Scene II.—_The inside of the cottage. An old man sitting by the hearth.

_Beau._ We have made bold, friend, to trouble your wife for a little water.

_John._ Sit down—sit down—gentlemen. I would get up to give you my chair, but I have the misfortune to be lame, and am almost blind too.

_Harf._ Lame and blind! Oh Beaumont! (_aside_).

_John._ Ay, sir, old age will come on; and, God knows, we have very little means to fence against it.

_Beau._ What, have you nothing but your labour to subsist on?

_John._ We made that do, sir, as long as we could; but now I am hardly capable of doing anything, and my poor wife can earn very little by spinning, so we have been forced at last to apply to the parish.

_Harf._ To the parish! Well I hope they consider the services of your better days, and provide for you comfortably.

_John._ Alas, sir; I am not much given to complain; but what can two shillings a week do in these hard times?

_Harf._ Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you?

_John._ It is, sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they say we must come into the workhouse.

_Mary_ (_entering with the water_). Here, gentlemen, the jug is clean, if you can drink out of it.

_Harf._ The workhouse, do you say?

_Mary._ Yes, gentlemen; that makes my poor husband so uneasy—that we should come in our old days to die in a workhouse. We have lived better, I assure you—but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and since then we have grown poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, so that we have nothing to help ourselves with.

_John_ (_sobbing_). To die in a parish workhouse—I can hardly bear the thought of it! But God knows best, and we must submit!

_Harf._ But, my good people, have you no children to assist you?

_John._ Our children, sir, are all dead except one that is settled a long way off, and as poor as we are.

_Beau._ But surely, my friends, such decent people as you seem to be, must have somebody to protect you.

_Mary._ No, sir; we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouse good enough for the poor.

_Harf._ Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village?

_John._ Yes, sir, a long while ago—but they are all dead and gone, or else far enough from this place.

_Mary._ Ay, sir, the youngest of them, and the finest child among them, that I’ll say for him, was nursed in our house when we lived on the old spot near the green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a sweet-behaved boy he was; I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children.

_Harf._ What became of him?

_John._ Why, sir, he was a fine bold-spirited boy, though the best tempered creature in the world—so last war he would be a sailor, and fight the French and Spaniards, and away he went, nobody could stop him, and we have never heard a word of him since.

_Mary._ Ay, he is dead or killed, I warrant—for if he was alive, I am sure nothing would keep him from coming to see his poor daddy and mamma as he used to call us. Many a night have I lain awake thinking of him!

_Harf._ (_to Beau._). I can hold no longer.

_Beau._ (_to him_). Restrain yourself awhile. Well, my friends, in return for your kindness, I will tell you some news that will please you. This same Harford, Edward Harford....

_Mary._ Ay, that was his name—my dear Ned!—What of him, sir, is he living?

_John._ Let the gentlemen speak, my dear.

_Beau._ Ned Harford is now alive and well, and a lieutenant in his majesty’s navy, and as brave an officer as any in the service.

_John._ I hope you do not jest with us, sir?

_Beau._ I do not, upon my honour.

_Mary._ Oh, thank God—thank God—if I could but see him!

_John._ Ay, I wish for nothing more before I die.

_Harf._ Here he is—here he is! My dearest, best benefactors! Here I am, to pay some of the great debt of kindness I owe you. (_Clasps Mary round the neck, and kisses her._)

_Mary._ What—this gentleman my Ned! Ay, it is, it is—I see it, I see it!

_John._ Oh, my old eyes!—but I know his voice now. (_Stretches out his hand, which Harford grasps._)

_Harf._ My good old man! Oh that you could see me as clearly as I do you!

_John._ Enough—enough—it is you, and I am contented.

_Mary._ O, happy day! O, happy day!

_Harf._ Did you think I could ever forget you?

_John._ Oh, no; I knew you better; but how long it is since we parted!

_Mary._ Fifteen years come Whitsuntide.

_Harf._ The first time I set foot in England all this long interval was three weeks ago.

_John._ How good you were to come to us so soon!

_Mary._ What a tall strong man you are grown! but you have the same sweet smile as ever.

_John._ I wish I could see him plain—but what signifies! he’s here, and I hold him by the hand. Where’s the other good gentleman?

_Beau._ Here—very happy to see such worthy people made so.

_Harf._ He has been my dearest friend for a great many years, and I am beholden to him almost as much as to you two.

_Mary._ Has he? God bless him and reward him!

_Harf._ I am grieved to think what you must have suffered from hardship and poverty. But that is all at an end—no workhouse now.

_John._ God bless you! then I shall be happy still. But we must not be burdensome to you.

_Harf._ Don’t talk of that. As long as I have a shilling, it is my duty to give you sixpence of it. Did you not take care of me when all the world forsook me, and treated me as your own child when I had no other parent; and shall I ever forsake you in your old age! Oh never—never!

_Mary._ Ay, you had always a kind heart of your own. I always used to think our dear Ned would some time or other prove a blessing to us.

_Harf._ You must leave this poor hut, that is not fit to keep out the weather, and we must get you a snug cottage in this village or some other.

_John._ Pray, my dear sir, let us die in this town, as we have always lived in it. And as to a house, I believe that where old Richard Carpenter used to live in is empty, if it would not be too good for us.

_Harf._ What, the white cottage on the green? I remember it; it is just the thing. You shall remove there this very week.

_Mary._ This is beyond all my hopes and wishes!

_Harf._ There you shall have a little close to keep a cow—and a girl to milk her, and take care of you both—and a garden well stocked with herbs and roots—and a little yard for pigs and poultry; and some good new furniture for your house.

_John._ O, too much—too much!

_Mary._ What makes me cry so, when so many good things are coming to us?

_Harf._ Who is the landlord of this house?

_John._ Our next neighbour, Mr. Wheatfield.

_Harf._ I’ll go and speak about it directly and then come to you again. Come, Beaumont. God bless you both!

_John._ God in heaven bless you!

_Mary._ O, happy day. O, happy day!

PERSEVERANCE AGAINST FORTUNE.—A STORY.

Theodore was a boy of lively parts and engaging manners; but he had the failing of being extremely impatient in his temper and inclined to extremes. He was ardent in all his pursuits, but could bear no disappointment; and if the least thing went wrong, he threw up what he was about in a pet, and could not be prevailed upon to resume it. His father, Mr. Carleton, had given him a bed in the garden, which he had cultivated with great delight. The borders were set with double daisies of different colours, next to which was a row of auriculas and polyanthuses. Beyond were stocks and other taller flowers and shrubs; and a beautiful damask rose graced the centre. This rose was just budding, and Theodore watched its daily progress with great interest. One unfortunate day, the door of the garden being left open, a drove of pigs entered, and began to riot on the herbs and flowers. An alarm being sounded, Theodore and the servant-boy rushed upon them, smacking their whips. The whole herd, in affright, took their course across Theodore’s flower-bed, on which some of them had before been grazing. Stocks, daisies, and auriculas were all trampled down or torn up; and, what was worst of all, a large old sow ran directly over the beautiful rose-tree, and broke off its stem level with the ground. When Theodore came up and beheld all the mischief, and especially his favourite rose strewed on the soil, rage and grief choked his utterance. After standing a while the picture of despair, he snatched up a spade that stood near, and with furious haste dug over the whole bed, and whelmed all the relics of his flowers deep under the soil. This exertion being ended, he burst into tears, and silently left the garden.

His father, who had beheld the scene at a distance, though somewhat diverted at the boy’s childish violence, yet began seriously to reflect on the future consequences of such a temper, if suffered to grow up without restraint. He said nothing to him at the time, but in the afternoon he took a walk with him into a neighbouring parish. There was a large wild common, and at the skirts of it a neat farmhouse with fields lying round it, all well fenced, and cultivated in the best manner. The air was sweetened with the bean-flower and clover. An orchard of fine young fruit-trees lay behind the house and before it a little garden, gay with all the flowers of the season. A stand of beehives was on the southern side, sheltered by a thick hedge of honeysuckle and sweet-brier. The farmyard was stocked with pigs and poultry. A herd of cows with full udders was just coming home to be milked. Everything wore the aspect of plenty and good management. The charms of the scene struck Theodore very forcibly, and he expressed his pleasure in the warmest terms. “This place,” said his father, “belongs to a man who is the greatest example I know of patient fortitude bearing up against misfortune; and all that you see is the reward of his own perseverance. I am a little acquainted with him; and we will go in and beg a draught of milk, and try if we can prevail upon him to tell us his story.” Theodore willingly accompanied his father. They were received by the farmer with cordial frankness. After they were seated, “Mr. Hardman,” says Mr. Carleton, “I have often heard part of your adventures, but never had a regular account of the whole. If you will favour me and my little boy with the story of them, we shall think ourselves much obliged to you.”—“Lacka-day! sir,” said he, “there’s little in them worth telling of, as far as I know. I have had my ups and downs in the world, to be sure, but so have many men besides. However, if you wish to hear about them, they are at your service; and I can’t say but it gives me pleasure sometimes to talk over old matters, and think how much better things have turned out than might have been expected.”—“Now I am of opinion,” said Mr. Carleton, “that from your spirit and perseverance a good conclusion might always have been expected.”—“You are pleased to compliment, sir,” replied the farmer; “but I will begin without more words:—

“You may perhaps have heard that my father was a man of good estate. He thought of nothing, poor man! but how to spend it; and he had the uncommon luck to spend it twice over. For when he was obliged to sell it the first time, it was bought in by a relation, who left it him by his will. But my poor father was not a man to take warning. He fell to living as he had done before, and just made his estate and his life hold out together. He died at the age of five-and-forty, and left his family beggars. I believe he would not have taken to drinking, as he did, had it not been for his impatient temper, which made him fret and vex himself for every trifle, and then he had nothing for it but to drown his care in liquor.

“It was my lot to be taken by my mother’s brother, who was master of a merchant-ship. I served him as an apprentice several years, and underwent a good deal of the usual hardship of a sailor’s life. He had just made me his mate in a voyage up the Mediterranean, when we had the misfortune to be wrecked on the coast of Morocco. The ship struck at some distance from shore, and we lay a long stormy night with the waves dashing over us, expecting every moment to perish. My uncle and several of the crew died of fatigue and want, and by morning but four of us were left alive. My companions were so disheartened, that they thought of nothing but submitting to their fate. For my part I thought life still worth struggling for; and the weather having become calmer, I persuaded them to join me in making a kind of raft, by the help of which, with much toil and danger, we reached the land. Here we were seized by the barbarous inhabitants, and carried up the country as slaves to the emperor We were employed about some public buildings, made to work very hard with the whip at our backs, and allowed nothing but water and a kind of pulse. I have heard persons talk as if there was little in being a slave but the name; but they who have been slaves themselves I am sure will never make light of slavery in others. A ransom was set on our heads, but so high, that it seemed impossible for poor friendless creatures like us ever to pay it. The thought of perpetual servitude, together with the hard treatment we met with, quite overcame my poor companions. They drooped and died one after another. I still thought it not impossible to mend my condition, and perhaps to recover my freedom. We worked about twelve hours in the day, and had one holyday in the week. I employed my leisure time in learning to make mats and flag-baskets, in which I soon became so expert as to have a good many for sale, and thereby got a little money to purchase better food, and several small conveniences. We were afterward set to work in the emperor’s gardens; and here I showed so much good will and attention, that I got into favour with the overseer. He had a large garden of his own; and he made interest for me to be suffered to work for him alone, on the condition of paying a man to do my duty. I soon became so useful to him, that he treated me more like a hired servant than a slave, and gave me regular wages. I learned the language of the country, and I might have passed my time comfortably enough could I have accommodated myself to their manners and religion, and forgotten my native land. I saved all I could in order to purchase my freedom; but the ransom was so high, that I had little prospect of being able to do it for some years to come. A circumstance, however, happened which brought it about at once. Some villains one night laid a plot to murder my master and plunder his house. I slept in a little shed in the garden where the tools lay; and being awaked by a noise, I saw four men break through the fence, and walk up an alley toward the house. I crept out with a spade in my hand, and silently followed them. They made a hole with instruments in the house-wall big enough for a man to enter at. Two of them had got in, and the third was beginning to enter, when I rushed forward, and with a blow of my spade clove the scull of one of the robbers, and gave the other such a stroke on the shoulder as disabled him. I then made a loud outcry to alarm the family. My master and his son, who lay in the house, got up, and having let me in, we secured the two others, after a sharp conflict, in which I received a severe wound with a dagger. My master, who looked upon me as his preserver, had all possible care taken of me, and as soon as I was cured made me a present of my liberty. He would fain have kept me with him, but my mind was so much bent on returning to my native country, that I immediately set out to the nearest seaport, and took my passage in a vessel going to Gibraltar.

“From this place I returned in the first ship for England. As soon as we arrived in the Downs, and I was rejoicing at the sight of the white cliffs, a man-of-war’s boat came on board, and pressed into the king’s service all of us who were seamen. I could not but think it hard that this should be my welcome at home after a long slavery, but there was no remedy. I resolved to do my duty in my station, and leave the rest to Providence. I was abroad during the remainder of the war, and saw many a stout fellow sink under disease and despondence. My knowledge of seamanship got me promoted to the post of a petty officer, and at the peace I was paid off, and received a pretty sum for wages and prize-money. With this I set off for London. I had experienced too much distress from want to be inclined to squander away my money, so I put it into a banker’s hands, and began to look out for some new way of life.

“Unfortunately, there were some things of which I had no more experience than a child, and the tricks of London were among these. An advertisement offering extraordinary advantages to a partner in a commercial concern who could bring a small capital, tempted me to make inquiry about the matter; and I was soon cajoled by a plausible artful fellow to venture my whole stock in it. The business was a manufacture, about which I knew nothing at all; but as I was not afraid of my labour, I set about working as they directed me, with great diligence, and thought all was going on prosperously. One morning, on coming to the office, I found my partners decamped; and the same day I was arrested for a considerable sum due by the partnership. It was in vain for me to think of getting bail, so I was obliged to go to prison. Here I should have been half starved, but for my Moorish trade of matmaking, by the help of which I bettered my condition for some months; when the creditors, finding that nothing could be got out of me, suffered me to be set at liberty.

“I was now in the wide world without a farthing or a friend, but I, thank God, had limbs and health left.

“I did not choose to trust the sea again, but preferred my other new trade of gardening; so I applied to a nurseryman near town, and was received as a day-labourer. I set myself cheerfully at work, taking care to be in the grounds the first man in the morning, and the last at night. I acquainted my employer with all the practices I had observed in Morocco, and got him, in return, to instruct me in his own. In time, I came to be considered as a skilful workman, and was advanced to higher wages. My affairs were in a flourishing state. I was well fed, and comfortably lodged, and saved money into the bargain. About this time I fell in company with a young woman at service, very notable and well behaved, who seemed well qualified for a wife to a working-man. I ventured to make an offer to her, which proved not disagreeable; and after we had calculated a little how we were to live, we married. I took a cottage with an acre or two of land to it, and my wife’s saving furnished our house, and bought a cow. All my leisure time I spent upon my piece of ground, which I made very productive, and the profits of my cow, with my wages, supported us very well. No mortal, I think, could be happier than I was after a hard day’s work, by my own fireside, with my wife beside me, and our little infant on my knee.

“After this way of life had lasted two or three years, a gentleman who had dealt largely with my master for young plants, asked him if he could recommend an honest industrious man for a tenant, upon some land that he had lately taken in from the sea. My master, willing to do me a kindness, mentioned me. I was tempted by the proposal, and going down to view the premises, I took a farm upon a lease at a low rent, and removed my family and goods to it, one hundred and fifty miles from London. There was ground enough for money, but much was left to be done for it in draining, manuring, and fencing. Then it required more stock than I was able to furnish; so, though unwilling, I was obliged to borrow some money of my landlord, who let me have it at a moderate interest. I began with a good heart, and worked late and early to put things into the best condition. My first misfortune was that the place proved unhealthy to us. I fell into a lingering ague, which pulled me down much, and hindered my business. My wife got a slow fever, and so did our eldest child (we had now two.) The poor child died; and what with grief and illness, my wife had much ado to recover. Then the rot got among my sheep, and carried off the best part of my stock. I bore up against distress as well as I could; and by the kindness of my landlord, was enabled to bring things tolerably about again. We regained our health, and began to be seasoned to the climate. As we were cheering ourselves with the prospect of better times, a dreadful storm arose—it was one night in February—I shall never forget it—and drove the spring tide with such fury against our sea-banks, that they gave way. The water rushed in with such force, that all was presently a sea. Two hours before daylight I was awakened by the noise of the waves dashing against our house, and bursting in at the door. My wife and I and the two children (the younger but four weeks old) slept on a ground floor. We had just time to carry the children up stairs, before all was afloat in the room. When day appeared, we could see nothing from the windows but water. All the outhouses, ricks, and utensils were swept away, and all the cattle and sheep drowned. The sea kept rising, and the force of the current bore so hard against our house, that we thought every moment it must fall. We clasped our babies to our breasts, and expected nothing but present death. At length, we spied a boat coming to us. With a good deal of difficulty it got under our window, and took us in with a servant-maid and boy. A few clothes was all the property we saved; and we had not left the house half an hour, before it fell, and in a minute nothing was to be seen of it. Not only the farmhouse, but the farm itself was gone.

“I was now again a ruined man, and, what was worse, I had three partners in my ruin. My wife and I looked at one another, and then at our little ones, and wept. Neither of us had a word of comfort to say. At last, thought I, this country is not Morocco, however. Here are good souls that will pity our case, and perhaps relieve us. Then I have a character, and a pair of hands. Things are bad but they might have been worse. I took my wife by the hand, and knelt down. She did the same. I thanked God for his mercy in saving our lives, and prayed that he would continue to protect us. We rose up with lightened hearts, and were able to talk calmly about our condition. It was my desire to return to my former master, the nurseryman; but how to convey my family so far without money was the difficulty. Indeed I was much worse than nothing, for I owed a good deal to my landlord. He came down upon the news of the misfortune, and though his own losses were heavy, he not only forgave my debt and released me from all obligations, but made me a small present. Some charitable neighbours did the like; but I was most of all affected by the kindness of our late maid-servant, who insisted upon our accepting of a crown which she had saved out of her wages. Poor soul! we had always treated her like one of ourselves, and she felt for us like one.

“As soon as we had got some necessaries, and the weather was tolerable, we set out on our long march. My wife carried her infant in her arms. I took the bigger child on my back, and a bundle of clothes in my hand. We could walk but a few miles a day, but we now and then got a lift in an empty wagon or cart, which was a great help to us. One day we met with a farmer returning with his team from market, who let me ride, and entered into conversation with me. I told him of my adventures, by which he seemed much interested; and learning that I was skilled in managing trees, he acquainted me that a nobleman in his neighbourhood was making great plantations, and would very likely be glad to engage me; and he offered to carry us to the place. As all I was seeking was a living by my labour, I thought the sooner I got it the better; so I thankfully accepted his offer. He took us to the nobleman’s steward, and made known our case. The steward wrote to my old master for a character; and receiving a favourable one, he hired me as a principal manager of a new plantation, and settled me and my family in a snug cottage near it. He advanced us somewhat for furniture and present subsistence, and we had once more a _home_. O sir! how many blessings are contained in that word to those who have known the want of it!

“I entered upon my new employment with as much satisfaction as if I was taking possession of an estate. My wife had enough to do in taking care of the house and children; so it lay with me to provide for all, and I may say that I was not idle. Besides my weekly pay from the steward, I contrived to make a little money at leisure times by pruning and dressing gentlemen’s fruit-trees. I was allowed a piece of waste ground behind the house for a garden, and I spent a good deal of labour in bringing it into order. My old master sent me down for a present some choice young trees and flower-roots, which I planted, and they throve wonderfully. Things went on almost as well as I could desire. The situation being dry and healthy, my wife recovered her lost bloom, and the children sprung up like my plants. I began to hope that I was almost out of the reach of further misfortune; but it was not so ordered.

“I had been three years in this situation, and increased my family with another child, when my lord died. He was succeeded by a very dissipated young man, deep in debt, who presently put a stop to the planting and improving of the estate, and sent orders to turn off all the workmen. This was a great blow to me; however, I still hoped to be allowed to keep my little house and garden, and I thought I could then maintain myself as a nurseryman and gardener. But a new steward was sent down, with directions to rack the tenants to the utmost. He asked me as much rent for the place as if I had found the garden ready made to my hands; and when I told him it was impossible for me to pay it, he gave me notice to quit immediately. He would neither suffer me to take away my trees and plants, nor allow me anything for them. His view, I found, was to put in a favourite of his own, and set him up at my expense. I remonstrated against this cruel injustice, but could obtain nothing but hard words. As I saw it would be the ruin of me to be turned out in that manner, I determined, rather hastily, to go up to London, and plead my cause with my new lord. I took a sorrowful leave of my family, and walking to the next market-town, I got a place on the outside of the stage-coach. When we were within thirty or forty miles of London, the coachman overturned the carriage, and I pitched directly on my head, and was taken up senseless. Nobody knew anything about me; so I was carried to the next village, where the overseer had me taken to the parish workhouse. Here I lay a fortnight, much neglected, before I came to my senses. As soon as I became sensible of my condition, I was almost distracted in thinking of the distress of my poor wife, who was near lying-in, must be under on my account, not hearing anything of me. I lay another fortnight before I was fit to travel, for besides the hurt on my head, I had a broken collarbone, and several bruises.

“My money had somehow all got out of my pocket, and I had no other means of getting away than by being passed to my own parish. I returned in sad plight, indeed, and found my wife very ill in bed. My children were crying about her, and almost starving. We should now have been quite lost, had I not raised a little money by selling our furniture; for I was yet unable to work. As soon as my wife was somewhat recovered, we were forced to quit our house. I cried like a child on leaving my blooming garden and flourishing plantations, and was almost tempted to demolish them, rather than that another should unjustly reap the fruit of my labours. But I checked myself and I am glad that I did. We took lodgings in a neighbouring village, and I went round among the gentlemen of the country to see if I could get a little employment. In the meantime, the former steward came down to settle accounts with his successor, and was much concerned to find me in such a situation. He was a very able and honest man, and had been engaged by another nobleman to superintend a large improvable estate, in a distant part of the kingdom. He told me, if I would try my fortune with him once more he would endeavour to procure me a new settlement. I had nothing to lose, and, therefore, was willing enough to run any hazard, but I was destitute of means to convey my family to such a distance. My good friend, who was much provoked at the injustice of the new steward, said so much to him, that he brought him to make me an allowance for my garden; and with that I was enabled to make another removal. It was to the place I now inhabit.

“When I came here, sir, all this farm was a naked common like that you crossed in coming. My lord got an enclosure-bill for his part of it, and the steward divided it into different farms, and let it on improving leases to several tenants. A dreary spot to be sure it looked at first, enough to sink a man’s heart to sit down upon it. I had a little unfinished cottage given me to live in; and as I had nothing to stock a farm, I was for some years employed as head labourer and planter about the new enclosures. By very hard working and saving, together with a little help, I was at length enabled to take a small part of the ground I now occupy. I had various discouragements, from bad seasons and other accidents. One year the distemper carried off four out of seven cows that I kept; another year I lost two of my best horses. A high wind once almost entirely destroyed an orchard I had just planted, and blew down my biggest barn. But I was too much used to misfortunes to be easily disheartened, and my way always was to set about repairing them in the best manner I could, and leave the rest to Heaven. This method seems to have answered at last. I have now gone on many years in a course of continued prosperity, adding field to field, increasing my stock, and bringing up a numerous family with credit. My dear wife, who was my faithful partner through so much distress, continues to share my prosperous state; and few couples in the kingdom, I believe, have more cause to be thankful for their lot. This, sir, is my history. You see it contains nothing very extraordinary; but if it impresses on the mind of this young gentleman the maxim that patience and perseverance will scarcely fail of a good issue in the end, the time you have spent in listening to it will not entirely be lost.”

Mr. Carleton thanked the good farmer very heartily for the amusement and instruction he had afforded them, and took leave with many expressions of regard. Theodore and he walked home, talking by the way of what they had heard.

Next morning, Mr. C. looking out of the window, saw Theodore hard at work in his garden. He was carefully disinterring his buried flowers, trimming and cleaning them, and planting them anew. He had got the gardener to cut a slip of the broken rose-tree, and set it in the middle to give it a chance of growing. By noon everything was laid smooth and neat, and the bed was well filled. All its splendour, indeed, was gone for the present, but it seemed in a hopeful way to revive again. Theodore looked with pleasure over his work; but his father felt more pleasure in witnessing the first-fruits of Farmer Hardman’s story.

THE GOLDFINCH AND LINNET.

A gaudy goldfinch, pert and gay, Hopping blythe from spray to spray, Full of frolic, full of spring, With head well plumed and burnished wing, Spied a sober linnet-hen, Sitting all alone, And bowed and chirped, and bowed again; And with familiar tone He thus the dame addressed As to her side he closely pressed:—

“I hope, my dear, I don’t intrude, By breaking on your solitude? But it has always been my passion To forward pleasant conversation; And I should be a stupid bird To pass the fair without a word; I, who have been for ever noted To be the sex’s most devoted. Besides, a damsel unattended, Left unnoticed and unfriended, Appears (excuse me) so forlorn, That I can scarce suppose, To any she that e’er was born, ‘Twould be the thing she chose. How happy, then, I’m now at leisure To wait upon a lady’s pleasure; And all this morn have nought to do But pay my duty, love, to you.

“What, silent!—Ah, those looks demure, And eyes of langour, make me sure That in my random idle chatter I quite mistook the matter! It is not spleen or contemplation That draws you to the cover; But ‘tis some tender assignation; Well!—who’s the favoured lover? I met hard by, in quaker suit, A youth sedately grave and mute; And from the maxim, like to like, Perhaps the _sober youth_ might strike: Yes, yes, ‘tis he, I’ll lay my life, Who hopes to get you for his wife.

“But come, my dear, I know you’re wise, Compare and judge, and use your eyes; No female yet could e’er behold The lustre of my red and gold, My ivory bill and jetty crest, But all was done, and I was blest. Come, brighten up and act with spirit, And take the fortune that you merit.”

He ceased—_Linnetta_ thus replied, With cool contempt and decent pride:— “’Tis pity, sir, a youth so sweet, In form and manners so complete, Should do an humble maid the honour To waste his precious time upon her. A poor forsaken she, you know, Can do no credit to a beau; And worse would be the case If meeting one whose faith was plighted, He should incur the sad disgrace Of being slighted.

“Now, sir, the _sober-suited youth_. Whom you were pleased to mention, To those small merits, sense and truth, And generous love, has some pretension; And then, to give him all his due, He sings, sir, full as well as you, And sometimes can be silent too. In short, my taste is so perverse, And such my wayward fate, That it would be my greatest curse To have a _coxcomb_ to my mate.” This said, away she scuds, And leaves _Beau Goldfinch_ in the suds.

THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.

“Good news! great news! glorious news!” cried young Oswald, as he entered his father’s house. “We have got a complete victory, and have killed I don’t know how many thousands of the enemy; and we are to have bonfires and illuminations!”

“And so,” said his father, “you think that killing a great many thousands of human creatures is a thing to be very glad about?”

_Oswald._ No—I do not quite think so, neither: but surely it is right to be glad that our country has gained a great advantage.

_Father._ No doubt, it is right to wish well to our country, as far as its prosperity can be promoted without injuring the rest of mankind. But wars are very seldom to the real advantage of any nation; and when they are ever so useful or necessary, so many dreadful evils attend them, that a humane man will scarcely rejoice in them, if he considers at all on the subject.

_Os._ But if our enemies would do us a great deal of mischief, and we prevent it by beating them, have we not a right to be glad of it?

_Fa._ Alas! we are in general little judges which of the parties has the most mischievous intentions. Commonly, they are both in the wrong, and success will make both of them unjust and unreasonable. But putting this out of the question, he who rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the misery of many thousands of his species; and the thought of that should make him pause a little. Suppose a surgeon were to come with a smiling countenance, and tell us triumphantly that he had cut off half a dozen legs to day, what would you think of him?

_Os._ I should think him very hard-hearted.

_Fa._ And yet those operations are done for the benefit of the sufferers, and by their own desire. But in a battle, the probability is, that none of those engaged on either side have any interest at all in the cause they are fighting for, and most of them come there because they cannot help it. In this battle that you are so rejoiced about, there have been ten thousand men killed on the spot, and nearly as many wounded.

_Os._ On both sides?

_Fa._ Yes—but they are _men_ on both sides. Consider now, that the ten thousand sent out of the world in this morning’s work, though they are past feeling themselves, have left probably two persons each, on an average, to lament their loss, parents, wives, or children. Here are then twenty thousand people made unhappy, at one stroke on their account. This, however, is hardly so dreadful to think of, as the condition of the wounded. At the moment we are talking, eight or ten thousand more are lying in agony, torn with shot, or gashed with cuts, their wounds all festering, some hourly to die a most excruciating death, others to linger in torture weeks and months, and many doomed to drag on a miserable existence for the rest of their lives, with diseased and mutilated bodies.

_Os._ This is shocking to think of, indeed!

_Fa._ When you light your candles, then, this evening, _think what they cost_.

_Os._ But everybody else is glad, and seems to think nothing of these things.

_Fa._ True—they do _not_ think of them. If they did, I cannot suppose they would be so void of feeling as to enjoy themselves in merriment when so many of their fellow-creatures are made miserable. Do you not remember, when poor Dickens had his legs broken to pieces by a loaded wagon, how all the town pitied him?

_Os._ Yes, very well. I could not sleep the night after for thinking of him.

_Fa._ But here are thousands suffering as much as he, and we scarce bestow a single thought on them. If any one of these poor creatures were before our eyes, we should probably feel much more than we do now for them altogether. Shall I tell you a story of a soldier’s fortune, that came to my own knowledge?

_Os._ Yes; pray, do.

_Fa._ In the village where I went to school, there was an honest industrious weaver and his wife, who had an only son, named Walter, just come to man’s estate. Walter was a good and dutiful lad, and a clever workman, so that he was a great help to his parents. One unlucky day, having gone to the next market-town with some work, he met with a companion, who took him to the alehouse and treated him. As he was coming away, a recruiting sergeant entered the room, who seeing Walter to be a likely young fellow, had a great mind to entrap him. He persuaded him to sit down again and take a glass with him; and kept him in talk with fine stories about a soldier’s life, till Walter got fuddled before he was aware. The sergeant then clapped a shilling into his hand to drink his majesty’s health, and told him he was enlisted. He was kept there all night, and next morning was taken before a magistrate to be sworn in. Walter had now become sober, and was very sorry for what he had done: but he was told that he could not get off without paying a guinea smart money. This he knew not how to raise; and being likewise afraid and ashamed to face his friends, he took the oath and bounty-money, and marched away with the sergeant, without ever returning home. His poor father and mother, when they heard of the affair, were almost heart-broken; and a young woman in the village, who was his sweetheart, had like to have gone distracted. Walter sent them a line from the first stage, to bid them farewell, and comfort them. He joined his regiment, which soon embarked for Germany, where it continued till the peace. Walter once or twice sent word home of his welfare, but for the last year nothing was heard of him.

_Os._ Where was he then?

_Fa._ You shall hear. One summer’s evening, a man in an old red coat, hobbling on crutches, was seen to enter the village. His countenance was pale and sickly, his cheeks hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke extreme wretchedness. Several people gathered round him, looking earnestly in his face. Among these a young woman having gazed at him a while, cried out, “My Walter!” and fainted away. Walter fell on the ground beside her. His father and mother being fetched by some of the spectators, came and took him in their arms, weeping bitterly. I saw the whole scene, and shall never forget it. At length, the neighbours helped them into the house, where Walter told them the following story:—

“At the last great battle that our troops gained in Germany, I was among the first engaged, and received a shot that broke my thigh. I fell, and presently after our regiment was forced to retreat. A squadron of the enemy’s horse came galloping down upon us. A trooper making a blow at me with his sabre as I lay, I lifted up my arm to save my head, and got a cut which divided all the sinews at the back of my wrist. Soon after the enemy were driven back, and came across us again. A horse set his foot on my side, and broke three of my ribs. The action was long and bloody, and the wounded on both sides were left on the field all night. A dreadful night it was to me you may think! I had fainted through loss of blood, and when I recovered, I was tormented with thirst, and the cold air made my wounds smart intolerably. About noon next day wagons came to carry away those who remained alive; and I, with a number of others, was put into one to be conveyed to the next town. The motion of the carriage was terrible for my broken bones—every jolt went to my heart. We were taken to an hospital, which was crammed as full as it could hold; and we should all have been suffocated with the heat and stench, had not a fever broke out, which soon thinned our numbers. I took it, and was twice given over; however, I struggled through. But my wounds proved so difficult to heal, that it was almost a twelvemonth before I could be discharged. A great deal of the bone in my thigh came away in splinters, and left the limb crooked and useless as you see. I entirely lost the use of three fingers of my right hand; and my broken ribs made me spit blood a long time, and have left a cough and difficulty of breathing, which I believe will bring me to my grave. I was sent home, and discharged from the army, and I have begged my way hither as well as I could. I am told that the peace has left the affairs of my country just as they were before; but who will restore me my health and limbs? I am put on the list for a Chelsea pensioner, which will support me, if I live to receive it, without being a burden to my friends. That is all that remains for Walter now.”

_Os._ Poor Walter! What became of him afterward?

_Father._ The wound in his thigh broke out afresh, and discharged more splinters after a great deal of pain and fever. As winter came on, his cough increased. He wasted to a skeleton, and died the next spring. The young woman, his sweetheart, sat up with him every night to the last; and soon after his death, she fell into a consumption, and followed him. The old people, deprived of the stay and comfort of their age, fell into despair and poverty, and were taken into the workhouse, where they ended their days.

This was the history of _Walter the soldier_. It has been that of thousands more; and will be that of many a poor fellow, over whose fate you are now rejoicing. Such is the _price of a victory_!

GOOD COMPANY.

“Be sure, Frederick, always keep _good company_,” was the final admonition of Mr. Lofty, on dismissing his son to the University.

“I entreat you, Henry, always to choose _good company_,” said Mr. Manly, on parting with his son to an apprenticeship in a neighbouring town.

But it was impossible for two people to mean more differently by the same words.

In Mr. Lofty’s idea, _good_ company was that of persons superior to ourselves in rank and fortune. By this alone he estimated it: and the degrees of comparison, better and best, were made exactly to correspond to such a scale. Thus, if an esquire was _good_ company, a baronet was _better_, and a lord _best of all_, provided that he was not a _poor_ lord, for in that case, a rich gentleman might be at least as good. For as, according to Mr. Lofty’s maxim, the great purpose for which companions were to be chosen was to advance a young man in the world by their credit and interest, those were to be preferred who afforded the best prospects in this respect.

Mr. Manly, on the other hand, understood by _good_ company, that which was improving to the morals and understanding; and by the _best_, that which, to a high degree of these qualities, added true politeness of manners. As superior advantages in education to a certain point accompany superiority of condition, he wished his son to prefer as companions those whose situation in life had afforded them the opportunity of being well educated; but he was far from desiring him to shun connexions with worth and talents, wherever he should find them.

Mr. Lofty had an utter aversion to _low company_, by which he meant inferiors, people of no fashion and figure, shabby fellows whom nobody knows.

Mr. Manly equally disliked _low company_, understanding by it persons of mean habits and vulgar conversation.

A great part of Mr. Manly’s _good_ company was Mr. Lofty’s _low_ company; and not a few of Mr. Lofty’s very _best_ company were Mr. Manly’s very _worst_.

Each of the sons understood his father’s meaning, and followed his advice.

Frederick, from the time of his entrance at the University, commenced what is called a _tuft-hunter_, from the tuft in the cap worn by young noblemen. He took pains to insinuate himself into the good graces of all the young men of high fashion in his college, and became a constant companion in their schemes of frolic and dissipation. They treated him with an insolent familiarity, often bordering upon contempt; but following another maxim of his father, “one must stoop to rise,” he took it all in good part. He totally neglected study as unnecessary, and indeed inconsistent with his plan. He spent a great deal of money, with which his father, finding that it went in _good company_, at first supplied him freely. In time, however, his expenses amounted to so much, that Mr. Lofty, who kept good company too, found it difficult to answer his demands. A considerable sum that he lost at play with one of his noble friends increased the difficulty. If it were not paid, the disgrace of not having discharged a _debt of honour_ would lose him all the favour he had acquired; yet the money could not be raised without greatly embarrassing his father’s affairs.

In the midst of this perplexity, Mr. Lofty died, leaving behind him a large family, and very little property. Frederick came up to town, and soon dissipated in _good company_ the scanty portion that came to his share. Having neither industry, knowledge, nor reputation, he was then obliged to become an humble dependant on the great, flattering all their follies, and ministering to their vices, treated by them with mortifying neglect, and equally despised and detested by the rest of the world.

Henry, in the meantime, entered with spirit into the business of his new profession, and employed his leisure in cultivating an acquaintance with a few select friends. These were partly young men in a situation similar to his own, partly persons already settled in life, but all distinguished by propriety of conduct and improved understandings. From all of them he learned something valuable, but he was more particularly indebted to two of them, who were in a station of life inferior to that of the rest. One was a watchmaker, an excellent mechanic and tolerable mathematician, and well acquainted with the construction and use of all the instruments employed in experimental philosophy. The other was a young druggist, who had a good knowledge of chymistry, and frequently employed himself in chymical operations and experiments. Both of them were men of very decent manners, and took a pleasure in communicating their knowledge to such as showed a taste for similar studies. Henry frequently visited them, and derived much useful information from their instructions, for which he ever expressed great thankfulness. These various occupations and good examples effectually preserved him from the errors of youth, and he passed his time with credit and satisfaction. He had the same misfortune with Frederick, just as he was ready to come out into the world, of losing his father, upon whom the support of the family chiefly depended; but in the character he had established, and the knowledge he had acquired, he found an effectual resource. One of his young friends proposed to him a partnership in a manufactory he had just set up at considerable expense, requiring for his share only the exertion of his talents and industry. Henry accepted the offer, and made such good use of the skill in mechanics and chymistry he had acquired, that he introduced many improvements into the manufactory, and rendered it a very profitable concern. He lived prosperous and independent, and retained in manhood all the friendships of his youth.

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

It was a delightful evening about the end of August. The sun, setting in a pure sky, illuminated the tops of the western hills, and tipped the opposite trees with a yellow lustre.

A traveller, with sunburnt cheeks and dusty feet, strong and active, having a knapsack at his back, had gained the summit of a steep ascent, and stood gazing on the plain below.

This was a wide tract of champaign country, checkered with villages, whose towers and spires peeped above the trees in which they were embosomed. The space between them was chiefly arable land, from which the last products of the harvest were busily carrying away.

A rivulet wound through the plain, its course marked with gray willows. On its banks were verdant meadows, covered with lowing herds, moving slowly to the milkmaids, who came tripping along with pails on their heads. A thick wood clothed the side of a gentle eminence rising from the water, crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle.

Edward (that was the traveller’s name) dropped on one knee, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, “Welcome, welcome, my dear native land. Many a sweet spot have I seen since I left thee, but none so sweet as thou! Never has thy dear image been out of my memory; and now with what transport do I retrace all thy charms! O, receive me again, never more to quit thee!” So saying, he threw himself on the turf; and having kissed it, rose and proceeded on his journey.

As he descended into the plain, he overtook a little group of children, merrily walking along the path, and stopping now and then to gather berries in the hedge.

“Where are you going, my dears?” said Edward.

“We are going home,” they all replied.

“And where is that?”

“Why, to Summerton, that town there among the trees, just before us. Don’t you see it?”

“I see it well,” answered Edward, the tear standing in his eye.

“And what is your name—and yours—and yours?”

The little innocents told their names. Edward’s heart leaped at the well-known sounds.

“And what is _your_ name, my dear?” said he to a pretty girl, somewhat older than the rest, who hung back shyly, and held the hand of a ruddy, white-headed boy, just breeched.

“It is Rose Walsingham, and this is my younger brother, Roger.”

“Walsingham!” Edward clasped the girl round the neck, and surprised her with two or three very close kisses. He then lifted up little Roger, and almost devoured him. Roger seemed as if he wanted to be set down again, but Edward told him he would carry him home.

“And can you show me the house you live at, Rose?” said Edward.

“Yes—it is just there, beside the pond, with the great barn before it, and the orchard behind.”

“And will you take me home with you, Rose?”

“If you please,” answered Rose, hesitatingly.

They walked on; Edward said but little, for his heart was full, but he frequently kissed little Roger.

Coming at length to a stile from which a path led across a little close, “This is the way to our house,” said Rose.

The other children parted. Edward set down Roger, and got over the stile. He still, however, kept hold of the boy’s hand. He trembled, and looked wildly around him.

When they approached the house, an old mastiff came running to meet the children. He looked up at Edward rather sourly, and gave a little growl; when all at once his countenance changed; he leaped upon him, licked his hand, wagged his tail, murmured in a soft voice, and seemed quite overcome with joy. Edward stooped down, patted his head, and cried, “Poor Captain, what! are you alive, yet?” Rose was surprised that the stranger and their dog should know one another.

They all entered the house together. A good-looking middle-aged woman was busied in preparing articles of cookery, assisted by her grown-up daughter. She spoke to the children as they came in, and casting a look of some surprise on Edward, asked him what his business was.

Edward was some time silent; at length, with a faltering voice, he cried, “Have you forgot me, mother?”

“Edward! my son Edward!” exclaimed the good woman. And they were instantly locked in each other’s arms.

“My brother Edward!” said Molly; and took her turn for an embrace, as soon as her mother gave her room.

“Are you my brother?” said Rose.

“That I am,” replied Edward, with another kiss. Little Roger looked hard at him, but said nothing.

News of Edward’s arrival soon flew across the yard, and in came from the barn his father, his next brother, Thomas, and the third, William. The father fell on his neck, and sobbed out his welcome and blessing. Edward had not hands enough for them all to shake.

An aged, white-headed labourer came in, and held out his shrivelled hand. Edward gave it a hearty squeeze. “God bless you,” said old Isaac; “this is the best day I have seen this many a year.”

“And where have you been this long while?” cried the father. “Eight years and more,” added the mother.

His elder brother took off his knapsack; and Molly drew him a chair. Edward seated himself, and they all gathered round him; the old dog got within the circle and lay at his feet.

“O, how glad I am to see you all again!” were Edward’s first words. “How well you look, mother! but father grows thinner. As for the rest, I should have known none of you, unless it had been Thomas and old Isaac.”

“What a sunburnt face you have got!—but you look brave and hearty,” cried his mother.

“Ay, mother, I have been enough in the sun, I assure you. From seventeen to five-and-twenty I have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth, and I have seen more in that time than most men in the course of their lives.

“Our young landlord, you know, took such a liking to me at school, that he would have me go with him on his travels. We went through most of the countries of Europe, and at last to Naples, where my poor master took a fever and died. I never knew what grief was till then; and I believe the thoughts of leaving me in a strange country went as much to his heart as his illness. An intimate acquaintance of his, a rich young West Indian, seeing my distress, engaged me to go with him in a voyage he was about to make to Jamaica. We were too short a time in England before we sailed, for me to come and see you first, but I wrote you a letter from the Downs.”

“We never received it,” said his father.

“That was a pity,” returned Edward; “for you must have concluded I was either dead or had forgotten you. Well—we arrived safe in the West Indies, and there I stayed till I had buried that master, too; for young men die fast in that country. I was very well treated, but I could never like the place; and yet Jamaica is a very fine island, and has many good people in it. But for me, used to see freemen work cheerfully along with their masters—to behold nothing but droves of black slaves in the fields, toiling in the burning sun, under the constant dread of the lash of hard-hearted task-masters—it was what I could not bring myself to bear; and though I might have been made an overseer of a plantation, I chose rather to live in a town, and follow some domestic occupation. I could soon have got rich there; but I fell into a bad state of health, and people were dying all round me of the yellow fever; so I collected my little property, and though a war had broken out, I ventured to embark with it for England.

“The ship was taken, and carried into the Havana, and I lost my all and my liberty besides. However, I had the good fortune to ingratiate myself with a Spanish merchant whom I had known at Jamaica, and he took me with him to the continent of South America. I visited great part of this country, once possessed by flourishing and independent nations, but now groaning under the severe yoke of their haughty conquerers. I saw those famous gold and silver mines, where the poor natives worked naked, for ever shut out from the light of day, in order that the wealth of their unhappy land may go to spread luxury and corruption throughout the remotest regions of Europe.

“I accompanied my master across the great southern ocean, a voyage of some months, without the sight of anything but water and sky. We came to the rich city of Manilla, the capital of the Spanish settlements in those parts. There I had my liberty restored, along with a handsome reward for my services. I got thence to China; and from China to the English settlements in the East Indies, where the sight of my countrymen, and the sounds of my native tongue, made me fancy myself almost at home again, though still separated by half the globe.

“Here I saw a delightful country, swarming with industrious inhabitants, some cultivating the land, others employed in manufactures, but of so gentle and effeminate a disposition, that they have always fallen under the yoke of their invaders. Here how was I forced to blush for my countrymen, whose avarice and rapacity so often have laid waste this fair land, and brought on it all the horrors of famine and desolation! I have seen human creatures quarrelling like dogs for bare bones thrown upon a dunghill. I have seen fathers selling their families for a little rice, and mothers entreating strangers to take their children for slaves, that they might not die of hunger. In the midst of such scenes I saw pomp and luxury of which our country affords no examples.

“Having remained here a considerable time, I gladly at length set my face homeward, and joined a company who undertook the long and perilous journey to Europe over land. We crossed vast tracts both desert and cultivated; sandy plains parched with heat and drought, and infested with bands of ferocious plunderers. I have seen a well of muddy water more valued than ten camel-loads of treasure; and a few half-naked horsemen strike more terror than a king with all his guards. At length, after numberless hardships and dangers, we arrived at civilized Europe, and forgot all we had suffered. As I came nearer my native land, I grew more and more impatient to reach it; and when I had set foot on it, I was still more restless till I could see again my beloved home.

“Here I am at last—happy in bringing back a sound constitution and a clear conscience. I have also brought enough of the relics of my honest gains to furnish a little farm in the neighbourhood, where I mean to sit down and spend my days in the midst of those whom I love better than all the world besides.”

When Edward had finished, kisses and kind shakes of the hand were again repeated, and his mother brought out a large slice of harvest-cake, with a bottle of her nicest currant-wine, to refresh him after his day’s march. “You are come,” said his father, “at a lucky time, for this is our harvest-supper. We shall have some of our neighbours to make merry with us, who will be almost as glad to see you as we are—for you were always a favourite among them.”

It was not long before the visiters arrived. The young folks ran out to meet them, crying, “Our Edward’s come back—our Edward’s come home! Here he is—this is he;” and so without ceremony they introduced them.

“Welcome!—welcome!—God bless you!” sounded on all sides. Edward knew all the elderly ones at first sight, but the young people puzzled him for awhile. At length he recollected this to have been his schoolfellow, and that his companion in driving plough; and he was not long in finding out his favourite and playfellow Sally, of the next farmhouse, whom he left a romping girl of fifteen, and now saw a blooming full-formed young woman of three-and-twenty. He contrived in the evening to get next her: and though she was somewhat reserved at first, they had pretty well renewed their intimacy before the company broke up.

“Health to Edward, and a happy settlement among us!” was the parting toast. When all were retired, the _Returned Wanderer_ went to rest in the very room in which he was born, having first paid fervent thanks to Heaven for preserving him to enjoy a blessing the dearest to his heart.

DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT OR, SUNDAY MORNING.

It was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church, and the streets were filled with people moving in all directions.

Here, numbers of well-dressed persons, and a long train of charity children, were thronging in at the wide doors of a large handsome church. There, a smaller number, almost equally gay in dress, were entering an elegant meetinghouse. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic congregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one crossing himself with a finger dipped in holy water as he went in. The opposite side of the street was covered with a train of Quakers, distinguished by their plain and neat attire and sedate aspect, who walked without ceremony into a room as plain as themselves, and took their seats, the men on one side, and the women on the other, in silence. A spacious building was filled with an overflowing crowd of Methodists, most of them meanly habited, but decent and serious in demeanour; while a small society of Baptists in the neighbourhood quietly occupied their humble place of assembly.

Presently, the different services began. The church resounded with the solemn organ, and with the indistinct murmurs of a large body of people following the minister in responsive prayers. From the meeting were heard the low psalm, and the single voice of the leader of their devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened by strains of music, the tinkling of a small bell, and a perpetual change of service and ceremonial. A profound silence and unvarying look and posture announced the self-recollection and mental devotion of the Quakers.

Mr. Ambrose led his son Edwin round all these different assemblies as a spectator. Edwin viewed everything with great attention, and was often impatient to inquire of his father the meaning of what he saw; but Mr. Ambrose would not suffer him to disturb any of the congregation even by a whisper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a greater number of questions to put to his father, who explained everything put to him in the best manner he could. At length says Edwin:—

“But why cannot all these people agree to go to the same place, and worship God the same way?”

“And why should they agree?” replied his father. “Don’t you see that people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dress alike, and eat and drink alike, and keep the same hours, and use the same diversions?”

“Ay—but those are things in which they have a right to do as they please.”

“And they have a right, too, to worship God as they please. It is their own business, and concerns none but themselves.”

“But has not God ordered particular ways of worshipping him?”

“He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshipped, but not the particular form or manner. That is left for every one to choose, according as suits his temper and opinions. All these people like their own way best, and why should they leave it for the choice of another? Religion is one of the things in which _mankind were made to differ_.”

The several congregations now began to be dismissed, and the street was again overspread with persons of all the different sects, going promiscuously to their respective homes. It chanced that a poor man fell down in the street in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His wife and children stood round him crying and lamenting in the bitterest distress. The beholders immediately flocked round, and with looks and expressions of the warmest compassion, gave their help. A Churchman raised the man from the ground by lifting him under the arms, while a Dissenter held his head, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A Roman Catholic lady took out her smelling-bottle, and assiduously applied it to his nose. A Methodist ran for a doctor. A Quaker supported and comforted the woman, and a Baptist took care of the children.

Edwin and his father were among the spectators. “Here,” said Mr. Ambrose, “is a thing in _which mankind were made to agree_.”

THE LANDLORD’S VISIT.—A DRAMA.

Scene—_A room in a farmhouse_. BETTY, _the farmer’s wife_; FANNY, _a young woman grown up_; _children of various ages differently employed_.

_Enter_ LANDLORD.

_Landlord._ Good morning to you, Betty.

_Betty._ Ah!—is it your honour? How do you do, sir? how are madam and all the good family?

_Land._ Very well, thank you; and how are you, and all yours?

_Bet._ Thank your honour—all pretty well. Will you please to sit down? Ours is but a little crowded place, but there is a clean corner. Set out the chair for his honour, Mary.

_Land._ I think everything is very clean. What, John’s in the field, I suppose?

_Bet._ Yes, sir, with his two eldest sons, sowing and harrowing.

_Land._ Well, and here are two, three, four, six; all the rest of your stock, I suppose.—All as busy as bees!

_Bet._ Ay, your honour! These are not times to be idle in. John and I have always worked hard, and we bring up our children to work too. There’s none of them, except the youngest, but can do something.

_Land._ You do very rightly. With industry and sobriety there is no fear of their getting a living, come what may. I wish many gentlemen’s children had as good a chance.

_Bet._ Lord! sir, if they have fortunes ready got for them, what need they care?

_Land._ But fortunes are easier to spend than to get; and when they are at the bottom of the purse, what must they do to fill it again?

_Bet._ Nay, that’s true, sir; and we have reason enough to be thankful, that we are able and willing to work, and have a good landlord to live under.

_Land._ Good tenants deserve good landlords; and I have been long acquainted with your value. Come, little folks, I have brought something for you.

[_Takes out cakes._

_Bet._ Why don’t you thank his honour?

_Land._ I did not think you had a daughter so old as that young woman.

_Bet._ No more I have, sir. She is not my own daughter, though she is as good as one to me.

_Land._ Some relation, then, I suppose?

_Bet._ No, sir, none at all.

_Land._ Who is she, then?

_Bet._ (_whispering_). When she is gone out, I will tell your honour.—(_aloud._) Go, Fanny, and take some milk to the young calf in the stable.

[_Exit_ Fanny.

_Land._ A pretty modest-looking young woman, on my word!

_Bet._ Ay, sir—and as good as she is pretty. You must know, sir, that this young woman is a stranger from a great way off. She came here quite by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I’ll tell your honour all about it if you choose.

_Land._ Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But first favour me with a draught of your whey.

_Bet._ I beg your pardon, sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch his honour some fresh whey in a clean basin.

[Mary _goes_.

_Land._ Now, pray, begin your story.

_Bet._ Well, sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he saw at some distance on the road a carrier’s wagon overturned. He ran up to help, and found a poor old gentlewoman lying on the back much hurt, and this girl sitting beside her, crying. My good man, after he had helped in setting the wagon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of difficulty got the gentlewoman into the wagon again, and walked by the side of it to our house. He called me out and we got something comfortable for her; but she was so ill that she could not bear to be carried farther. So after consulting a while, we took her into the house, and put her to bed. Her head was sadly hurt, and she seemed to grow worse instead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our best to nurse her, but all would not do, and we soon found she was likely to die. Poor Fanny, her grand-daughter, never left her day or night; and it would have gone to your honour’s heart, to have heard the pitiful moan she made over her. She was the only friend she had in the world, she said; and what would become of her if she were to lose her? Fanny’s father and mother were both dead, and she was going with her grandmother into the north, where the old gentlewoman came from, to live cheap, and to try to find out some relations. Well—to make my story short, in a few days the poor woman died. There was a little more money about her than would serve to pay her doctor and bury her. Fanny was in sad trouble, indeed. I thought she would never have left her grandmother’s grave. She cried and wrung her hands most bitterly. But I tire your honour.

_Land._ O no! I am much interested in your story.

_Bet._ We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, “What will become of me? Where must I go? Who will take care of me?” So after a while, said I to John, “Poor creature! my heart grieves for her. Perhaps she would like to stay with us—though she seems to have been brought up in a way of living different from ours, too; but what can she do, left to herself in the wide world!” So my husband agreed that I should ask her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her countenance altered! “O,” said she, “I wish for nothing so much as to stay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to serve you, but indeed I will learn to do my best.” Said I: “Do no more than you like; you are welcome to stay and partake with us as long as you please.” Well, sir! she stayed with us; and set about learning to do all kind of our work with such good-will, and so handily, that she soon became my best helper. And she is so sweet-tempered, and so fond of us and the children, that I love her as well as if she was my own child. She has been well brought up, I am sure. She can read, and write, and work with her needle, a great deal better than we can, and when work is over, she teaches the children. Then she is extraordinarily well-behaved, so as to be admired by all that see her.—So your honour has now the story of our Fanny.

_Land._ I thank you heartily for it, my good Betty! It does much credit both to you and Fanny. But pray, what is her surname?

_Bet._ It is—let me see—I think it is Welford.

_Land._ Welford! that is a name I am acquainted with. I should be glad to talk with her a little.

_Bet._ I will call her in then.

[_Enter_ Fanny.

_Land._ Come hither, young woman; I have heard your story, and been much interested by it. You are an orphan, I find.

_Fanny._ Yes, sir; a poor orphan.

_Land._ Your name is Welford?

_Fan._ It is, sir.

_Land._ Where did your parents live?

_Fan._ In London, sir; but they died when I was very young, and I went to my grandmother’s in Surrey.

_Land._ Was she your father’s mother? You will excuse my questions. I do not ask from idle curiosity.

_Fan._ She was, sir; and had been long a widow.

_Land._ Do you know what her maiden name was?

_Fan._ It was Borrowdale, sir.

_Land._ Borrowdale!—And pray, whither were you going when the unfortunate accident happened?

_Fan._ To Kendal in Westmoreland, sir, near which my grandmother was born.

_Land._ Ah! ‘tis the very same—every circumstance corresponds! My dear Fanny (_taking her hand_), you have found a relation when you little thought of it. I am your kinsman. My mother was a Borrowdale, of Westmoreland, and half-sister to your grandmother. I have heard of all your parentage; and I remember the death of your poor father, who was a very honest ingenious artist: and of your mother soon after, of a broken heart. I could never discover what family they left, nor what was become of my kinswoman. But I rejoice I have found you out in this extraordinary manner. You must come and live with me. My wife and daughters will be very glad to receive one whose conduct has done her so much credit.

_Fan._ I am much obliged to you, sir, for your kindness; but I am too mean a person to live as a relation in a family like yours.

_Land._ O no! you will not find us of that sort who despise worthy people for being low in the world; and your language and actions show that you have been well brought up.

_Fan._ My poor grandmother, sir, was so kind as to give me all the education in her power; and if I have not somewhat benefited by her example and instructions, it must have been my own fault.

_Land._ You speak very well, and I feel more attached to you, the more I hear you.—Well, you must prepare to come home with me. I will take care to make proper acknowledgments to the good people here who have been so kind to you.

_Bet._ My dear Fanny, I am heartily glad of your good fortune, but we shall all be sorry to part with you.

_Fan._ I am sure, my dear friend and mistress, I shall be sorry too. You received me when I had no other friend in the world, and you treated me like your own child. I can never forget what I owe you.

_Enter_ John, _and his eldest son_ Thomas.

_John._ Is your honour here?

_Land._ Yes, John; and I have found something worth coming for.

_John._ What is that, sir?

_Land._ A relation, John. This young woman whom you have so kindly entertained, is my kinswoman.

_John._ What—our Fanny?

_Thomas._ Fanny!

_Land._ Yes, indeed. And, after thanking you for your kindness to her and her poor grandmother, I mean to take her home for a companion to my wife and daughters.

_John._ This is wonderful news, indeed! Well, Fanny, I am very glad you have got such a home to go to—you are worthy of it—but we shall miss you much here.

_Bet._ So I have been telling her.

_Thom._ (_aside to_ Fanny). What, will you leave us, Fanny? Must we part?

_Fan._ (_aside to him_). What can I do, Thomas?

_Land._ There seems some unwillingness to part, I see, on more sides than one.

_Bet._ Indeed, sir, I believe there is. We have lived very happily together.

_Thom._ (_aside to Fanny_). I see we must part with you, but I hope—Surely you won’t quite forget us?

_Fan._ (_to him_). You distress me, Thomas. Forget you! O no!

_Land._ Come, I see there is something between the young folks that ought to be spoken about plainly. Do you explain it, Betty.

_Bet._ Why, your honour knows, we could not tell that Fanny was your relation. So, as my son Thomas and she seemed to take a liking to one another, and she was such a clever girl, we did not object to their thinking about making a match of it, as soon as he should be settled in a farm.

_John._ But that must be over now.

_Thom._ Why so, father?

_John._ Why; you can’t think of his honour’s kinswoman.

_Land._ Come, Fanny, do you decide this affair.

_Fan._ Sir, Thomas offered me his service when he thought me a poor friendless girl, and I might think myself favoured by his notice. He gained my good will, which no change of circumstances can make me withdraw. It is my determination to join my lot with his, be it what it may.

_Thom._ My dearest Fanny!

[_Taking her hand._

_Land._ You act nobly, my dear girl, and make me proud of my relation. You shall have my free consent, and something handsome into the bargain.

_Bet._ Heaven bless your honour! I know it would have been a heartbreaking to my poor boy to have parted with her. Dear Fanny!

[_Kisses her._

_Land._ I have a farm just now vacant. Thomas shall take it, and Fanny’s portion shall stock it for him.

_Thom._ I humbly thank your honour.

_John._ I thank you too, sir, for us all.

_Fan._ Sir, since you have been so indulgent in this matter, give me leave to request you to be satisfied with my paying my duty to the ladies, without going to live in a way so different from what I have been used to, and must live in hereafter. I think I can be nowhere better than with my friends and future parents here.

_Land._ Your request, Fanny, has so much propriety and good sense in it, that I cannot refuse it. However, you must suffer us to improve our acquaintance. I assure you it will give me particular pleasure.

_Fan._ Sir, you will always command my most grateful obedience.

_Land._ Well—let Thomas bring you to my house this afternoon, and I will introduce you to your relations, and we will talk over matters. Farewell, my dear! Nay, I must have a kiss.

_Fan._ I will wait on you, sir.

[_Exit Landlord._

_Bet._ My dear Fanny—daughter I may now call you—you cannot think how much I feel obliged to you.

_Thom._ But who is so much obliged as I am?

_Fan._ Do you not all deserve everything from me?

_John._ Well, who could have thought when I went to help up the wagon, that it would have brought so much good luck to us?

_Bet._ A good deed is never lost they say.

_Fan._ It shall be the business of my life to prove that this has not been lost.

ON EMBLEMS.

“Pray, papa,” said Cecilia, “what is an _emblem_? I have met with the word in my lesson to-day, and I do not quite understand it.”

“An emblem, my dear,” replied he, “is a visible image of an invisible thing.”

_Cecilia._ A visible image of—I can hardly comprehend—

_Pa._ Well, I will explain it more at length. There are certain notions that we form in our minds without the help of our eyes or any of our senses. Thus, Virtue, Vice, Honour, Disgrace, Time, Death, and the like, are not sensible objects, but ideas of the understanding.

_Cec._ Yes—We cannot feel them or see them, but we can think about them.

_Pa._ True. Now it sometimes happens that we wish to represent one of these in a visible form; that is, to offer something to the sight that shall raise a similar notion in the minds of the beholders. In order to do this, we must take some action or circumstance belonging to it, capable of being expressed by painting or sculpture, and this is called a _type_ or _emblem_.

_Cec._ But how can this be done?

_Pa._ I will tell you by an example. You know the sessions-house, where trials are held. It would be easy to write over the door in order to distinguish it, “This is the sessions-house;” but it is a more ingenious and elegant way of pointing it out, to place upon the building a figure representing the purpose for which it was erected, namely, to distribute _justice_. For this end the notion of justice is to be _personified_, that is, changed from an idea of the understanding into one of the sight. A human figure is therefore made, distinguished by tokens which bear a relation to the character of that virtue. Justice carefully _weighs_ both sides of a cause; she is therefore represented as holding a _pair of scales_. It is her office to _punish_ crimes; she therefore bears a _sword_. This is then an _emblematical figure_, and the sword and scales are _emblems_.

_Cec._ I understand this very well. But why is she blindfolded?

_Pa._ To denote her impartiality—that she decides only from the merits of the case, and not from a view of the parties.

_Cec._ How can she weigh anything, though, when her eyes are blinded?

_Pa._ Well objected. These are two inconsistent emblems; each proper in itself, but when used together, making a contradictory action. An artist of judgment will therefore drop one of them; and accordingly the best modern figures of Justice have the balance and sword, without the bandage over the eyes.

_Cec._ Is there not the same fault in making Cupid blindfolded, and yet putting a bow and arrow into his hands?

_Pa._ There is. It is a gross absurdity, and not countenanced by the ancient descriptions of Cupid, who is represented as the surest of all archers.

_Cec._ I have a figure of _Death_ in my fable-book. I suppose that is emblematical?

_Pa._ Certainly, or you could not know that it meant Death. How is it represented?

_Cec._ He is nothing but bones, and he holds a scythe in one hand, and an hour-glass in the other.

_Pa._ Well—how do you interpret these emblems?

_Cec._ I suppose he is all bones, because nothing but bones are left after a dead body has lain long in the grave.

_Pa._ True. This, however, is not so properly an emblem, as the real and visible effect of death. But the scythe?

_Cec._ Is not that because death mows down everything?

_Pa._ It is. No instrument could so properly represent the wide-wasting sway of death, which sweeps down the race of animals like flowers falling under the hands of the mower. It is a simile used in the Scriptures.

_Cec._ The hour-glass, I suppose, is to show people their time is come.

_Pa._ Right. In the hour-glass that Death holds, all the sand is run out from the upper to the lower part. Have you never observed upon a monument an old figure, with wings, and a scythe, and with his head bald all but a single lock before?

_Cec._ O yes;—and I have been told it is _Time_.

_Pa._ Well—and what do you make of it? Why is he old?

_Cec._ O! because he has lasted a long while.

_Pa._ And why has he wings?

_Cec._ Because Time is swift, and flies away.

_Pa._ What does his scythe mean?

_Cec._ I suppose it is because he destroys and cuts down everything, like Death.

_Pa._ True. I think, however, a weapon rather slower in operation, as a pick-axe, would have been more suitable to the gradual action of time. But what is his single lock of hair for?

_Cec._ I have been thinking, and cannot make it out.

_Pa._ I thought that would puzzle you. It relates to time as giving _opportunity_ for doing anything. It is to be seized as it presents itself, or it will escape, and cannot be recovered. Thus the proverb says, “Take Time by the forelock.” Well—now you understand what emblems are.

_Cec._ Yes, I think I do. I suppose the painted sugar-loaves over the grocer’s shop, and the mortar over the apothecary’s, are emblems, too?

_Pa._ Not so properly. They are only the pictures of things which are themselves the objects of sight, as the real sugar-loaf in the shop of the grocer, and the real mortar in that of the apothecary. However, an implement belonging to a particular rank or profession is commonly used as an emblem to point out the man exercising that rank or profession. Thus, a crown is considered as an emblem of a king; a sword, or spear, of a soldier; an anchor, of a sailor; and the like.

_Cec._ I remember Captain Heartwell, when he came to see us, had the figure of an anchor on all his buttons.

_Pa._ He had. That was the emblem or badge of his belonging to the navy.

_Cec._ But you told me that an emblem was a visible sign of an invisible thing; yet a sea-captain is not an invisible thing.

_Pa._ He is not invisible as a man, but his profession is invisible.

_Cec._ I do not well understand that.

_Pa._ Profession is a _quality_, belonging equally to a number of individuals, however different they may be in external form and appearance. It may be added or taken away without any visible change. Thus, if Captain Heartwell were to give up his commission, he would appear to you the same man as before. It is plain, therefore, that what in that case he had lost, namely, his profession, was a thing invisible. It is one of those ideas of the understanding which I before mentioned to you as different from a sensible idea.

_Cec._ I comprehend it now.

_Pa._ I have got here a few emblematical pictures. Suppose you try whether you can find out their meaning.

_Cec._ O yes—I shall like that very well.

_Pa._ Here is a man standing on the summit of a steep cliff, and going to ascend a ladder which he has planted against a cloud.

_Cec._ Let me see!—that must be _Ambition_, I think.

_Pa._ How do you explain it?

_Cec._ He is got very high already, but he wants to be still higher; so he ventures up the ladder, though it is only supported by a cloud, and hangs over a precipice.

_Pa._ Very right. Here is now another man, hood-winked, who is crossing a raging torrent upon stepping-stones.

_Cec._ Then he will certainly fall in. I suppose he is one that runs into danger without considering whither he is going?

_Pa._ Yes; and you may call him _Fool-hardiness_. Do you see this hand coming out of a black cloud, and putting an extinguisher upon a lamp?

_Cec._ I do. If that lamp be the lamp of life, the hand that extinguishes it must be _Death_.

_Pa._ Very just. Here is an old, half-ruined building, supported by props; and the figure of Time is sawing through one of the props.

_Cec._ That must be _Old Age_, surely.

_Pa._ It is. The next is a man leaning upon a breaking crutch.

_Cec._ I don’t well know what to make of that.

_Pa._ It is intended for _Instability_; however, it might also stand for _False Confidence_. Here is a man poring over a sundial with a candle in his hand.

_Cec._ I am at a loss for that, too.

_Pa._ Consider—a sundial is only made to tell the hour by the light of the sun.

_Cec._ Then this man must know nothing about it.

_Pa._ True; and his name is therefore _Ignorance_. Here is a walking-stick, the lower part of which is set in the water, and it appears crooked. What does that denote?

_Cec._ Is the stick really crooked?

_Pa._ No; but it is the property of water to give that appearance.

_Cec._ Then it must signify _Deception_.

_Pa._ It does. I dare say you will at once know this fellow who is running as fast as his legs will carry him, and looking back at his shadow.

_Cec._ He must be _Fear_ or _Terror_, I fancy.

_Pa._ Yes; you may call him which you please. But who is this sower, that scatters seeds in the ground?

_Cec._ Let me consider. I think there is a parable in the Bible about seed sown, and it therefore signifies something like _Instruction_.

_Pa._ True; but it may also represent _Hope_, for no one sows without hoping to reap the fruit. What do you think of this candle held before a mirror, in which its figure is exactly reflected?

_Cec._ I do not know what it means.

_Pa._ It represents _Truth_; the essence of which consists in the fidelity with which objects are received and reflected back by our minds. The object is here a luminous one, to show the clearness and brightness of Truth. Here is next an upright column, the perfect straightness of which is shown by a plumb-line hanging from its summit, and exactly parallel to the side of the column.

_Cec._ I suppose that must represent _Uprightness_.

_Pa._ Yes—or in other words, _Rectitude_. The strength and stability of the pillar alone denote the security produced by this virtue. You see here a woman disentangling and reeling off a very perplexed skein of thread.

_Cec._ She must have a great deal of patience.

_Pa._ True. She is _Patience_ herself. The brooding hen, sitting beside her, is another emblem of the same quality that aids the interpretation. Who do you think this pleasing female is, that looks with such kindness upon the drooping plant she is watering?

_Cec._ That must be _Charity_, I believe.

_Pa._ It is; or you may call her _Benignity_, which is nearly the same thing. Here is a lady sitting demurely, with one finger on her lip, while she holds a bridle in her other hand.

_Cec._ The finger on the lip, I suppose, denotes Silence. The bridle must mean confinement. I should almost fancy her to be a schoolmistress.

_Pa._ Ha! ha! I hope, indeed, many schoolmistresses are endued with her spirit, for she is _Prudence_ or _Discretion_. Well—we are now got to the end of our pictures, and upon the whole you have interpreted them very prettily.

_Cec._ But I have one question to ask you, papa. In these pictures and others that I have seen of the same sort, almost all the _good_ qualities are represented in the form of _women_. What is the reason of that?

_Pa._ It is certainly a compliment, my dear, either to your sex’s person or mind. The inventor either chose the figure of a female to clothe each agreeable quality in, because he thought that the most agreeable form, and therefore best suited it; or he meant to imply that the female character is really the most virtuous and amiable. I rather believe that the first was his intention, but I shall not object to your taking it in the light of the second.

_Cec._ But is it true—is it true?

_Pa._ Why, I can give you very good authority for the preference of the female sex, in a moral view. One Ledyard, a great traveller, who had walked through almost all the countries of Europe, and at last died in an expedition to explore the internal parts of Africa, gave a most decisive and pleasing testimony in favour of the superior character of women, whether savage or civilized. I was so much pleased with it, that I put great part of it into verse; and if it will not make you vain, I will give you a copy of my lines.

_Cec._ O, pray, do!

_Pa._ Here they are. Read them.

LEDYARD’S PRAISE OF WOMEN.

Through many a land and clime a ranger With toilsome steps, I’ve held my way, A lonely, unprotected stranger, To all the stranger’s ills a prey.

While steering thus my course precarious, My fortune still had been to find Men’s hearts and dispositions various, But gentle Woman ever kind.

Alive to every tender feeling, To deeds of mercy ever prone, The wounds of pain and sorrow healing With soft compassion’s sweetest tone.

No proud delay, no dark suspicion, Stints the free bounty of their heart; They turn not from the sad petition, But cheerful aid at once impart.

Formed in benevolence of nature, Obliging, modest, gay, and mild, Woman’s the same endearing creature In courtly town and savage wild.

When parched with thirst, with hunger wasted, Her friendly hand refreshment gave, How sweet the coarsest food has tasted! What cordial in the simple wave!

Her courteous looks, her words caressing, Shed comfort on the fainting soul: Woman’s the stranger’s general blessing, From sultry India to the Pole.

GENEROUS REVENGE.

At the period when the republic of Genoa was divided between the factions of the nobles and the people, Uberto, a man of low origin, but of an elevated mind and superior talents, and enriched by commerce, having raised himself to be the head of a popular party, maintained for a considerable time a democratic form of government.

The nobles, at length, uniting all their efforts, succeeded in subverting this state of things, and regained their former supremacy. They used their victory with considerable rigour; and in particular having imprisoned Uberto, proceeded against him as a traitor, and thought they displayed sufficient lenity in passing a sentence upon him of perpetual banishment, and the confiscation of all his property. Adorno, who was then possessed of the first magistracy, a man haughty in temper, and proud of ancient nobility, though otherwise not void of generous sentiments, in pronouncing this sentence on Uberto, aggravated its severity by the insolent terms in which he conveyed it. “You,” said he,—“you, the son of a base mechanic, who have dared to trample upon the nobles of Genoa—you, by their clemency, are only doomed to shrink again into the nothingness whence you sprung.”

Uberto received his condemnation with respectful submission to the court; yet stung by the manner in which it was expressed, he could not forbear saying to Adorno, that “perhaps he might hereafter find cause to repent the language he had used to a man capable of sentiments as elevated as his own.” He then made his obeisance and retired; and after taking leave of his friends, embarked in a vessel bound for Naples, and quitted his native country without a tear.

He collected some debts due to him in the Neapolitan dominions, and with the wreck of his fortune went to settle on one of the islands in the Archipelago belonging to the state of Venice. Here his industry and capacity in mercantile pursuits raised him, in a course of years, to greater wealth than he had possessed in his most prosperous days at Genoa; and his reputation for honour and generosity equalled his fortune.

Among other places which he frequently visited as a merchant, was the city of Tunis, at that time in friendship with the Venetians, though hostile to most of the other Italian states, and especially to Genoa. As Uberto was on a visit to one of the first men of that place at his country-house, he saw a young Christian slave at work in irons, whose appearance excited his attention. The youth seemed oppressed with labour, to which his delicate frame had not been accustomed, and while he leaned at intervals upon the instrument with which he was working, a sigh burst from his full heart, and a tear stole down his cheek. Uberto eyed him with tender compassion, and addressed him in Italian. The youth eagerly caught the sounds of his native tongue, and replying to his inquiries, informed him he was a Genoese. “And what is your name, young man?” said Uberto. “You need not be afraid of confessing to _me_ your birth and condition.”

“Alas!” he answered, “I fear my captors already suspect enough to demand a large ransom. My father is indeed one of the first men in Genoa. His name is Adorno, and I am his only son.”—“Adorno!” Uberto checked himself from uttering more aloud, but to himself he cried, “Thank Heaven! then I shall be nobly revenged.”

He took leave of the youth, and immediately went to inquire after the corsair captain who claimed a right in young Adorno, and having found him, demanded the price of his ransom. He learned that he was considered as a captive of value, and that less than two thousand crowns would not be accepted. Uberto paid the sum; and causing his servant to follow him with a horse and a complete suit of handsome apparel, he returned to the youth, who was working as before, and told him he was free. With his own hands he took off his fetters, and helped him to change his dress, and mount on horseback. The youth was tempted to think it all a dream, and the flutter of emotion almost deprived him of the power of returning thanks to his generous benefactor. He was soon, however, convinced of the reality of his good fortune, by sharing the lodging and table of Uberto.

After a stay of some days at Tunis to despatch the remainder of his business, Uberto departed homeward accompanied by young Adorno, who by his pleasing manners had highly ingratiated himself with him. Uberto kept him some time at his house, treating him with all the respect and affection he could have shown for the son of his dearest friend. At length, having a safe opportunity of sending him to Genoa, he gave him a faithful servant for a conductor, fitted him out with every convenience, slipped a purse of gold into one hand, and a letter into the other, and thus addressed him:—

“My dear youth, I could with much pleasure detain you longer in my humble mansion, but I feel your impatience to revisit your friends, and I am sensible that it would be cruelty to deprive them longer than necessary of the joy they will receive in recovering you. Deign to accept this provision for your voyage, and deliver this letter to your father. _He_ probably may recollect something of me, though you are too young to do so. Farewell; I shall not soon forget you, and I hope you will not forget me.” Adorno poured out the effusions of a grateful and affectionate heart, and they parted with mutual tears and embraces.

The young man had a prosperous voyage home; and the transport with which he was again beheld by his almost heart-broken parents may more easily be conceived than described. After learning that he had been a captive in Tunis, (for it was supposed that the ship in which he sailed had foundered at sea,) “And to whom,” said old Adorno, “am I indebted for the inestimable benefit of restoring you to my arms?”—“This letter,” said his son, “will inform you.” He opened it, and read as follows:—

“That son of a vile mechanic, who told you that one day you might repent the scorn with which you treated him, has the satisfaction of seeing his prediction accomplished. For know, proud noble! that the deliverer of your only son from slavery is

“_The banished_ UBERTO.”

Adorno dropped the letter and covered his face with his hand, while his son was displaying in the warmest language of gratitude the virtues of Uberto, and the truly paternal kindness he had experienced from him. As the debt could not be cancelled, Adorno resolved if possible to repay it. He made such powerful intercessions with the other nobles, that the sentence pronounced on Uberto was reversed, and full permission given him to return to Genoa. In apprizing him of this event, Adorno expressed his sense of the obligations he lay under to him, acknowledged the genuine nobleness of his character, and requested his friendship. Uberto returned to his country, and closed his days in peace, with the universal esteem of his fellow-citizens.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

William was one day reading in a book of travels to his father, when he came to the following relation:—

“The Andes in South America are the highest ridge of mountains in the known world. There is a road over them, on which, about halfway between the summit and the foot, is a house of entertainment, where it is common for travellers in their ascent and descent to meet. The difference of their feelings upon the same spot is very remarkable. Those who are descending the mountain are melting with heat, so that they can scarcely bear any clothes upon them; while those who are ascending shiver with cold, and wrap themselves up in the warmest garments they have.”

“How strange this is!” cried William; “What can be the reason of it?”

“It is,” replied his father, “a striking instance of the _power of habit_ over the body. The cold is so intense on the top of these mountains, that it is as much as travellers can do to keep themselves from being frozen to death. Their bodies, therefore, become so habituated to the sensation of cold, that every diminution of it as they descend seems to them a degree of actual heat; and when they are got halfway down, they feel as if they were quite in a sultry climate. On the other hand the valleys at the foot of the mountains are so excessively hot, that the body becomes relaxed, and sensible to the slightest degree of cold; so that when a traveller ascends from them toward the hills, the middle regions appear quite inclement from their coldness.”

“And does the same thing,” rejoined William, “always happen in crossing high mountains?”

“It does,” returned his father, “in a degree proportioned to their height, and the time taken in crossing them. Indeed, a short time is sufficient to produce similar effects. Let one boy have been playing at rolling snowballs, and another have been roasting himself before a great fire, and let them meet in the porch of the house;—if you ask them how they feel, I will answer for it you will find them as different in their accounts as the travellers on the Andes. But this is only one example of the operation of a universal principle belonging to human nature: for the power of habit is the same thing whatever be the circumstance which calls it forth, whether relating to the mind or the body.

“You may consider the story you have been reading as a sort of simile or parable. The central station on the mountain may be compared to _middle life_. With what different feelings is this regarded by those who bask in the sunshine of opulence, and those who shrink under the cold blast of penury!

“Suppose the wealthy duke, our neighbour, were suddenly obliged to descend to our level, and live as we do—to part with all his carriages, sell his coach-horses, and hunters, quit his noble seat with its fine park and gardens, dismiss all his train of servants except two or three, and take a house like ours; what a dreadful fall it would seem to him! how wretched it would probably make him, and how much would he be pitied by the world!

“On the other hand, suppose the labourer who lives in the next cottage were unexpectedly to fall heir to an estate of a few hundreds a year, and in consequence to get around him all the comforts and conveniences that we possess—a commodious house to inhabit, good clothes to wear, plenty of wholesome food and firing, servants to do all the drudgery of the family and the like;—how all his acquaintance would congratulate him, and what a paradise would he seem to himself to be got into! Yet he, and the duke, and ourselves, are equally _men_, made liable by nature to the same desires and necessities, and perhaps all equally strong in constitution, and equally capable of supporting hardships. Is not this fully as wonderful a difference in feeling as that on crossing the Andes?”

“Indeed it is,” said William.

“And the cause of it must be exactly the same—the influence of habit.”

“I think so.”

“Of what importance then must it be toward a happy life, to regulate our habits so, that in the possible changes of this world we may be more likely to be gainers than losers!”

“But how can this be done? Would it be right for the duke to live like us, or us like the labourer?”

“Certainly not. But to apply the case to persons of our middle condition, I would have us use our advantages in such a frugal manner, as to make them as little as possible essential to our happiness, should fortune sink us to a lower station. For as to the chance of rising to a higher, there is no need to prepare our habits for that—we should readily enough accommodate our feelings to such a change. To be pleased and satisfied with simple food, to accustom ourselves not to shrink from the inclemencies of the seasons—to avoid indolence, and take delight in some useful employment of the mind or body, to do as much as we can for ourselves, and not expect to be waited upon on every small occasion—these are the habits which will make us in some measure independent of fortune, and secure us a moderate degree of enjoyment under every change short of absolute want. I will tell you a story to this purpose.

“A London merchant had two sons, James and Richard. James, from a boy, accustomed himself to every indulgence in his power, and when he grew up, was quite a fine gentleman. He dressed expensively, frequented public diversions, kept his hunter at a livery stable, and was a member of several convivial clubs. At home, it was almost a footman’s sole business to wait on him. He would have thought it greatly beneath him to buckle his own shoes; and if he wanted anything at the other end of the room, he would ring the bell, and bring the servant up two pair of stairs, rather than rise from his chair to fetch it. He did a little business in the counting-house on forenoons, but devoted all his time after dinner to indolence and amusement.

“Richard was a different character. He was plain in his appearance, and domestic in his way of life. He gave as little trouble as possible, and would have been ashamed to ask assistance in doing what he could easily do for himself. He was assiduous in business, and employed his leisure hours chiefly in reading and acquiring useful knowledge.

“Both were still young and unsettled when their father died, leaving behind him a very trifling property. As the young men had not capital sufficient to follow the same line of mercantile business in which he had been engaged, they were obliged to look out for a new plan of maintenance, and a great reduction of expense was the first thing requisite. This was a severe stroke to James, who found himself at once cut off from all the pleasures and indulgences to which he was so habituated, that he thought life of no value without them. He grew melancholy and dejected, hazarded all his little property in lottery tickets, and was quite beggared. Still, unable to think of retrieving himself by industry and frugality, he accepted a commission in a new-raised regiment ordered for the West Indies, where, soon after his arrival, he caught a fever and died.

“Richard, in the meantime, whose comforts were little impaired by his change of situation, preserved his cheerfulness, and found no difficulty in accommodating himself to his fortune. He engaged himself as a clerk in a house his father had been connected with, and lived as frugally as possible upon his salary. It furnished him with decent board, lodging, and clothing, which was all he required, and his hours of leisure were nearly as many as before. A book or a sober friend always sufficed to procure him an agreeable evening. He gradually rose in the confidence of his employers, who increased from time to time his salary and emoluments. Every increase was a source of gratification to him, because he was able to enjoy pleasures which, however, habit had not made necessary to his comfort. In process of time he was enabled to settle for himself, and passed through life in the enjoyment of that modest competence which best suited his disposition.”

THE COST OF A WAR.

“You may remember, Oswald,” said Mr. B. to his son, “that I gave you some time ago a notion of _the price of a victory_ to the poor souls engaged in it.”

“I shall not soon forget it, I assure you, sir,” replied Oswald.

_Father._ Very well; I mean now to give you some idea _of the cost of a war_ to the people among whom it is carried on. This may serve to abate something of the admiration with which historians are to apt to inspire us for great warriors and conquerors. You have heard, I doubt not, of Louis the Fourteenth, king of France?

_Oswald._ Oh, yes!

_Fa._ He was entitled by his subjects _Louis le Grand_, and was compared by them to the Cesars and Alexanders of antiquity; and with some justice as to the extent of his power, and the use he made of it. He was the most potent prince of his time; commanded mighty and victorious armies; and enlarged the limits of his hereditary dominions. Louis was not naturally a hard-hearted man; but having been taught from his cradle that everything ought to give way to the interests of his glory, and that this glory consisted in domineering over his neighbours, and making conquests, he grew to be insensible to all the miseries brought on his own and other people, in pursuit of this noble design, as he thought it. Moreover, he was plunged in dissolute pleasures, and the delights of pomp and splendour, from his youth; and he was ever surrounded by a tribe of abject flatterers, who made him believe that he had a full right, in all cases to do as he pleased. Conquest abroad and pleasure at home, were therefore the chief business of his life.

One evening, his minister, Louvois, came to him and said, “Sire, it is absolutely necessary to make a desert of the _Palatinate_.”

This is a country in Germany, on the banks of the Rhine, one of the most populous and best-cultivated districts in that empire, filled with towns and villages, and industrious inhabitants.

“I should be sorry to do it,” replied the king, “for you know how much odium we acquired throughout Europe when a part of it was laid waste sometime ago, under Marshal Turenne.”

“It cannot be helped, sire,” returned Louvois. “All the damage he did has been repaired, and the country is as flourishing as ever. If we leave it in its present state it will afford quarters to your majesty’s enemies, and endanger your conquests. It must be entirely ruined—the good of the service will not permit it to be otherwise.”

“Well, then,” answered Louis, “if it must be so, you are to give orders accordingly.” So saying, he left the cabinet, and went to assist a magnificent festival given in honour of his favourite mistress by a prince of the blood.

The pitiless Louvois lost no time; but despatched a courier that very night, with positive orders to the French generals in the Palatinate to carry fire and desolation through the whole country—not to leave a house or a tree standing—and to expel all the inhabitants.

It was the midst of a rigorous winter.

_Os._ O horrible! but surely the generals would not obey such orders?

_Fa._ What, a general disobey the commands of his sovereign!—That would be contrary to every maxim of the _trade_. Right and wrong are no considerations to a military man. He is only to do as he is bid. The French generals who were upon the spot, and must see with their own eyes all that was done, probably felt somewhat like men on the occasion; but the sacrifice to their duty as soldiers was so much the greater. The commands were peremptory, and they were obeyed to a tittle. Towns and villages were burnt to the ground; vineyards and orchards were cut down and rooted up; sheep and cattle were killed; all the fair works of ages were destroyed in a moment; and the smiling face of culture was turned to a dreary waste.

The poor inhabitants were driven from their warm and comfortable habitations into the open fields, to confront all the inclemencies of the season. Their furniture was burnt or pillaged, and nothing was left them but the clothes on their backs, and the few necessaries they could carry with them. The roads were covered with trembling fugitives, going they knew not whither, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger. Here an old man, dropping with fatigue, lay down to die—there a woman with a new-born infant sunk perishing on the snow, while her husband hung over them in all the horror of despair.

_Os._ O, what a scene! Poor creatures! What became of them at last?

_Fa._ Such of them as did not perish on the road got to the neighbouring towns, where they were received with all the hospitality that such calamitous times would afford; but they were beggared for life. Meantime, their country for many a league round displayed no other sight than that of black smoking ruins in the midst of silence and desolation.

_Os._ I hope, however, that such things do not often happen in war.

_Fa._ Not often, perhaps, to the same extent: but in some degree they must take place in every war. A village which would afford a favourable post to the enemy is always burnt without hesitation. A country which can no longer be maintained, is cleared of all its provision and forage before it is abandoned, lest the enemy should have the advantage of them; and the poor inhabitants are left to subsist as they can. Crops of corn are trampled down by armies in their march, or devoured while green as fodder for their horses. Pillage, robbery and murder, are always going on in the outskirts of the best-disciplined camp. Then consider what must happen in every siege. On the first approach of the enemy, all the buildings in the suburbs of a town are demolished, and all the trees in gardens and public walks are cut down, lest they should afford shelter to the besiegers. As the siege goes on, bombs, hot balls, and cannon-shot, are continually flying about; by which the greatest part of a town is ruined or laid in ashes, and many of the innocent people killed or maimed. If the resistance is obstinate, famine and pestilence are sure to take place; and if the garrison holds out to the last, and the town is taken by storm, it is generally given up to be pillaged by the enraged and licentious soldiery.

It would be easy to bring too many examples of cruelty exercised upon a conquered country, even in very late times, when war is said to be carried on with so much humanity; but, indeed, how can it be otherwise? The art of war is essentially that of destruction, and it is impossible there should be a mild and merciful way of murdering and ruining one’s fellow-creatures. Soldiers, as men, are often humane; but war must ever be cruel. Though Homer has filled his Iliad with the exploits of fighting heroes, yet he makes Jupiter address Mars, the god of War, in terms of the utmost abhorrence:—

“Of all the gods who tread the spangled skies, Thou most unjust, most odious in our eyes; In human discord is thy dire delight, The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight: No bound, no law, thy fiery temper quells.”—POPE.

_Os._ Surely, as war is so bad a thing, there might be some way of preventing it.

_Fa._ Alas! I fear mankind have been too long accustomed to it, and it is too agreeable to their bad passions, easily to be laid aside, whatever miseries it may bring upon them. But, in the meantime, let us correct our own ideas of the matter, and no longer lavish admiration upon such a pest of the human race as a _Conqueror_, how brilliant soever his qualities may be; nor ever think that a profession which binds a man to be the servile instrument of cruelty and injustice is an _honourable_ calling.

GREAT MEN.

“I will show you a _great man_,” said Mr. C. one day to his son, at the time the duke of Bridgewater’s canal was making. He accordingly took him to a place where several workmen were employed in raising a prodigious mound, on the top of which the canal was to be carried across a deep valley. In the midst of them was a very plain-dressed man, awkward in his gestures, uncouth in his appearance, and rather heavy in his countenance—in short, a mere countryman like the rest. He had a plan in his hand and was giving directions to the people around him, and surveying the whole labour with profound attention. “This, Arthur,” said Mr. C., “is the _great Mr. Brindley_.”

“What,” cried Arthur in surprise, “is that a _great man_?”

_Mr. C._ Yes, a very great man. Why are you surprised?

_Ar._ I don’t know, but I should have expected a great man to have looked very differently.

_Mr. C._ It matters little how a man looks, if he can perform great things. That person, without any advantages of education, has become, by the force of his own genius, the first engineer of the age. He is doing things that were never done or even thought of in this country before. He pierces hills, makes bridges over valleys, and aqueducts across navigable rivers, and, in short, is likely to change the whole face of the country, and to introduce improvements the value of which cannot be calculated. When at a loss how to bring about any of his designs, he does not go to other people for assistance, but he consults the wonderful faculties of his own mind, and finds a way to overcome his difficulties. He looks like a rustic it is true, but he has a soul of the first order, such as is not granted to one out of millions of the human race.

_Ar._ But are all men of extraordinary abilities properly _great men_?

_Mr. C._ The word has been variously used; but I would call every one a great man _who does great things by means of his own powers_. Great abilities are often employed about trifles, or indolently wasted without any considerable exertion at all. To make a great man, the object pursued should be large and important, and vigour and perseverance should be employed in the pursuit.

_Ar._ All the great men I remember to have read about were kings, or generals, or prime ministers, or in some high station or other.

_Mr. C._ It is natural they should stand foremost in the list of great men, because the sphere in which they act is an extensive one, and what they do has a powerful influence over numbers of mankind. Yet those that invent useful arts, or discover important truths which may promote the comfort and happiness of unborn generations in the most distant parts of the world, act a still more important part; and their claim to merit is generally more undoubted than that of the former, because what they do is more certainly their own.

In order to estimate the real share a man in a high station has had in the great events which have been attributed to him, strip him in your imagination of all the external advantages of rank and power, and see what a figure he would have made without them; or fancy a common man put in his place, and judge whether affairs would have gone on in the same track. Augustus Cesar, and Louis XIV. of France, have both been called great princes; but deprive them of their crown, and they will both dwindle into obscure and trivial characters. But no change of circumstances could reduce Alfred the Great to the level of a common man. The two former could sink into their graves, and yield their power to a successor, and scarcely be missed; but Alfred’s death changed the fate of his kingdom. Thus with Epaminondas fell all the glory and greatness of the Theban state. He first raised it to consequence, and it could not survive him.

_Ar._ Was not Czar Peter a great man?

_Mr. C._ I am not sure he deserves that title. Being a despotic prince, at the head of a vast empire, he could put into execution whatever plans he was led to adopt, and these plans in general were grand and beneficial to his country. But the means he used were such as the master of the lives and fortunes of millions could easily employ, and there was more of brutal force than of skill and judgment in the manner in which he pursued his designs. Still he was an _extraordinary_ man; and the resolution of leaving his throne, in order to acquire in foreign countries the knowledge necessary to rescue his own from barbarism, was a feature of greatness. A truly great prince, however, would have employed himself better than in learning to build boats at Saardam.

_Ar._ What was Alexander the Great?

_Mr. C._ A great conqueror, but not a great man. It was easy for him, with the well-disciplined army of Greeks which he received from his father Philip, to overrun the unwarlike kingdoms of Asia, and defeat the Great King, as the king of Persia was called: but though he showed some marks of an elevated mind, he seems to have possessed few qualities which could have raised him to distinction had he been born in an humble station. Compare his fugitive grandeur, supported by able ministers and generals, to the power which his tutor the great Aristotle, merely through the force of his own genius, exercised over men’s minds throughout the most civilized part of the world for two thousand years after his death. Compare also the part which has been acted in the world by the Spanish monarchs, the masters of immense possessions in Europe and America, to that by Christopher Columbus, the Genoese navigator, who could have it inscribed on his tombstones that he _gave_ a new world to the kingdom of Castile and Aragon. These comparisons will teach you to distinguish between greatness of character and greatness of station, which are too often confounded. He who governs a great country may in one sense be called a great king; but this is no more than an appellation belonging to rank, like that of the Great Mogul, or the Grand Seignor, and infers no more personal grandeur than the title of Mr. Such-a-one, the Great Grocer, or Great Brewer.

_Ar._ Must not great men be good men, too?

_Mr. C._ If that man is great who does great things, it will not follow that goodness must necessarily be one of his qualities, since that chiefly refers to the end and intentions of actions. Julius Cesar, and Cromwell, for example, were men capable of the greatest exploits; but directing them, not to the public good, but to the purposes of their own ambition, in pursuit of which they violated all the duties of morality, they have obtained the title of _great bad men_. A person, however, cannot be great at all without possessing many virtues. He must be firm, steady, and diligent, superior to difficulties and dangers, and equally superior to the allurements of ease and pleasure. For want of these moral qualities, many persons of exalted minds and great talents have failed to deserve the title of great men. It is in vain that the French poets and historians have decorated Henry the Fourth with the name of Great; his facility of disposition and uncontrollable love of pleasure have caused him to forfeit his claim to it in the estimation of impartial judges. As power is essential to greatness, a man cannot be great without _power over himself_, which is the highest kind of power.

_Ar._ After all, is it not better to be a good man than a great one?

_Mr. C._ There is more merit in being a good man, because it is what we make ourselves, whereas the talents that produce greatness are the gift of nature; though they may be improved by our own efforts, they cannot be acquired. But if goodness is the proper object of our love and esteem, greatness deserves our high admiration and respect. This Mr. Brindley before us is by all accounts a worthy man, but it is not for this reason I have brought you to see him. I wish you to look upon him as one of those sublime and uncommon objects of nature which fill the mind with a certain awe and astonishment. Next to being great oneself, it is desirable to have a true relish for greatness.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I am one of four sisters; and having some reason to think myself not well used either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a sketch of our history and characters. You will not wonder there should be frequent bickerings among us, when I tell you that in our infancy we were continually fighting; and so great was the noise, and din, and confusion, in our continual struggles to get uppermost, that it was impossible for anybody to live among us in such a scene of tumult and disorder. These brawls, however, by a powerful interposition, were put an end to; our proper place was assigned to each of us, and we had strict orders not to encroach on the limits of each other’s property, but to join our common offices for the good of the whole family.

My first sister (I call her the first, because we have generally allowed her the precedence in rank) is, I must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly disposition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than any of us; but she is hot: everything serves for fuel to her fury when it is once raised to a certain degree, and she is so mischievous whenever she gets the upper hand, that notwithstanding her aspiring disposition, if I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to make a good servant, but a very bad mistress.

I am almost ashamed to mention that, notwithstanding her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious appetite, and devours everything that comes in her way; though, like other eager thin people, she does no credit to her keeping. Many a time she has consumed the product of my barns and storehouses, but it is all lost upon her. She has even been known to get into an oil-shop or tallow-chandler’s, when everybody was asleep, and lick up with the utmost greediness whatever she found there. Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though she is admitted into the best families, they take care to watch her very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, that my sister was once in a country where she was treated with uncommon respect; she was lodged in a sumptuous building, and had a number of young women of the best families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health: in short, she was looked upon as something more than a common mortal. But she always behaved with great severity to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a slip in their own conduct, nothing would serve her but burying the poor girls alive. I have myself had some dark hints and intimations from the most respectable authority, that she will some time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next sister I shall mention to you has so far the appearance of modesty and humility, that she generally seeks the lowest place. She is indeed of a very yielding easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a sweet placid smile upon her countenance; but she is easily ruffled, and when worked up, as she often is, by another sister, whom I shall mention to you by-and-by, she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so apt to swell with sudden gusts of passion, that she is suspected at times to be a little lunatic. Between her and my first-mentioned sister, there is a more settled antipathy than between the Theban pair; and they never meet without making efforts to destroy one another. With me she is always ready to form the most intimate union, but it is not always to my advantage. There goes a story in our family, that when we were all young, she once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under water a considerable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my constitution is generally thought to have been essentially injured by it ever since. From that time she has made no such atrocious attempt, but she is continually making encroachments upon my property, and even when she appears most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such an undermining way with her, that her insinuating arts are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonstrate, but it is a known part of her character, that nothing makes any lasting impression upon her.

As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the ill office she does me with my last-mentioned one, who is entirely under her influence. She is besides of a very uncertain, variable temper, sometimes hot, and sometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightness is ever proverbial, and she has nothing to give those who live with her more substantial than the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she keeps in her service three or four rough blustering bullies, with puffed cheeks, who when they are let loose, think they have nothing to do but drive the world before them. She sometimes joins with my first sister, and their violence occasionally throws me into such a trembling, that, though naturally of a firm constitution, I shake as if I was in an ague fit.

As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper; not shining, indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady Bountiful. Every one tastes of my beneficence, and I am of so grateful a disposition, that I have been known to return a hundred-fold for any present that has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other. I bear with unrepining patience all manner of ill usage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wounded with the most cutting strokes; I am pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most secret chambers; notwithstanding which I am always ready to return good for evil, and am continually subservient to the pleasures or advantage of others; yet so ungrateful is the world, that because I do not possess all the airiness and activity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as dull and heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called by way of derision one of my children; and if a person on entering a room does but turn his eyes upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good company. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding that people always incline towards me as they grow older; and that those who seemed proudly to disdain any affinity with me, are content to sink at last into my bosom. You will probably wish to have some account of my person. I am not a regular beauty; some of my features are rather harsh and prominent, when viewed separately; but my countenance has so much variety of expression, and so many different aspects of elegance, that those who study my face with attention find out continually new charms; and it may be truly said of me, what Titus says of his mistress, and for a much longer space:—

“Pendant cinq ans entières tous les jours je la vois, Et crois toujours la voir pour la première fois.”

“For five whole years each day she meets my view, Yet every day I seem to see her new.”

Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a surprising air of youth and freshness, which is assisted by all the advantages of well-chosen ornament, for I dress well, and according to the season.

This is what I have to say chiefly of myself and my sisters. To a person of your sagacity it will be unnecessary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the difference in our features and characters.

THE GAIN OF A LOSS.

Philander possessed a considerable place about the court, which obliged him to live in a style of show and expense. He kept high company, made frequent entertainments, and brought up a family of several daughters in all the luxurious elegance which his situation and prospects seemed to justify. His wife had balls and routs at her own house, and frequented all the places of fashionable amusement. After some years passed in this manner, a sudden change of parties threw Philander out of his employment, and at once ruined all his plans of future advancement. Though his place had been lucrative, the expense it led him into more than compensated the profits, so that, instead of saving anything, he had involved himself considerably in debt. His creditors, on hearing of the change in his affairs, became so importunate, that, in order to satisfy them, he was compelled to sell a moderate paternal estate in a remote county, reserving nothing out of it but one small farm. Philander had strength of mind sufficient to enable him at once to decide on the best plan to be followed in his present circumstances; instead, therefore, of wasting his time and remaining property in fruitless attempts to interest his town friends in his favour, he sold off his fine furniture, and without delay carried down his whole family to the little spot he could still call his own, where he commenced a life of industry and strict frugality in the capacity of a small farmer. It was long before the female part of his household could accommodate themselves to a mode of living so new to them, and so destitute of all that they had been accustomed to regard as essential to their very existence. At length, however, mutual affection and natural good sense, and above all, necessity, brought them to acquiesce tolerably in their situation, and to engage in earnest in its duties. Occasional regrets, however, could not but remain; and the silent sigh would tell whither their thoughts were fled.

Philander perceived it, but took care never to embitter their feelings by harsh chidings or untimely admonitions. But on the anniversary of their taking possession of the farmhouse, he assembled them under a spreading tree that grew before their little garden, and while the summer’s sun gilded all the objects around, he thus addressed them:—

“My dear partners in every fortune, if the revolution of a year has had the effect on your mind that it has on mine, I may congratulate you on your condition. I am now able with a firm tone to ask myself, what have I lost? and I feel so much more to be pleased with than to regret, that the question gives me rather comfort than sorrow. Look at yon splendid luminary, and tell me if its gradual appearance above the horizon on a fine morning, shedding light and joy over the wide creation, be not a grander as well as a more heart-cheering spectacle than that of the most magnificent saloon, illuminated with dazzling lustres. Is not the spirit of the wholesome breeze, fresh from the mountain, and perfumed with wild flowers, infinitely more invigorating to the senses than the air of the crowded drawing-room, loaded with scented powder and essences? Did we relish so well the disguised dishes with which a French cook strove to whet our sickly appetites, as we do our draught of new milk, our homemade loaf, and the other articles of our simple fare? Was our sleep so sweet after midnight suppers and the long vigils of cards, as it is now, that early rising and the exercises of the day prepare us for closing our eyes as soon as night has covered everything with her friendly veil? Shall we complain that our clothes at present only answer the purpose of keeping us warm, when we recollect all the care and pains it cost us to keep pace with the fashion, and the mortification we underwent at being outshone by our superiors in fortune? Did not the vexation of insolent and unfaithful servants overbalance the trouble we now find in waiting on ourselves? We may regret the loss of society; but, alas! what was the society of a crowd of visiters who regarded us merely as the keepers of a place of public resort, and whom we visited with similar sensations? If we formerly could command leisure to cultivate our minds and acquire polite accomplishments, did we, in reality, apply much leisure to these purposes, and is not our time now filled more to our satisfaction by employments of which we cannot doubt the usefulness? not to say that the moral virtues we are now called upon to exercise afford the truest cultivation to our minds. What, then, have we lost? In improved health, the charms of a beautiful country, a decent supply of all real wants, and the love and kind offices of each other, do not we still possess enough for worldly happiness? We have lost, indeed, a certain rank and station in life; but have we not acquired another as truly respectable? We are debarred the prospects of future advancement; but if our present condition is a good one, why need we lament that it is likely to be lasting? The next anniversary will find us more in harmony with our situation than even the present. Look forward, then, cheerily. The storm is past. We have been shipwrecked, but we have only exchanged a cumbrous vessel for a light pinnace, and we are again on our course. Much of our cargo has been thrown overboard, but no one loses what he does not miss.”

Thus saying, Philander tenderly embraced his wife and daughters. The tear stood in their eyes, but consolation beamed on their hearts.

WISE MEN.

“You may remember, Arthur,” said Mr. C. to his son, “that, sometime ago, I endeavoured to give you a notion what a _great man_ was. Suppose we now talk a little about _wise men_?”

“With all my heart, sir,” replied Arthur.

_Mr. C._ A wise man, then, is _he who pursues the best ends by the properest means_. But as this definition may be rather too abstract to give you a clear comprehension of the thing, I shall open it to you by examples. What do you think is the best end a man can pursue in life?

_Ar._ I suppose to make himself happy.

_Mr. C._ True. And as we are so constituted that we cannot be happy ourselves without making others happy, the best end of living is to produce as much general happiness as lies in our power.

_Ar._ But that is _goodness_, is it not?

_Mr. C._ It is; and therefore wisdom includes goodness. The wise man always intends what is good, and employs skill or judgment in attaining it. If he were to pursue the best things weakly, he could not be wise; any more than if he were to pursue bad or indifferent things judiciously. One of the wisest men I know is our neighbour Mr. Freeland.

_Ar._ What, the justice?

_Mr. C._ Yes, few men have succeeded more perfectly in securing their own happiness, and promoting that of those around them. Born to a competent estate, he early settled upon it, and began to improve it. He reduced all his expenses within his income, and indulged no tastes that could lead him into excesses of any kind. At the same time he did not refuse any proper and innocent pleasures that came in his way; and his house has always been distinguished for decent cheerfulness and hospitality. He applied himself with diligence to mending the morals and improving the condition of his dependants. He studied attentively the laws of his country, and qualified himself for administering justice with skill and fidelity. No one discovers sooner where the right lies, or takes surer means to enforce it. He is the person to whom the neighbours of all degrees apply for counsel in their difficulties. His conduct is always consistent and uniform—never violent, never rash, never in extremes, but always deliberating before he acts, and then acting with firmness and vigour. The peace and good order of the whole neighbourhood materially depend upon him; and upon every emergency his opinion is the first thing inquired after. He enjoys the respect of the rich, the confidence of the poor, and the good-will of both.

_Ar._ But I have heard some people reckon old Harpy as wise a man as he.

_Mr. C._ It is a great abuse of words to call Harpy a wise man. He is of another species—_a cunning man_—who is to a wise man what an ape is to a human creature—a bad and contemptible resemblance.

_Ar._ He is very clever, though; is he not?

_Mr. C._ Harpy has a good natural understanding, a clear head, and a cool temper; but his only end in life has been to raise a fortune by base and dishonest means. Being thoroughly acquainted with all the tricks and artifices of the law, he employed his knowledge to take undue advantages of all who intrusted him with the management of their affairs; and under colour of assisting them, he contrived to get possession of all their property. Thus he has become extremely rich, lives in a great house with a number of servants, is even visited by persons of rank, yet is universally detested and despised, and has not a friend in the world. He is conscious of this, and is wretched. Suspicion and remorse continually prey upon his mind. Of all whom he has cheated, he has deceived himself the most; and has proved himself as much a fool in the end he has pursued, as a knave in the means.

_Ar._ Are not men of great learning and knowledge wise men?

_Mr. C._ They are so, if that knowledge and learning are employed to make them happier and more useful. But it too often happens that their speculations are of a kind neither beneficial to themselves nor to others; and they often neglect to regulate their tempers while they improve their understandings. Some men of great learning have been the most arrogant and quarrelsome of mortals, and as foolish and absurd in their conduct as the most untaught of their species.

_Ar._ But are not a philosopher and a wise man the same thing?

_Mr. C._ A philosopher is properly a _lover of wisdom_; and if he searches after it with a right disposition, he will probably find it oftener than other men. But he must practise as well as know, in order to be truly wise.

_Ar._ I have read of the seven wise men of Greece. What were they?

_Mr. C._ They were men distinguished for their knowledge and talents, and some of them for their virtue, too. But wiser than them all was Socrates, whose chief praise it was that he turned philosophy from vain and fruitless disputation to the regulation of life and manners, and that he was himself a great example of the wisdom he taught.

_Ar._ Have we had any person lately very remarkable for wisdom?

_Mr. C._ In my opinion, few wiser men have ever existed than the late Dr. Franklin, the American. From the low station of journeyman-printer to the elevated one of ambassador plenipotentiary from his country to the court of France, he always distinguished himself by sagacity in discovering, and good sense in practising, what was most beneficial to himself and others. He was a great natural philosopher, and made some very brilliant discoveries; but it was ever his favourite purpose to turn everything to use, and to extract some practical advantage from his speculations. He thoroughly understood _common life_, and all that conduces to its comfort; and he has left behind him treasures of domestic wisdom, superior, perhaps, to any of the boasted maxims of antiquity. He never let slip any opportunity of improving his knowledge, whether of great things or of small; and was equally ready to converse with a day-labourer and a prime-minister upon topics from which he might derive instruction. He rose to wealth, but obtained it by honourable means. He prolonged his life by temperance to a great age, and enjoyed it to the last. Few men knew more than he, and none employed knowledge to better purposes.

_Ar._ A man, then, I suppose, cannot be wise without knowing a great deal?

_Mr. C._ If he knows everything belonging to his station, it is wisdom enough; and a peasant may be as truly wise in his place as a statesman or a legislator. You remember that fable of Gay, in which a shepherd gives lessons of wisdom to a philosopher.

_Ar._ O yes—it begins:—

“Remote from cities lived a swain.”

_Mr. C._ True. He is represented as drawing all his maxims of conduct from observation of brute animals. And they, indeed, have universally that character of wisdom, of pursuing the ends best suited to them by the properest means. But this is owing to the impulse of unerring instinct. Man has reason for his guide, and his wisdom can only be the consequence of the right use of his reason. This will lead him to virtue. Thus the fable we have been mentioning rightly concludes with—

“’Thy fame is just,’ the sage replies; ‘Thy _virtue_ proves thee _truly wise_.’”

A FRIEND IN NEED.

George Cornish, a native of London, was brought up to the sea. After making several voyages to the East Indies in the capacity of mate, he obtained the command of a ship in the country-trade there, and passed many years of his life in sailing from one port to another of the Company’s different settlements, and residing at intervals on shore with the superintendence of their commercial concerns. Having by these means raised a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he felt a strong desire of returning to his native country, and seeing his family and friends, concerning whom he had received no tidings for a long time. He realized his property, settled his affairs, and taking his passage for England, arrived in the Downs after an absence of sixteen years.

He immediately repaired to London, and went to the house of an only brother whom he had left possessed of a genteel place in a public office. He found that his brother was dead, and the family broken up; and he was directed to the house of one of his nieces, who was married and settled at a small distance from town. On making himself known, he was received with great respect and affection by the married niece, and a single sister who resided with her; to which good reception the idea of his bringing back with him a large fortune did not a little contribute. They pressed him in the most urgent manner to take up his abode there, and omitted nothing that could testify their dutiful regard to so near a relation. On his part, he was sincerely glad to see them, and presented them with some valuable Indian commodities which he had brought with him. They soon fell into conversation concerning the family events that had taken place during his long absence. Mutual condolences passed on the death of the father; the mother had been dead long before. The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of befriending the survivors of the family, and his wishes of seeing the second sister as comfortably settled in the world as the first seemed to be.

“But,” said he, “are you two the only ones left? What is become of my little smiling playfellow Amelia? I remember her as if it were yesterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a sly pull, and then running away that I might follow her for a kiss. I should be sorry if anything had happened to her.”—“Alas! sir,” said the eldest niece, “she has been the cause of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends! She was always a giddy girl, and her misconduct has proved her ruin. It would be happy if we could all forget her!”—“What, then,” said the uncle, “has she dishonoured herself? Poor creature!”—“I cannot say,” replied the niece, “that she has done so in the worst sense of the word; but she has disgraced herself and her family by a hasty foolish match with one beneath her, and it is ended, as might have been expected, in poverty and wretchedness.”—“I am glad,” returned the captain, “that it is no worse; for though I much disapprove of improper matches, yet young girls may fall into still greater evils, and where there is no crime, there can be no irreparable disgrace. But who was the man, and what did my brother say to it?”—“Why, sir, I cannot say but it was partly my father’s own fault; for he took a sort of liking to the young man, who was a drawing-master employed in the family, and would not forbid him the house, after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment between Amelia and him. So when it was too late, he fell into a violent passion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl directly into her lover’s arms. They married, and soon fell into difficulties. My father of course would do nothing for them; and when he died, he not only disinherited her, but made us promise no longer to look upon her as a sister.”—“And you _did_ make that promise?” said the captain, in a tone of surprise and displeasure. “We could not disobey our parent,” replied the other sister; “but we have several times sent her relief in her necessities, though it was improper for us to see her.”—“And pray, what has become of her at last—where is she now?”—“Really, she and her husband have shifted their lodgings so often, that it is sometime since we heard anything about them.”—“Sometime! how long?”—“Perhaps half a year or more.”—“Poor outcast!” cried the captain, in a sort of muttered half-voice; “_I_ have made no promise, however, to renounce thee. Be pleased, madam,” he continued, addressing himself gravely to the married niece, “to favour me with the last direction you had to this unfortunate sister.” She blushed and looked confused; and at length, after a good deal of searching, presented it to her uncle. “But, my dear sir,” said she, “you will not think of leaving us to-day? My servant shall make all the inquiries you choose, and save you the trouble; and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think proper.”—“My good niece,” said the captain, “I am but an indifferent sleeper, and I am afraid things would run in my head and keep me awake. Besides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my business myself. You will excuse me.”—So saying, he took up his hat, and without much ceremony, went out of the house, and took the road to town on foot, leaving his two nieces somewhat disconcerted.

When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was a by-street near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings informed him, that the persons he inquired after had left them several months, and they did not know what was become of them. This threw the captain into great perplexity; but while he was considering what he should do next, the woman of the house recollected that Mr. Bland (that was the drawing-master’s name) had been employed at a certain school, where information about him might possibly be obtained. Captain Cornish hastened away to the place, and was informed by the master of the school that such a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceased to attend for some time past. “He was a very well-behaved, industrious young man,” added the master, “but in distressed circumstances, which prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all who attend our school; so I was obliged to dismiss him. It was a great force upon my _feelings_, I assure you, sir, to do so; but you know the thing could not be helped.” The captain eyed him with indignant contempt, and said, “I suppose, then, sir, your _feelings_ never suffered you to inquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became of him afterward?”—“As to that,” replied the master, “every man knows his own business best, and my time is fully taken up with my own concerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then occupied—here it is.” The captain took it, and turning on his heel, withdrew in silence.

He posted away to the place, but there, too, had the mortification of learning that he was too late. The people, however, told him that they believed he might find the family he was seeking in a neighbouring alley, at a lodging up three pair of stairs. The captain’s heart sunk within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately to the spot. On going up the narrow creaking staircase, he met a man coming down with a bed on his shoulders. At the top of the landing stood another with a bundle of blankets and sheets. A woman with a child in her arms was expostulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, “Cruel! not to leave me _one_ bed for myself and my poor children!”—“Stop,” said the captain to the man, “set down those things.” The man hesitated. The captain renewed his command in a peremptory tone, and then advanced towards the woman. They looked earnestly at each other. Through her pale and emaciated features he saw something of his little smiler; and at length, in a faint voice, he addressed her, “Are you Amelia Cornish?”—“That _was_ my name,” she replied. “I am your uncle,” he cried, clasping her in his arms, and sobbing as if his heart would break. “My uncle!” said she, and fainted. He was just able to set her down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other young children came running up, and began to scream with terror. Amelia recovered herself. “Oh, sir, what a situation you see me in!”—“A situation, indeed!” said he. “Poor forsaken creature! but you have _one_ friend left!”

He then asked what was become of her husband? She told him, that having fatigued himself with walking every day to a great distance for a little employment that scarcely afforded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was now in an hospital, and that after having been obliged to sell most of their little furniture and clothes for present subsistence, their landlord had just seized their only remaining bed for some arrears of rent. The captain immediately discharged the debt, and causing the bed to be brought up again, dismissed the man. He then entered into a conversation with his niece about the events that had befallen her. “Alas! sir,” said she, “I am sensible I was greatly to blame in disobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps something might be alleged in my excuse—at least, years of calamity and distress may be an expiation. As to my husband, however, he has never given me the least cause of complaint—he has ever been kind and good, and what we have suffered has been through misfortune, and not fault. To be sure, when we married, we did not know how a family was to be maintained. His was a poor employment, and sickness and other accidents soon brought us to a state of poverty, from which we could never retrieve ourselves. He, poor man! was never idle when he could help it, and denied himself every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of me and the children. I did my part too as well as I was able. But my father’s unrelenting severity made me quite heart-broken; and though my sisters two or three times gave us a little relief in our pressing necessities—for nothing else could have made me ask in the manner I did—yet they would never permit me to see them, and for some time past have entirely abandoned us. I thought Heaven had abandoned us too. The hour of extremest distress was come; but you have been sent for our comfort.”—“And your comfort, please God! I will be,” cried the captain with energy. “You are my own dear child, and your little ones shall be mine too. Dry up your tears—better days I hope, are approaching.”

Evening was now coming on, and it was too late to think of changing lodgings. The captain procured a neighbour to go out for some provisions and other necessaries, and then took his leave, with a promise of being with his niece early the next morning. Indeed, as he proposed going to pay a visit to her husband, she was far from wishing to detain him longer. He went directly thence to the hospital, and having got access to the apothecary, begged to be informed of the real state of his patient, Bland. The apothecary told him that he laboured under a slow fever, attended with extreme dejection of spirits, but that there were no signs of urgent danger. “If you will allow me to see him,” said the captain, “I believe I shall be able to administer a cordial more effectual, perhaps, than all your medicines.” He was shown up to the ward where the poor man lay, and, seated by his bedside, “Mr. Bland,” said he, “I am a stranger to you, but I come to bring you some news of your family.” The sick man roused himself, as it were, from a stupor, and fixed his eyes in silence on the captain. He proceeded—“Perhaps you may have heard of an uncle that your wife had in the East Indies—he is come home, and—and—I am he.” Upon this he eagerly stretched out his hand, and taking that of Bland, which was thrust out of the bedclothes to meet it, gave it a cordial shake. The sick man’s eyes glistened—he grasped the captain’s hand with all his remaining strength, and drawing it to his mouth, kissed it with fervour. All he could say was, “God bless you!—be kind to poor Amelia!”—“I will—I will,” cried the captain, “I will be a father to you all. Cheer up—keep up your spirits—all will be well.” He then, with a kind look and another shake of the hand, wished him a good night, and left the poor man lightened at once of half his disease.

The captain went home to the coffee-house where he lodged, got a light supper, and went early to bed. After meditating sometime with heartfelt satisfaction on the work of the day, he fell into a sweet sleep, which lasted till daybreak. The next morning early he rose and sallied forth in search of furnished lodgings. After some inquiry, he met with a commodious set, in a pleasant airy situation, for which he agreed. He then drove to Amelia, and found her and her children neat and clean, and as well dressed as their poor wardrobe would admit. He embraced them with the utmost affection, and rejoiced Amelia’s heart with a favourable account of her husband. He then told them to prepare for a ride with him. The children were overjoyed at the proposal, and they accompanied him down to the coach in high spirits. Amelia scarcely knew what to think or expect. They drove first to a warehouse for ready-made linen, where the captain made Amelia furnish herself with a complete set of everything necessary for present use for the children and herself, not forgetting some shirts for her husband. Thence they went to a clothes shop, where the little boy was supplied with a jacket and trowsers, a hat and great coat, and the girl with another great coat and a bonnet—both were made as happy as happy could be. They were next all furnished with new shoes. In short, they had not proceeded far, before the mother and three children were all in complete new habiliments, decent but not fine; while the old ones were all tied up in a great bundle, and destined for some family still poorer than they had been.

The captain then drove to the lodgings he had taken, and which he had directed to be put in thorough order. He led Amelia upstairs, who knew not whither she was going. He brought her into a handsome parlour, and seated her in a chair. “This, my dear,” said he, “is your house. I hope you will let me now and then come and see you in it?” Amelia turned pale and could not speak. At length, a flood of tears came to her relief, and she suddenly threw herself at her uncle’s feet, and poured out thanks and blessings in a broken voice. He raised her, and kindly kissing her and her children, slipped a purse of gold into her hand, and hurried downstairs.

He next went to the hospital, and found Mr. Bland sitting up in bed, and taking some food with apparent pleasure. He sat down by him. “God bless you! sir,” said Bland, “I see now it is all a reality, and not a dream. Your figure has been haunting me all night, and I have scarcely been able to satisfy myself whether I had really seen and spoke to you, or whether it was a fit of delirium. Yet my spirits have been lightened, and I have now been eating with a relish I have not experienced for many days past. But may I ask how is my poor Amelia and my little ones?”—“They are well and happy, my good friend;” said the captain, “and I hope you will soon be so along with them.” The apothecary came up and felt his patient’s pulse. “You are a lucky doctor, indeed, sir,” said he to Captain Cornish, “you have cured the poor man of his fever. His pulse is as calm as my own.” The captain consulted him about the safety of removing him; and the apothecary thought that there would be no hazard in doing it that very day. The captain waited the arrival of the physician, who confirmed the same opinion. A sedan-chair was procured, and full directions being obtained for the future treatment, with the physician’s promise to look after him, the captain walked before the chair, to the new lodgings. On the knock at the door, Amelia looked out of the window, and seeing the chair, ran down, and met her uncle and husband in the passage. The poor man, not knowing where he was, and gazing wildly around him, was carried upstairs and placed upon a good bed, while his wife and children assembled around it. A glass of wine brought by the people of the house restored him to his recollection, when a most tender scene ensued, which the uncle closed as soon as he could, for fear of too much agitating the yet feeble organs of the sick man.

By Amelia’s constant attention, assisted by proper help, Mr. Bland shortly recovered; and the whole family lost their sickly, emaciated appearance, and became healthy and happy. The kind uncle was never long absent from them, and was always received with looks of pleasure and gratitude that penetrated his very soul. He obtained for Mr. Bland a good situation in the exercise of his profession, and took Amelia and her children into his special care. As to his other nieces, though he did not entirely break off his connexion with them, but, on the contrary, showed them occasional marks of the kindness of a relation, yet he could never look upon them with true cordiality. And as they had so well kept their promise to their father of never treating Amelia as a sister, while in her afflicted state, he took care not to tempt them to break it, now she was in a favoured and prosperous condition.

EARTH AND HER CHILDREN.

In a certain district of the globe things one year went so ill, that almost the whole race of living beings, animals and vegetables, carried their lamentations and complaints to their common mother _the Earth_.

First came _Man_. “O Earth,” said he, “how can you behold unmoved the intolerable calamities of your favourite offspring! Heaven shuts up all the sources of its benignity to us, and showers plagues and pestilence on our heads—storms tear to pieces all the works of human labour—the elements of fire and water seem let loose to devour us—and in the midst of all these evils some demon possesses us with a rage of worrying and destroying one another; so that the whole species seems doomed to perish. O, intercede in our behalf, or else receive us again into your maternal womb, and hide us from the sight of these accumulated distresses!”

The other animals then spoke by their deputies, the horse, the ox, and the sheep. “O pity, mother Earth, those of your children that repose on your breast, and derive their subsistence from your foodful bosom! We are parched with drought, we are scorched by lightning, we are beaten by pitiless tempests, salubrious vegetables refuse to nourish us, we languish under disease, and the race of men treat us with unusual rigour. Never, without speedy succour, can we survive to another year.”

The vegetables next, those that form the verdant carpet of the earth, that cover the waving fields of harvest, and that spread their lofty branches in the air, sent forth their complaint:—“O, our general mother, to whose breast we cleave, and whose vital juices we drain, have compassion upon us! See, how we wither and droop under the baleful gales that sweep over us—how we thirst in vain for the gentle dew of Heaven—how immense tribes of noxious insects pierce and devour us—how the famishing flocks and herds tear us up by the roots—and how men, through mutual spite, lay waste and destroy us, while yet immature. Already whole nations of us are desolated, and unless you save us, another year will witness our total destruction.”

“My children,” said Earth, “I have now existed some thousand years; and scarcely one of them has passed in which similar complaints have not risen from one quarter or another. Nevertheless, everything has remained in nearly the same state, and no species of created beings has been finally lost. The injuries of one year are repaired by the gifts of the succeeding one. The growing vegetables may be blasted, but the seeds of others lie secure in my bosom, ready to receive the vital influence of more favourable seasons. Animals may be thinned by want and disease, but a remnant is always left, in whom survives the principle of future increase. As to man, who suffers not only from natural causes, but from the effects of his own follies and vices, his miseries rouse within him the latent powers of remedy, and bring him to his reason again; while experience continually goes along with him to improve his means of happiness, if he will but listen to its dictates. Have patience, then, my children! You were born to suffer, as well as to enjoy, and you must submit to your lot. But console yourselves with the thought that you have a kind Master above, who created you for benevolent purposes, and will not withhold his protection when you stand most in need of it.”

A SECRET CHARACTER UNVEILED.

At a small house in a court in London, there resided for many years, a person beyond the middle age of life, whose family consisted of one male and one female servant, both of long standing. He was of grave and somewhat pensive aspect. His dress was perfectly plain and never varied. He wore his own gray hair, and his general appearance resembled that of a Quaker, though without the peculiarities of that sect. He was not known to his neighbours but by sight. They frequently observed him go out and come in, almost always on foot, even in the worst weather. He did not appear to keep any company, and his mode of life seemed to be very uniform. He paid ready money to the few tradespeople with whom he dealt, and never made any one call a second time for dues and taxes. In some charitable collections that were set on foot in the parish, he gave as much as was expected from him, and no more. He returned the salutation of the hat to those who gave it him, but never exceeded a word or two in conversation with his neighbours. His religion and political sentiments were entirely unknown. The general notion about him was, either that he was a reduced gentleman, obliged to live privately, or one concerned in some private money transactions, and bent upon hoarding a fortune. His name, from the parish-books, appeared to be _Mortimer_.

After he had thus lived a long time, a train of accidental circumstances occurred within a short space, which fully displayed his character.

In a blind alley at some little distance, there lived a poor widow who had several children, the eldest a beautiful girl of eighteen. The woman was very industrious, and supported her family by taking in work in which her children assisted. It happened that some of them, and at length herself, fell ill of a fever, which continued so long as to reduce them to great distress. She was obliged to part with many things for a present subsistence; and, on their recovery, a half-year’s rent being due which she was unable to pay, the landlord threatened to seize the remainder of her goods, and turn her and her children into the street. He intimated, however, that it might be in the power of the eldest daughter to settle accounts with him in a less difficult manner; but his hints were treated with virtuous disdain. The girl had a faithful lover, a journeyman-carpenter, who, during the illness of the family, contributed half his wages to their support, and now by promises endeavoured to mollify the landlord, but in vain. He was coming disconsolately one night after work to pay his usual visit to the distressed family, when he observed Mr. Mortimer, whom he knew, having worked at his house, stealing upstairs to the widow’s lodging. The suspicion natural to a lover led him to follow. He saw him open the door, and he entered unperceived after him. Mr. Mortimer walked into the room where were all the poor family; the mother and eldest daughter weeping over the rest. They showed much surprise at his approach, and still more, when, going up to the widow, he put a purse of guineas into her hand, and immediately turned about and went away. “What angel from heaven,” cried the poor woman, “has brought me this? Run after him, daughter, and thank him on your knees!” She ran, but he was got almost down stairs. “I know him,” cried the journeyman-carpenter, making his appearance, “’t is Mr. Mortimer.”

In a chamber of a house in an obscure part of the town a gang of clippers and coiners were detected by the officers of justice. A poor lame fellow, who lived in the adjoining room, was brought along with the rest for examination. “Well,” said one of the justices, “and who are you?”

“Please your worship, I am a poor man who have lost the use of my limbs these seven years.”

“And how have you been supported all that time?”

“Why, sir, I might have starved long ago, as I have no settlement in these parts, and the masters for whom I worked would do nothing for me, but a very good gentleman has been so kind as to give me five shillings a week for these six years.”

“Ay! you were lucky, indeed, to light upon such a kind gentleman. Pray, what is his name?”

“I don’t know it, your worship.”

“No!—that’s very strange, that you should not know the name of the person who keeps you from starving. But where does he live?”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know that neither. I know nothing at all of him but the good he does me.”

“Why, how came you at first to be acquainted with him?”

“I had just been turned out of the hospital incurable, and was thinking that nothing remained for me but begging and starving in the streets, when the gentleman came up to my poor lodging (God knows how he found it) and gave me a guinea to buy some necessaries, and told me, if I would do what little I could to maintain myself, he would take care that I should not want. And ever since, either he or his man has brought me a crown every week.”

“This story, my friend, will hardly pass. But tell me what trade you worked at before you lost the use of your limbs?”

“Plating and gilding, your worship.”

“O! ho! Then you understand working in metals! You must be kept till you give a more probable account of yourself.”

The poor man in vain protested that every word he had said was true, and offered to bring proof of his honesty and sobriety from his neighbours; he was ordered to a place of confinement till further examination. The constable was taking him thither, when by good fortune he chanced to spy his benefactor crossing the street just before him. He called aloud, and requested him to stop; and then in a piteous tone relating his story, entreated him to go back with them to the justice, and bear witness in his behalf. This could not be refused. They were admitted into a crowded hall, when the constable told the cause of his return. All eyes were turned upon the gentleman, who was desired to give his name. “It is Mortimer,” said he. He then, in a few words, mentioned, that having some years ago come to the knowledge of the poor man’s character and distress, he had since taken care of him.

“’Tis enough, sir,” said a gentleman at the board; “I have the honour of being a neighbour of yours, but I did not before know _what_ a neighbour I had.” Mr. Mortimer bowed and retired. The poor fellow was discharged.

Two maiden sisters, daughters of a very worthy tradesman, whom misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who died of a broken heart, were for several years supported by an annuity of forty pounds each, which came from an unknown quarter. The mode in which they received it was, that twice a year, at night, a person knocked at the door of their lodging, which was upon a second floor, and delivered into the hands of one of them a parcel containing two twenty-pound bank-notes, with a paper on which was written, “To be continued—no inquiry!” Though this injunction prevented them from taking any steps to detect their benefactor, yet many were the conjectures which, between themselves, they made on this subject, but without attaining to the least probability. One night, about the time that the above-related events happened, the person, who came as usual to deliver the notes, on hastily turning round to retire, fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom. The lady shrieked out, and running down, found the man lying senseless and bloody. Help was procured, and he was taken up to their lodging. A surgeon was immediately sent for, who, by bleeding and other means, restored him to his senses. As soon as the man recovered his speech, he requested to be taken to his master’s. “Who is your master?” cried the surgeon; “Mr. Mortimer, of —— Court.”—“What!” exclaimed the elder of the ladies, “Mr. Mortimer, my poor father’s greatest creditor—is it he to whom we have been so long indebted for everything?” The man laid his finger on his lips, and she was silent, but not a word had escaped the surgeon. The servant was sent away in a coach, the surgeon accompanying him. They arrived at Mr. Mortimer’s, where, after the confusion occasioned by the accident had subsided, the surgeon found that the face of both master and man were familiar to him. “I am sure I am not mistaken,” said he, “you are the gentleman who so charitably took care of the poor fellow that had such a bad broken leg in this neighbourhood, and paid me for my attendance.” Mr. Mortimer assented. “Here is a double discovery,” said the surgeon to himself; and on taking his leave, “Permit me to assure you, sir,” he cried, “that I venerate you beyond any other human being!”—At the corner of the court where Mr. Mortimer resided was a shoemaker’s shop, kept by a man who had a wife and five children. He was one of the most industrious creatures breathing, and with great exertions was just able to maintain decently his family, of whom he was extremely fond. A younger brother of his had come up out of the country, and obtained a place in a public office, for which it was necessary to give security; and he had prevailed upon his brother to enter into a joint bond with him for two hundred pounds. The brother fell into vicious courses, and at length absconded with all the money he was intrusted with. The shoemaker was now called upon to pay the forfeiture of his bond, which, on account of bad debts, and having been lately drained of all his ready money to pay for leather, he was unable to do; and, in consequence, was sent to jail. The distress this brought upon the family was aggravated by the condition of his wife, who was near lying-in; and their mutual affection was turned into a source of the bitterest grief. He had been about six weeks in prison, without any prospect of release, all his friends and relations having been in vain tried, when, one evening, the keeper who had treated him with much compassion, came up to his room with pleasure in his countenance, and said, “You are free.” The poor man could at first scarcely believe him, but finding him persist in the truth of it, he almost fainted away through surprise and joy. When he was sufficiently recovered to reflect on the matter, he was quite bewildered in conjecturing how it had been brought about. He could only learn, that a discharge of the debt bad been sent to the jail, and all the fees and expenses there paid by a person whose name was unknown, but whose face they were well acquainted with, as he had several times been on the same errand there before. “O!” cried the shoemaker, “that I could but know my benefactor!” He hastened home, where his unexpected appearance almost overwhelmed his poor family. On talking over the business with his wife, he learned that Mr. Mortimer’s servant had a few days before been at the shop, and had been very particular in inquiring the cause and place of his confinement. This occasioned a strong suspicion, for Mr. Mortimer’s character now came to be talked of; and soon after it was changed into certainty by a visit from the keeper of the prison, who acquainted the shoemaker, that they had now discovered who his benefactor and that of so many others was; one of their people having chanced to be at the sessions-house when Mr. Mortimer appeared there in behalf of the lame man taken up on suspicion, and having recognised him to be the same person. The shoemaker was overjoyed at this intelligence, but was still at a loss to know in what manner he ought to express his gratitude. He was afraid of offending, by doing it in a public manner, as it had evidently been Mr. Mortimer’s intention to remain concealed; yet it was necessary that his heart should have some vent for its emotions. He took his wife and children, and went to Mr. Mortimer’s house, desiring to speak with him. Being admitted into the study, the poor man began a speech which he had prepared; but instead of going on, he burst into a fit of crying, fell on his knees, seizing one hand of his benefactor, while his wife did the same on the other side, and kissing them with the utmost fervency, both in a broken voice implored endless blessings on his head. The children fell on their knees, too, and held up their little hands. Mr. Mortimer was moved and remained awhile silent; at length, recollecting himself, “Too much! too much!” he cried, “Go home, go home, my good people! God bless you all!” and thus dismissed them.

An old clergyman from the country came up to town on business about this time, and paid a visit to an intimate friend of the same profession. After some mutual greetings and inquiries, “Ah! my good friend,” said the country clergyman, “our parish has undergone a blessed alteration since you knew it! The principal estate was sold some years ago to a gentleman in London, who is one of those few that are never wearied in well-doing. He built, in the first place, half a score neat cottages, where all the industrious poor who are past labour are comfortably maintained at his expense. He endowed a free school for all the children of the parish without exception, where they are taught to read and write, and some of the poorest are clothed. Every winter he orders the baker to deliver twice a week a large loaf at the house of each cottager during the hard weather. He has frequently remitted his rents to poor tenants in bad seasons; and, in short, I should never have done were I to enumerate all his deeds of charity. I myself have in various ways been much indebted to him, and I am well informed that he contributes largely to the support of an aged dissenting minister in the parish. But what is singular, he is very shy of being seen, nor do we know anything of his rank and profession, or his town residence; nay, I believe we should not have learned his name, had not the purchase necessarily made it public. It is Mortimer.”

“Why,” said his friend, “I have a parishioner of that name; and from what I have lately heard of him, I suspect him to be the man.”

“Could not I get a sight of him?” replied the first.

“Probably you may,” said the other; and presently, seeing him cross the court, he pointed him out.

“Ah! that is the blessed man!” exclaimed the old clergyman in a rapture. And running out, he went up, grasped him eagerly by the hand, and poured out the most affectionate wishes for his welfare.

Mr. Mortimer now stood _completely detected_.

The world, however, was not satisfied with the general knowledge of his goodness and benevolence. Curiosity was at work to discover his connexions, habits, property, employment; in short, the whole personal history of the man. One only friend, to whom he intrusted all the secrets of his heart and life, thought fit, after he was removed from this mortal state, to gratify the world in this particular.

Mr. Mortimer was a younger son of a respectable family in the country, and came to London at an early age, to be educated for commercial life. In this he succeeded so well, that after going through the different stages of clerk, partner, and principal, he found himself possessed of a considerable fortune. For sometime he made that use of his wealth which persons who live within the bounds of what is called decency think permitted to them. But the common pleasures of the world palled daily more and more upon his taste. He found a void which could only be filled by reading and contemplation. He grew fond of taking enlarged views of mankind, their several conditions, characters, and destinations. He compared the higher classes with the lower, the instructed with the ignorant; above all, he examined _himself_, and inquired into the great purpose for which he was brought into the world. In order to augment his sphere of knowledge, he resolved to visit foreign countries; and having no family encumbrances, he drew his affairs into a small compass, relinquished business, and went abroad. During a course of some years, he was a wanderer through most countries of Europe, travelling chiefly on foot, avoiding common routes, and mingling with the mass of the people.

He saw, abroad as well as at home, a great deal of misery; he saw wretchedness everywhere close in the train of splendour—indigence by the side of prodigality—baseness under the foot of authority. He lamented the evils of the world; but whatever might be their original source, he saw that man had within himself the power of remedying many of them. In exercising this power, all duty, all virtue seemed to consist. “This, then,” said he, “must be the proper business of every man in this life. It is then _mine_; and how shall I best perform it?”

Full of these meditations, he returned; and convinced that the great inequality of rank and property is one principal cause (though a necessary one) of the ills of life, he resolved, as much as it lay in his power, to counteract it. “How few things,” thought he, “are necessary to my external comfort! Wholesome food, warm clothing, clean lodging, a little waiting upon, and a few books. This is all that even selfishness asks of me. Whose, then, is the superfluity?”

That he might at once get rid of the craving and burdensome demands which _opinion_ imposes, he took a house in a part of the town where his name was unknown; and of all his former acquaintance, he only reserved one or two congenial friends. He selected out of the number of his former domestics one of each sex, steady and confidential, whose lives he made as comfortable as his own. After all the expenses of his frugal, but not scanty mode of living were discharged, there remained two thirds of his income, which he never failed to bestow in secret charity. He chose that his charities should be secret, not only as being utterly averse to all ostentation, but also to avoid those importunities which might lead his bounty to unworthy objects. He would himself know the real circumstances of every case; and it was the chief employment of his time, by hunting into obscure corners, and searching out the private history of the indigent classes of the community, to obtain exact information of the existence of misery, and the proper modes of relieving it. He neglected no kinds of distress, but it was his great delight to relieve virtuous poverty, and alleviate those keen wounds of fortune which she inflicts on those who have once participated in some share of her smiles. Hence the sums which he bestowed were often so considerable as at once to retrieve the affairs of the sufferer, nor did he think it right to withdraw his sustaining hand as long as its support was needful.

With respect to his opinions on other subjects, his enlarged acquaintance with men and books effectually preserved him from bigotry. He well knew in what points mankind agreed, and in what they differed, and he attached much superior importance to the former.

So he lived—so he died! injuring none—benefiting many—bearing with pious resignation the evils that fell to his own lot—continually endeavouring to alleviate those of others—and hoping to behold a state in which all evil shall be abolished.

A GLOBE-LECTURE.

_Papa_—_Lucy_.

_Papa._ You may remember, Lucy, that I talked to you sometime ago about the earth’s motion round the sun.

_Lucy._ Yes, papa; and you said you would tell me another time something about the other planets.

_Pa._ I mean some day to take you to the lecture of an ingenious philosopher, who has contrived a machine that will give you a better notion of these things in an hour, than I could by mere talking in a week. But it is now my intention to make you better acquainted with this globe which we inhabit, and which, indeed, is the most important to us. Cast your eyes upon this little ball. You see it is a representation of the earth, being covered with a painted map of the world. This map is crossed with lines in various directions; but all you have to observe relative to what I am going to talk about, is the great line across the middle called the _equator_ or _equinoctial line_, and the two points at top and bottom called the _poles_, of which the uppermost is the northern, the lowermost the southern.

_Lu._ I see them.

_Pa._ Now, the sun, which illuminates all the parts of this globe by turns as they roll round before it, shines directly upon the equator, but darts its rays aslant toward the poles; and this is the cause of the great heat perceived in the middle regions of the earth, and of its gradual diminution as you proceed from them on either side toward the extremities. To use a familiar illustration, it is like a piece of meat roasting before a fire, the middle part of which is liable to be overdone, while the two ends are raw.

_Lu._ I can comprehend that.

_Pa._ From this simple circumstance some of the greatest differences on the surface of the earth, with respect to man, other animals, and vegetables, proceed; for heat is the great principle of life and vegetation; and where it most prevails, provided it be accompanied with due moisture, nature is most replenished with all sorts of living and growing things. In general, then, the countries lying on each side about the equator, and forming a broad belt round the globe, called the _tropics_, or _torrid zone_, are rich and exuberant in their products to a degree much superior to what we see in our climates. Trees and other plants shoot to a vast size, and are clothed in perpetual verdure, and loaded with flowers of the gayest colours and sweetest fragrance, succeeded by fruits of high flavour or abundant nutriment. The insect tribe is multiplied so as to fill all the air, and many of them astonish by their size and extraordinary forms, and the splendour of their hues. The ground is all alive with reptiles, some harmless, some armed with deadly poisons.

_Lu._ O, but I should not like that at all!

_Pa._ The birds, however, decked in the gayest plumage conceivable, must give unmixed delight; and a tropical forest, filled with parrots, macaws, and peacocks, and enlivened with the gambols of monkeys and other nimble quadrupeds, must be a very amusing spectacle. The largest of quadrupeds, too, the elephant, the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus, are natives of these regions; and not only these sublime and harmless animals, but the terrible lion, the cruel tiger, and all the most ravenous beasts of prey, are here found in their greatest bulk and fierceness.

_Lu._ That would be worse than the insects and reptiles.

_Pa._ The sea likewise is filled with inhabitants of an immense variety of size and figure; not only fishes, but tortoises, and all the shelly tribes. The shores are spread with shells of a beauty unknown to our coasts; for it would seem as if the influence of the solar heat penetrated into the farthest recesses of nature.

_Lu._ How I should like to ramble on the seaside there!

_Pa._ But the elements, too, are there upon a grand and terrific scale. The sky either blazes with intolerable beams, or pours down rain in irresistible torrents. The winds swell to furious hurricanes, which often desolate the whole face of nature in a day. Earthquakes rock the ground, and sometimes open it in chasms which swallow up entire cities. Storms raise the waves of the ocean into mountains, and drive them in a deluge to the land.

_Lu._ Ah! that would spoil my shell-gathering. These countries may be very fine, but I don’t like them.

_Pa._ Well, then—we will turn from them to the _temperate_ regions. You will observe, on looking at the map, that these chiefly lie on the northern side of the tropics; for on the southern side the space is almost wholly occupied by sea. Though geographers have drawn a boundary line between the torrid and temperate zones, yet nature has made none; and for a considerable space on the borders, the diminution of heat is so gradual as to produce little difference in the appearance of nature. But, in general, the temperate _zones_ or _belts_ form the most desirable districts on the face of the earth. Their products are extremely various, and abound in beauty and utility. Corn, wine, and oil, are among their vegetable stores: the horse, the ox, and the sheep, graze their verdant pastures. Their seasons have the pleasing vicissitudes of summer and winter, spring and autumn. Though in some parts they are subject to excess of heat, and in others of cold, yet they deserve the general praise of a mild temperature compared to the rest of the globe.

_Lu._ They are the countries for me, then.

_Pa._ You _do_ live in one of them, though our island is situated so far to the north that it ranks rather among the cold countries than the warm ones. However, we have the good fortune to be a long way removed from those dreary and comfortless tracts of the globe which lie about the poles, and are called the _frigid zones_. In these, the cheering influence of the sun gradually becomes extinct, and perpetual frost and snow take possession of the earth. Trees and plants diminish in number and size, till at length no vegetables are found but some mosses and a few stunted herbs. Land animals are reduced to three or four species—raindeer, white bears, and arctic foxes. The sea, however, as far as it remains free from ice, is all alive with aquatic birds, and with the finny tribe. Enormous whales spout and gambol among the floating ice-islands, and herds of seals pursue the shoals of smaller fish, and harbour in the caverns of the rocky coasts.

_Lu._ Then I suppose these creatures have not much to do with the sun?

_Pa._ Nature has given them powers of enduring cold beyond those of many other animals; and then the water is always warmer than the land in cold climates; nay, at a certain depth, it is equally warm in all parts of the globe.

_Lu._ Well, but as I cannot go to the bottom of the sea, I desire to have nothing to do with these dismal countries. But do any men live there?

_Pa._ It is one of the wonderful things belonging to man, that he is capable of living in all parts of the globe where any other animals live. And as nothing relative to this earth is so important to us as the condition of human creatures in it, suppose we take a general survey of the different races of men who inhabit all the tracts we have been speaking of?

_Lu._ Blacks, and whites, and all colours?

_Pa._ Surely. If a black dog is as much a dog as a white one, why should not a black man be as much a man? I know nothing that colour has to do with mind. Well, then—to go back to the equator. The middle or tropical girdle of the earth, which by the ancients was concluded to be uninhabitable from its extreme heat, has been found by modern discoveries to be as well filled with men as it is with other living creatures. And no wonder; for life is maintained here at less cost than elsewhere. Clothes and fuel are scarcely at all necessary. A shed of bamboo covered with palm-leaves serves for a house; and food is almost the spontaneous produce of nature. The bread-fruit, the cocoa, the banana, and the plantain, offer their stores freely to the gatherer; and if he takes the additional pains to plant a few yams, or sow a little Indian corn, he is furnished with never-failing plenty. Hence the inhabitants of many tropical countries live nearly in what is called a state of nature, without care or labour, using the gifts of Providence like the animals around them. The naked Indian, stretched at ease under the shade of a lofty tree, passes his hours in indolent repose, unless roused to temporary exertion by the passion of the chase, or the love of dancing and other social sports.

_Lu._ Well—that would be a charming life!

_Pa._ So the poet Thomson seemed to think, when he burst into a rapturous description of the beauties and pleasures afforded by these favoured regions. Perhaps you can remember some of his lines?

_Lu._ I will try.

——“Thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cooled, Broad o’er my head the verdant cedar wave, And high palmettoes lift their grateful shade. O, stretched amid these orchards of the sun, Give me to drain the cocoa’s milky bowl, And from the palm to draw its freshening wine!”

_Pa._ Delightful! Think, however, at what price they purchase this indolent enjoyment of life. In the first place, all the work that is done is thrown upon the women, who are always most tyrannized over, the nearer a people approach to a state of nature.

_Lu._ O, horrible! I am glad I do not live there.

_Pa._ Then the mind not having that spur to exertion which necessity alone can give, moulders in inaction, and becomes incapable of those advances in knowledge and vigour which raise and dignify the human character.

_Lu._ But that is the same with lazy people everywhere.

_Pa._ True. The excessive heat, however, of these countries seems of itself to relax the mind, and unfit it for its noblest exertions. And I question if a single instance could be produced of an original inhabitant of the tropics, who had attained to eminence in the higher walks of science. It is their general character to be gay, volatile, and thoughtless, subject to violent passions, but commonly mild and gentle, fond of society and amusements, ingenious in little arts, but incapable of great or long-continued efforts. They form a large portion of the human race, and probably not the least happy. You see what vast tracts of land lie within this division; most of Africa and South America, all the great islands of Asia and two of its large peninsulas. Of these the Asiatic part is the most populous and civilized; indeed, many of its nations are as far removed from a state of nature as we are, and their constitutional indolence has been completely overcome by necessity. The clothing of those who are in a civilized state is mostly made of cotton, which is a natural product of those climates. Their food is chiefly of the vegetable kind and besides the articles already mentioned, consists much of rice.

_Lu._ Are the people all black?

_Pa._ Yes; entirely or nearly so.

_Lu._ I suppose that is owing to the heat of the sun.

_Pa._ Undoubtedly; for we find all the shades from jet black to tawny, and at length white, as we proceed from the equator toward the poles. The African negroes, however, from their curled woolly hair and their flat features, have been supposed an originally distinct race of mankind. The East Indian blacks, though under an equally hot climate, have long flowing hair, and features not different from their fairer neighbours. Almost all these nations are subject to despotic governments. In religion they are mostly pagans, with a mixture of Mohammedans.

_Lu._ I think we have had enough about these people.

_Pa._ Well, then—look again on the globe to the northern side of the tropics, and see what a tour we shall take among the inhabitants of the north temperate zone. Here are all the most famous places on the earth; rich, populous countries, renowned at different periods for arts and arms. Here is the greatest part of Asia, a little of Africa, all Europe, and North America.

_Lu._ I suppose, however, there must be great differences both in the climate and the way of life, in so many countries?

_Pa._ Extremely great. The southern parts partake a good deal of the character of the tropical regions. The heat is still excessive, and renders exertion painful; whence the people have in general been reckoned soft, effeminate, and voluptuous. Let us, however, look at them a little closer. Here is the mighty empire of China, swarming with people to such a degree, that, notwithstanding its size and fertility, the inhabitants are obliged to exert the greatest industry to procure the necessaries of life. Nearly in a line with it are the Mogul’s Empire, the kingdom of Persia, and the Turkish dominions in Asia; all warm climates abounding in products of use and beauty, and inhabited by numerous and civilized people. Here stretches out the great peninsula of Arabia, for the most part a dry and desert land, overspread with burning sands, only to be crossed by the patient camel. Wild and ferocious tribes of men wander over it, chiefly supported by their herds and flocks, and by the trade of robbery, which they exercise on all travellers that fall in their way. A tract somewhat similar, though in a colder climate, is the vast country of Tartary, stretching like a belt from east to west across the middle of Asia; over the immense plains and deserts of which, a number of independent tribes continually roam, fixing their moveable habitations in one part or another, according as they afford pasturage to their herds of cattle and horses. These men have for many ages lived in the same simple state, unacquainted as well with the arts as the vices of civilized nations.

_Lu._ Well. I think it must be a very pleasant life to ramble about from place to place, and change one’s abode according to the season.

_Pa._ The Tartars think so; for the worst wish they can find for man, is that he may live in a house and work like a Russian. Now look at Europe. See what a small figure it makes on the surface of the globe as to size; and yet it has for many ages held the first place in knowledge, activity, civilization, and all the qualities that elevate man among his fellows. For this it is much indebted to that temperature of climate which calls forth all the faculties of man in order to render life comfortable, yet affords enough of the beauties of nature to warm the heart and exalt the imagination. Men here earn their bread with the sweat of their brow. Nature does not drop her fruits into their mouths, but offers them as the price of labour. Human wants are many. Clothes, food, lodging, are all objects of much care and contrivance, but the human powers fully exerted are equal to the demand; and nowhere are enjoyments so various and multiplied. What the land does not yield itself, its inhabitants by their active industry procure from the remotest parts of the globe. When we drink tea, we sweeten the infusion of a Chinese herb with the juice of a West Indian cane; and your common dress is composed of materials collected from the equator to the frigid zone. Europeans render all countries and climates familiar to them; and everywhere they assume a superiority over the less enlightened or less industrious natives.

_Lu._ Then Europe for me, after all! But is not America as good?

_Pa._ That part of North America which has been settled by Europeans, is only another Europe in manners and civilization. But the original inhabitants of that extensive country were bold and hardy barbarians, and many of them continue so to this day. So much for the temperate zone, which contains the prime of mankind. They differ extremely, however, in government, laws, customs, and religions. The Christian religion has the credit of reckoning among its votaries all the civilized people of Europe and America. The Mahometan possesses all the nearer parts of Asia, and the north of Africa, but China, Japan, and most of the circumjacent countries, profess different forms of paganism. The East, in general, is enslaved to despotism; but the nobler West enjoys in most of its states more or less of freedom.

As to the frigid zone, its few inhabitants can but just sustain a life little better than that of the brutes. Their faculties are benumbed by the climate. Their chief employment is the fishery or the chase, by which they procure their food. The tending of herds of raindeer in some parts varies their occupations and diet. They pass their long winters in holes dug underground, where they doze out most of their time in stupid repose.

_Lu._ I wonder any people should stay in such miserable places!

_Pa._ Yet none of the inhabitants of the globe seem more attached to their country and way of life. Nor do they, indeed, want powers to render their situation tolerably comfortable. Their canoes, and fishing, and hunting tackle, are made with great ingenuity; and their clothing is admirably adapted to fence against the rigours of cold. They are not without some amusements to cheer the gloom of their condition: but they are abjectly superstitious, and given to fear and melancholy.

_Lu._ If I had my choice, I would rather go to a warmer than a colder country.

_Pa._ Perhaps the warmer countries are pleasanter; but there are few advantages which are not balanced by some inconveniences; and it is the truest wisdom to be contented with our lot, and endeavour to make the best of it. One great lesson, however, I wish you to derive from this _globe-lecture_. You see that no part of the world is void of our human brethren, who, amid all the diversities of character and condition, are yet all _men_, filling the station in which their Creator has placed them. We are too apt to look at the differences of mankind, and to undervalue all those who do not agree with us in matters that we think of high importance. But who are we—and what cause have we to think ourselves right, and all others wrong? Can we imagine that hundreds of millions of our species in other parts of the world are left destitute of what is essential to their well-being, while a favoured few like ourselves are the only ones who possess it? Having all a common nature, we must necessarily agree in more things than we differ in. The road to virtue and happiness is alike open to all. The mode of pursuit is various: the end is the same.

ENVY AND EMULATION.

At one of the celebrated schools of painting in Italy, a young man named Guidotto produced a piece so excellent, that it was the admiration of the masters in the art, who all declared it to be their opinion that he could not fail of rising to the summit of his profession, should he proceed as he had begun.

This performance was looked upon with very different eyes by two of his fellow-scholars. Brunello, the elder of them, who had himself acquired some reputation in his studies, was mortified in the highest degree at this superiority of Guidotto; and regarding all the honour his rival had acquired as so much taken from himself, he conceived the most rancorous dislike of him, and longed for nothing so much as to see him lose the credit he had gained. Afraid openly to decry the merit of a work which had obtained the approbation of the best judges, he threw out secret insinuations that Guidotto had been assisted in it by one or other of his masters; and he affected to represent it as a sort of lucky hit, which the reputed author would never equal.

Not so Lorenzo. Though a very young proficient in the art, he comprehended in its full extent the excellence of Guidotto’s performance, and became one of the sincerest of his admirers. Fired with the praises he saw him receive on all sides, he ardently longed one day to deserve the like. He placed him before his eyes as a fair model, which it was his highest ambition to arrive at equalling—for, as to excelling him, he could not as yet conceive the possibility of it. He never spoke of him but with rapture, and could not bear to hear the detractions of Brunello.

But Lorenzo did not content himself with words. He entered with his whole soul into the career of improvement—was first and last of all the scholars in the designing-room—and devoted to practice at home those hours which the other youths passed in amusement. It was long before he could please himself with any of the attempts, and he was continually repeating over them, “Alas! how far distant is this from Guidotto’s!” At length, however, he had the satisfaction of becoming sensible of progress; and having received considerable applause on account of one of his performances, he ventured to say to himself, “And why may not I too become a Guidotto?”

Meanwhile, Guidotto continued to bear away the palm from all competitors. Brunello struggled awhile to contest with him, but at length gave up the point, and consoled himself under his inferiority by ill-natured sarcasm and petulant criticism. Lorenzo worked away in silence, and it was long before his modesty would suffer him to place any piece of his in view at the same time with one of Guidotto’s.

There was a certain day in the year in which it was customary for all the scholars to exhibit their best performance in a public hall, where their merit was solemnly judged by a number of select examiners, and a prize of value was awarded to the most excellent. Guidotto had prepared for this anniversary a piece which was to excel all he had before executed. He had just finished it on the evening before the exhibition, and nothing remained but to heighten the colouring by means of a transparent varnish. The malignant Brunello contrived artfully to convey into the vial containing this varnish some drops of a caustic preparation, the effect of which would be entirely to destroy the beauty and splendour of the piece. Guidotto laid it on by candlelight, and then with great satisfaction hung up his picture in the public room against the morrow.

Lorenzo, too, with beating heart, had prepared himself for the day. With vast application he had finished a piece which he humbly hoped might appear not greatly inferior to some of Guidotto’s earlier performances.

The important day was now arrived. The company assembled, and were introduced into the great room, where the light had just been fully admitted by drawing up a curtain. All went up with raised expectations to Guidotto’s picture, when, behold! instead of the brilliant beauty they had conceived, there was nothing but a dead surface of confused and blotched colours. “Surely,” they cried, “this cannot be Guidotto’s!” The unfortunate youth himself came up, and in beholding the dismal change of his favourite piece, burst out into an agony of grief, and exclaimed that he was betrayed and undone. The vile Brunello in a corner was enjoying his distress. But Lorenzo was little less affected than Guidotto himself. “Trick! knavery!” he cried. “Indeed, gentlemen, this is not Guidotto’s work: I saw it when only half finished, and it was a most charming performance. Look at the outline, and judge what it must have been before it was so basely injured.”

The spectators were all struck with Lorenzo’s generous warmth, and sympathized in the disgrace of Guidotto; but it was impossible to adjudge the prize to his picture, in the state in which they beheld it. They examined all the others attentively, and that of Lorenzo, till then an unknown artist to them, gained a great majority of suffrages. The prize was therefore awarded to him; but Lorenzo, on receiving it, went up to Guidotto, and presenting it to him, said, “Take what merit would undoubtedly have acquired for you, had not the basest malice and envy defrauded you of it. To me it is honour enough to be accounted your second. If hereafter I may aspire to equal you, it shall be by means of fair competition, not by the aid of treachery.”

Lorenzo’s nobleness of conduct excited the warmest encomiums among the judges, who at length determined, that for this time there should be two equal prizes distributed; for that if Guidotto had deserved the prize of painting, Lorenzo was entitled to that of virtue.

PROVIDENCE; OR, THE SHIPWRECK.

It was a dreadful storm. The wind blowing full on the seashore, rolled tremendous waves on the beach, while the half-sunk rocks at the entrance of the bay were enveloped in a mist of white foam. A ship appeared in the offing, driving impetuously under her bare poles to land; now tilting aloft on the surging waves, now plunging into the intervening hollows. Presently, she rushed among the rocks, and there struck, the billows beating over her deck, and climbing up her shattered rigging. “Mercy! mercy!” exclaimed an ancient solitary, as he viewed from the cliff the dismal scene. It was in vain. The ship fell on her side and was seen no more.

Soon, however, a small, dark object appeared coming from the rocks toward the shore; at first, dimly descried through the foam, then quite plain as it rode on the summit of a wave, then for a time totally lost. It approached, and showed itself to be a boat with men in it rowing for their lives. The solitary hastened down to the beach, and in all the agonizing vicissitudes of hope and fear watched its advance. At length, after the most imminent hazards, the boat was thrown violently on the shore, and the dripping, half-dead mariners crawled out on dry land.

“Heaven be praised!” cried the solitary, “what a providential escape!” And he led the poor men to his cell, where, kindling a good fire, and bringing out his little store of provisions, he restored them to health and spirits. “And are you six men the only ones saved?”—“That we are,” answered one of them. “Threescore and fifteen men, women, and children, were in the ship when she struck. You may think what a clamour and confusion there were: women clinging to their husbands’ necks, and children hanging about their clothes, all shrieking, crying, and praying! There was no time to be lost. We got out the small-boat in a twinkling—jumped in, without staying for our captain, who was fool enough to be minding the passengers—cut the rope, and pushed away just time enough to be clear of the ship as she went down; and here we are, all alive and merry!” An oath concluded his speech. The solitary was shocked, and could not help secretly wishing that it had pleased Providence to have saved some of the innocent passengers, rather than these reprobates.

The sailors having got what they could, departed, scarcely thanking their benefactor, and marched up the country. Night came on. They descried a light at some distance, and made up to it. It proceeded from the window of a good-looking house, surrounded with a farmyard and garden. They knocked at the door, and in a supplicating tone made known their distress, and begged relief. They were admitted, and treated with compassion and hospitality. In the house were the mistress, her children, and women-servants, an old man and a boy: the master was abroad. The sailors, sitting round the kitchen fire, whispered to each other that here was an opportunity of making a booty that would amply compensate for the loss of clothes and wages. They settled their plan; and on the old man’s coming with logs to the fire, one of them broke his scull with the poker, and laid him dead. Another took up a knife which had been brought with the loaf and cheese, and running after the boy, who was making his escape out of the house, stabbed him to the heart. The rest locked the doors, and after tying all the women and children, began to ransack the house. One of the children continuing to make loud exclamations, a fellow went and strangled it. They had nearly finished packing up such of the most valuable things as they could carry off, when the master of the house came home. He was a smuggler as well as a farmer, and had just returned from an expedition, leaving his companions with their goods at a neighbouring public-house. Surprised at finding the doors locked, and seeing lights moving about in the chambers, he suspected something amiss; and upon listening, he heard strange voices, and saw some of the sailors through the windows. He hastened back to his companions, and brought them with him just as the robbers opened the door, and were coming out with their pillage, having first set fire to the house, in order to conceal what they had done. The smuggler and his friends let fly their blunderbusses in the midst of them, and then rushing forward, seized the survivors, and secured them. Perceiving flames in the house, they ran and extinguished them. The villains were next day led to prison amid the curses of the neighbourhood.

The good solitary, on hearing of the event, at first exclaimed, “What a wonderful interference of Providence, to punish guilt, and protect innocence!” Pausing awhile, he added, “Yet had Providence thought fit to have drowned these sailors in their passage from the ship, where they left so many better people to perish, the lives of three innocent persons would have been saved, and these wretches would have died without such accumulated guilt and ignominy. On the other hand, had the master of the house been at home, instead of following a lawless and desperate trade, he would perhaps have perished with all his family, and the villains have escaped with their booty. What am I to think of all this?” Thus pensive and perplexed he laid him down to rest, and after some time spent in gloomy reflections, fell asleep.

In his dream he fancied himself seated on the top of a high mountain, where he was accosted by a venerable figure in a long white garment, who asked him the cause of the melancholy expressed on his countenance. “It is,” said he, “because I am unable to reconcile the decrees of Providence with my ideas of wisdom and justice.”—“That,” replied the stranger, “is probably because thy notions of Providence are narrow and erroneous. Thou seekest it in _particular events_, and dost not raise thy survey to the _great whole_. Every occurrence in the universe is _providential_, because it is the consequence of those laws which divine wisdom has established as most productive of the general good. But to select individual facts as more directed by the hand of Providence than others, because we think we see a particular good purpose answered by them, is an infallible inlet to error and superstition. Follow me to the edge of the cliff.” He seemed to follow.

“Now look down,” said the stranger, “and tell me what thou seest.” “I see,” replied the solitary, “a hawk darting amid a flock of small birds, one of which he has caught, while the others escape.”—“And canst thou think,” rejoined the stranger, “that the single bird made a prey of by the hawk lies under any particular doom of Providence, or that those who fly away are more the objects of divine favour than it? Hawks by nature were made to feed upon living prey, and were endowed with strength and swiftness to enable them to overtake and master it. Thus life is sacrificed to the support of life. But to this destruction limits are set. The small birds are much more numerous and prolific than the birds of prey; and though they cannot resist his force, they have dexterity and nimbleness of flight sufficient in general to elude his pursuit. It is in this _balance_ that the wisdom of Providence is seen; and what can be a greater proof of it, than that both species, the destroyer and his prey, have subsisted together from their first creation? Now, look again, and tell me what thou seest.”

“I see,” said the solitary, “a thick black cloud gathering in the sky. I hear the thunder rolling from side to side of the vault of heaven. I behold the red lightning darting from the bosom of darkness. Now it has fallen on a stately tree and shattered it to pieces, striking to the ground an ox sheltered at its foot. Now it falls again in the midst of a flock of timorous sheep, and several of them are left on the plain;—and see! the shepherd himself lies extended by their side. Now it strikes a lofty spire, and at the same time sets in a blaze an humble cottage beneath. It is an awful and terrible sight!”

“It is so,” returned the stranger, “but what dost thou conclude from it? Dost thou not know, that from the genial heat which gives life to plants and animals, and ripens the fruits of the earth, proceeds this electrical fire, which ascending to the clouds, and charging them beyond what they are able to contain, is launched again in burning bolts to the earth? Must it leave its direct course to strike the tree rather than the dome of worship, or to spend its fury on the herd rather than the herdsman! Millions and millions of living creatures have owed their birth to this active element; and shall we think it strange if a few meet their deaths from it? Thus the mountain torrent that rushes down to fertilize the plain, in its course may sweep away the works of human industry, and man himself with them; but could its benefits be purchased at another price?”

“All this,” said the solitary, “I tolerably comprehend; but may I presume to ask whence have proceeded the _moral evils_ of the painful scenes of yesterday? What good end is answered by making man the scourge of man, and preserving the guilty at the cost of the innocent?”

“That, too,” replied the venerable stranger, “is a consequence of the same wise laws of Providence. If it was right to make man a creature of habit, and render those things easy to him with which he is most familiar, the sailor, of course, must be better able to shift for himself in a shipwreck than the passenger; while that self-love, which is essential to the preservation of life must, in general, cause him to consult his own safety before that of others. The same force of habit in a way of life full of peril and hardship, must conduce to form a rough, bold, and unfeeling character. This, under the direction of principle, will make a brave man; without it, a robber and a murderer. In the latter case, human laws step in to remove the evil which they have not been able to prevent. Wickedness meets with the fate which sooner or later always awaits it; and innocence, though it occasionally suffers, is proved in the end to be the surest path to happiness.”

“But,” resumed the solitary, “can it be said that the lot of innocence is _always_ preferable to that of guilt in this world?”

“If it cannot,” replied the other, “thinkest thou that the Almighty is unable to make retribution in a future world? Dismiss, then, from thy mind the care of _single events_, secure that the _great whole_ is ordered for the best. Expect not a particular interposition of Heaven, because such an interposition would seem to thee seasonable. Thou, perhaps, wouldest stop the vast machine of the universe to save a fly from being crushed under its wheels. But innumerable flies and men are crushed every day, yet the grand motion goes on, and will go on, to fulfil the benevolent intentions of its Author.”

He ceased, and sleep on a sudden left the eyelids of the solitary. He looked abroad from his cell, and beheld all nature smiling around him. The rising sun shone in a clear sky. Birds were sporting in the air, and fish glancing on the surface of the waters. Fleets were pursuing their steady course, gently wafted by the pleasant breeze. Light fleecy clouds were sailing over the blue expanse of heaven. His soul sympathized with the scene, and peace and joy filled his bosom.

EPILOGUE.

And now, so many _Evenings_ past, Our _Budget_’s fairly out at last; Exhausted all its various store, Nor like to be replenished more. Then, youthful friends, farewell! my heart Shall speak a blessing as we part. May Wisdom’s seeds in every mind Fit soil and careful culture find; Each generous plant with vigour shoot. And kindly ripen into fruit! Hope of the world, the _rising race_ May Heaven with fostering love embrace, And turning to a whiter page, Commence with them a _better age_! An age of light and joy, which we, Alas! in promise only see.

J. A.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Corrected and to any on p. 216. 2. Corrected beating to heating on p. 223. 3. Corrected my to by on p. 237. 4. Added missing word I on p. 241. 5. Corrected and to an on p. 308. 6. Corrected “a ways” to “always” on p. 346. 7. Removed unnecessary word “a” on p. 348. 8. Silently corrected typographical errors. 9. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 10. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.