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!

[Illustration:

EVENING XXIV.

]

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.

[Illustration:

The Wanderer’s Return, p. 304.

EVENING XXV.

]

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.

[Illustration:

The Landlord’s Visit, p. 314

EVENING XXVI.

]

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.

[Illustration:

EVENING XXVII.

]

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?”