be killed with the cold. It is, therefore, very desirable to help those poor people who cannot afford to clothe their infants, lest so admirable a work of God as a human creature should perish for want of care. There is a great deal of pain and danger in bearing children in any situation of life; but when people are poor as well as sick, the distress is very much increased. These good young ladies, Eliza, have formed a society among themselves for making baby-linen for the poor. Nobody bid them do it; it was entirely of their own accord. They have agreed to subscribe a penny a week out of their little pocket-money. A penny is a very small matter; girls who have a great deal of money perhaps would not suppose it worth thinking about, but a great many pennies every week will in time come to a sum that is not so contemptible. With this they buy the materials, such as warm flannels, coarse printed cottons, and dimity. Their mammas give them, every now and then, some fine old linen and cast-off clothes; but the value of their work is a great deal more than that of the materials: if they did not cut and contrive, and make them up, they would be of little service comparatively to the poor people; besides, the doing so will make them clever managers when they come to have children of their own. None of these good girls are above fourteen; and they have clothed a number of little helpless infants, and made, as you have seen, the mothers’ hearts very glad. Now, if you wish it, I dare say they will let you work with them; but here is no finery, and if you like better to work for your wax-doll, do so.”—“O, no!” said Eliza, “the live doll for me;” and she bespoke a place at the long worktable.