“It does,” returned his father, “in a degree proportioned to their

height, and the time taken in crossing them. Indeed, a short time is

sufficient to produce similar effects. Let one boy have been playing at

rolling snowballs, and another have been roasting himself before a great

fire, and let them meet in the porch of the house;—if you ask them how

they feel, I will answer for it you will find them as different in their

accounts as the travellers on the Andes. But this is only one example of

the operation of a universal principle belonging to human nature: for

the power of habit is the same thing whatever be the circumstance which

calls it forth, whether relating to the mind or the body.

“You may consider the story you have been reading as a sort of simile or

parable. The central station on the mountain may be compared to _middle

life_. With what different feelings is this regarded by those who bask

in the sunshine of opulence, and those who shrink under the cold blast

of penury!

“Suppose the wealthy duke, our neighbour, were suddenly obliged to

descend to our level, and live as we do—to part with all his carriages,

sell his coach-horses, and hunters, quit his noble seat with its fine

park and gardens, dismiss all his train of servants except two or three,

and take a house like ours; what a dreadful fall it would seem to him!

how wretched it would probably make him, and how much would he be pitied

by the world!

“On the other hand, suppose the labourer who lives in the next cottage

were unexpectedly to fall heir to an estate of a few hundreds a year,

and in consequence to get around him all the comforts and conveniences

that we possess—a commodious house to inhabit, good clothes to wear,

plenty of wholesome food and firing, servants to do all the drudgery of

the family and the like;—how all his acquaintance would congratulate

him, and what a paradise would he seem to himself to be got into! Yet

he, and the duke, and ourselves, are equally _men_, made liable by

nature to the same desires and necessities, and perhaps all equally

strong in constitution, and equally capable of supporting hardships. Is

not this fully as wonderful a difference in feeling as that on crossing

the Andes?”

“Indeed it is,” said William.

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

“I think so.”

“Of what importance then must it be toward a happy life, to regulate our

habits so, that in the possible changes of this world we may be more

likely to be gainers than losers!”

“But how can this be done? Would it be right for the duke to live like

us, or us like the labourer?”

“Certainly not. But to apply the case to persons of our middle

condition, I would have us use our advantages in such a frugal manner,

as to make them as little as possible essential to our happiness, should

fortune sink us to a lower station. For as to the chance of rising to a

higher, there is no need to prepare our habits for that—we should

readily enough accommodate our feelings to such a change. To be pleased

and satisfied with simple food, to accustom ourselves not to shrink from

the inclemencies of the seasons—to avoid indolence, and take delight in

some useful employment of the mind or body, to do as much as we can for

ourselves, and not expect to be waited upon on every small

occasion—these are the habits which will make us in some measure

independent of fortune, and secure us a moderate degree of enjoyment

under every change short of absolute want. I will tell you a story to

this purpose.

“A London merchant had two sons, James and Richard. James, from a boy,

accustomed himself to every indulgence in his power, and when he grew

up, was quite a fine gentleman. He dressed expensively, frequented

public diversions, kept his hunter at a livery stable, and was a member

of several convivial clubs. At home, it was almost a footman’s sole

business to wait on him. He would have thought it greatly beneath him to

buckle his own shoes; and if he wanted anything at the other end of the

room, he would ring the bell, and bring the servant up two pair of

stairs, rather than rise from his chair to fetch it. He did a little

business in the counting-house on forenoons, but devoted all his time

after dinner to indolence and amusement.

“Richard was a different character. He was plain in his appearance, and

domestic in his way of life. He gave as little trouble as possible, and

would have been ashamed to ask assistance in doing what he could easily

do for himself. He was assiduous in business, and employed his leisure

hours chiefly in reading and acquiring useful knowledge.

“Both were still young and unsettled when their father died, leaving

behind him a very trifling property. As the young men had not capital

sufficient to follow the same line of mercantile business in which he

had been engaged, they were obliged to look out for a new plan of

maintenance, and a great reduction of expense was the first thing

requisite. This was a severe stroke to James, who found himself at once

cut off from all the pleasures and indulgences to which he was so

habituated, that he thought life of no value without them. He grew

melancholy and dejected, hazarded all his little property in lottery

tickets, and was quite beggared. Still, unable to think of retrieving

himself by industry and frugality, he accepted a commission in a

new-raised regiment ordered for the West Indies, where, soon after his

arrival, he caught a fever and died.

“Richard, in the meantime, whose comforts were little impaired by his

change of situation, preserved his cheerfulness, and found no difficulty

in accommodating himself to his fortune. He engaged himself as a clerk

in a house his father had been connected with, and lived as frugally as

possible upon his salary. It furnished him with decent board, lodging,

and clothing, which was all he required, and his hours of leisure were

nearly as many as before. A book or a sober friend always sufficed to

procure him an agreeable evening. He gradually rose in the confidence of

his employers, who increased from time to time his salary and

emoluments. Every increase was a source of gratification to him, because

he was able to enjoy pleasures which, however, habit had not made

necessary to his comfort. In process of time he was enabled to settle

for himself, and passed through life in the enjoyment of that modest

competence which best suited his disposition.”

THE COST OF A WAR.

“You may remember, Oswald,” said Mr. B. to his son, “that I gave you

some time ago a notion of _the price of a victory_ to the poor souls

engaged in it.”

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

_Father._ Very well; I mean now to give you some idea _of the cost of a

war_ to the people among whom it is carried on. This may serve to abate

something of the admiration with which historians are to apt to inspire

us for great warriors and conquerors. You have heard, I doubt not, of

Louis the Fourteenth, king of France?

_Oswald._ Oh, yes!

_Fa._ He was entitled by his subjects _Louis le Grand_, and was compared

by them to the Cesars and Alexanders of antiquity; and with some justice

as to the extent of his power, and the use he made of it. He was the

most potent prince of his time; commanded mighty and victorious armies;

and enlarged the limits of his hereditary dominions. Louis was not

naturally a hard-hearted man; but having been taught from his cradle

that everything ought to give way to the interests of his glory, and

that this glory consisted in domineering over his neighbours, and making

conquests, he grew to be insensible to all the miseries brought on his

own and other people, in pursuit of this noble design, as he thought it.

Moreover, he was plunged in dissolute pleasures, and the delights of

pomp and splendour, from his youth; and he was ever surrounded by a

tribe of abject flatterers, who made him believe that he had a full

right, in all cases to do as he pleased. Conquest abroad and pleasure at

home, were therefore the chief business of his life.

One evening, his minister, Louvois, came to him and said, “Sire, it is

absolutely necessary to make a desert of the _Palatinate_.”

This is a country in Germany, on the banks of the Rhine, one of the most

populous and best-cultivated districts in that empire, filled with towns

and villages, and industrious inhabitants.

“I should be sorry to do it,” replied the king, “for you know how much

odium we acquired throughout Europe when a part of it was laid waste

sometime ago, under Marshal Turenne.”

“It cannot be helped, sire,” returned Louvois. “All the damage he did

has been repaired, and the country is as flourishing as ever. If we

leave it in its present state it will afford quarters to your majesty’s

enemies, and endanger your conquests. It must be entirely ruined—the

good of the service will not permit it to be otherwise.”

“Well, then,” answered Louis, “if it must be so, you are to give orders

accordingly.” So saying, he left the cabinet, and went to assist a

magnificent festival given in honour of his favourite mistress by a

prince of the blood.

The pitiless Louvois lost no time; but despatched a courier that very

night, with positive orders to the French generals in the Palatinate to

carry fire and desolation through the whole country—not to leave a house

or a tree standing—and to expel all the inhabitants.

It was the midst of a rigorous winter.

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

_Fa._ What, a general disobey the commands of his sovereign!—That would

be contrary to every maxim of the _trade_. Right and wrong are no

considerations to a military man. He is only to do as he is bid. The

French generals who were upon the spot, and must see with their own eyes

all that was done, probably felt somewhat like men on the occasion; but

the sacrifice to their duty as soldiers was so much the greater. The

commands were peremptory, and they were obeyed to a tittle. Towns and

villages were burnt to the ground; vineyards and orchards were cut down

and rooted up; sheep and cattle were killed; all the fair works of ages

were destroyed in a moment; and the smiling face of culture was turned

to a dreary waste.

The poor inhabitants were driven from their warm and comfortable

habitations into the open fields, to confront all the inclemencies of

the season. Their furniture was burnt or pillaged, and nothing was left

them but the clothes on their backs, and the few necessaries they could

carry with them. The roads were covered with trembling fugitives, going

they knew not whither, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger. Here

an old man, dropping with fatigue, lay down to die—there a woman with a

new-born infant sunk perishing on the snow, while her husband hung over

them in all the horror of despair.

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

_Fa._ Such of them as did not perish on the road got to the neighbouring

towns, where they were received with all the hospitality that such

calamitous times would afford; but they were beggared for life.

Meantime, their country for many a league round displayed no other sight

than that of black smoking ruins in the midst of silence and desolation.

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

_Fa._ Not often, perhaps, to the same extent: but in some degree they

must take place in every war. A village which would afford a favourable

post to the enemy is always burnt without hesitation. A country which

can no longer be maintained, is cleared of all its provision and forage

before it is abandoned, lest the enemy should have the advantage of

them; and the poor inhabitants are left to subsist as they can. Crops of

corn are trampled down by armies in their march, or devoured while green

as fodder for their horses. Pillage, robbery and murder, are always

going on in the outskirts of the best-disciplined camp. Then consider

what must happen in every siege. On the first approach of the enemy, all

the buildings in the suburbs of a town are demolished, and all the trees

in gardens and public walks are cut down, lest they should afford

shelter to the besiegers. As the siege goes on, bombs, hot balls, and

cannon-shot, are continually flying about; by which the greatest part of

a town is ruined or laid in ashes, and many of the innocent people

killed or maimed. If the resistance is obstinate, famine and pestilence

are sure to take place; and if the garrison holds out to the last, and

the town is taken by storm, it is generally given up to be pillaged by

the enraged and licentious soldiery.

It would be easy to bring too many examples of cruelty exercised upon a

conquered country, even in very late times, when war is said to be

carried on with so much humanity; but, indeed, how can it be otherwise?

The art of war is essentially that of destruction, and it is impossible

there should be a mild and merciful way of murdering and ruining one’s

fellow-creatures. Soldiers, as men, are often humane; but war must ever

be cruel. Though Homer has filled his Iliad with the exploits of

fighting heroes, yet he makes Jupiter address Mars, the god of War, in

terms of the utmost abhorrence:—

“Of all the gods who tread the spangled skies,

Thou most unjust, most odious in our eyes;

In human discord is thy dire delight,

The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight:

No bound, no law, thy fiery temper quells.”—POPE.

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

preventing it.

_Fa._ Alas! I fear mankind have been too long accustomed to it, and it

is too agreeable to their bad passions, easily to be laid aside,

whatever miseries it may bring upon them. But, in the meantime, let us

correct our own ideas of the matter, and no longer lavish admiration

upon such a pest of the human race as a _Conqueror_, how brilliant

soever his qualities may be; nor ever think that a profession which

binds a man to be the servile instrument of cruelty and injustice is an

_honourable_ calling.

[Illustration:

The Gain of a Loss, p. 344.

EVENING XXVIII.

]

GREAT MEN.

“I will show you a _great man_,” said Mr. C. one day to his son, at the

time the duke of Bridgewater’s canal was making. He accordingly took him

to a place where several workmen were employed in raising a prodigious

mound, on the top of which the canal was to be carried across a deep

valley. In the midst of them was a very plain-dressed man, awkward in

his gestures, uncouth in his appearance, and rather heavy in his

countenance—in short, a mere countryman like the rest. He had a plan in

his hand and was giving directions to the people around him, and

surveying the whole labour with profound attention. “This, Arthur,” said

Mr. C., “is the _great Mr. Brindley_.”

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

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

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

looked very differently.

_Mr. C._ It matters little how a man looks, if he can perform great

things. That person, without any advantages of education, has become, by

the force of his own genius, the first engineer of the age. He is doing

things that were never done or even thought of in this country before.

He pierces hills, makes bridges over valleys, and aqueducts across

navigable rivers, and, in short, is likely to change the whole face of

the country, and to introduce improvements the value of which cannot be

calculated. When at a loss how to bring about any of his designs, he

does not go to other people for assistance, but he consults the

wonderful faculties of his own mind, and finds a way to overcome his

difficulties. He looks like a rustic it is true, but he has a soul of

the first order, such as is not granted to one out of millions of the

human race.

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

_Mr. C._ The word has been variously used; but I would call every one a

great man _who does great things by means of his own powers_. Great

abilities are often employed about trifles, or indolently wasted without

any considerable exertion at all. To make a great man, the object

pursued should be large and important, and vigour and perseverance

should be employed in the pursuit.

_Ar._ All the great men I remember to have read about were kings, or

generals, or prime ministers, or in some high station or other.

_Mr. C._ It is natural they should stand foremost in the list of great

men, because the sphere in which they act is an extensive one, and what

they do has a powerful influence over numbers of mankind. Yet those that

invent useful arts, or discover important truths which may promote the

comfort and happiness of unborn generations in the most distant parts of

the world, act a still more important part; and their claim to merit is

generally more undoubted than that of the former, because what they do

is more certainly their own.

In order to estimate the real share a man in a high station has had in

the great events which have been attributed to him, strip him in your

imagination of all the external advantages of rank and power, and see

what a figure he would have made without them; or fancy a common man put

in his place, and judge whether affairs would have gone on in the same

track. Augustus Cesar, and Louis XIV. of France, have both been called

great princes; but deprive them of their crown, and they will both

dwindle into obscure and trivial characters. But no change of

circumstances could reduce Alfred the Great to the level of a common

man. The two former could sink into their graves, and yield their power

to a successor, and scarcely be missed; but Alfred’s death changed the

fate of his kingdom. Thus with Epaminondas fell all the glory and

greatness of the Theban state. He first raised it to consequence, and it

could not survive him.

_Ar._ Was not Czar Peter a great man?

_Mr. C._ I am not sure he deserves that title. Being a despotic prince,

at the head of a vast empire, he could put into execution whatever plans

he was led to adopt, and these plans in general were grand and

beneficial to his country. But the means he used were such as the master

of the lives and fortunes of millions could easily employ, and there was

more of brutal force than of skill and judgment in the manner in which

he pursued his designs. Still he was an _extraordinary_ man; and the

resolution of leaving his throne, in order to acquire in foreign

countries the knowledge necessary to rescue his own from barbarism, was

a feature of greatness. A truly great prince, however, would have

employed himself better than in learning to build boats at Saardam.

_Ar._ What was Alexander the Great?

_Mr. C._ A great conqueror, but not a great man. It was easy for him,

with the well-disciplined army of Greeks which he received from his

father Philip, to overrun the unwarlike kingdoms of Asia, and defeat the

Great King, as the king of Persia was called: but though he showed some

marks of an elevated mind, he seems to have possessed few qualities

which could have raised him to distinction had he been born in an humble

station. Compare his fugitive grandeur, supported by able ministers and

generals, to the power which his tutor the great Aristotle, merely

through the force of his own genius, exercised over men’s minds

throughout the most civilized part of the world for two thousand years

after his death. Compare also the part which has been acted in the world

by the Spanish monarchs, the masters of immense possessions in Europe

and America, to that by Christopher Columbus, the Genoese navigator, who

could have it inscribed on his tombstones that he _gave_ a new world to

the kingdom of Castile and Aragon. These comparisons will teach you to

distinguish between greatness of character and greatness of station,

which are too often confounded. He who governs a great country may in

one sense be called a great king; but this is no more than an

appellation belonging to rank, like that of the Great Mogul, or the

Grand Seignor, and infers no more personal grandeur than the title of

Mr. Such-a-one, the Great Grocer, or Great Brewer.

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

_Mr. C._ If that man is great who does great things, it will not follow

that goodness must necessarily be one of his qualities, since that

chiefly refers to the end and intentions of actions. Julius Cesar, and

Cromwell, for example, were men capable of the greatest exploits; but

directing them, not to the public good, but to the purposes of their own

ambition, in pursuit of which they violated all the duties of morality,

they have obtained the title of _great bad men_. A person, however,

cannot be great at all without possessing many virtues. He must be firm,

steady, and diligent, superior to difficulties and dangers, and equally

superior to the allurements of ease and pleasure. For want of these

moral qualities, many persons of exalted minds and great talents have

failed to deserve the title of great men. It is in vain that the French

poets and historians have decorated Henry the Fourth with the name of

Great; his facility of disposition and uncontrollable love of pleasure

have caused him to forfeit his claim to it in the estimation of

impartial judges. As power is essential to greatness, a man cannot be

great without _power over himself_, which is the highest kind of power.

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

_Mr. C._ There is more merit in being a good man, because it is what we

make ourselves, whereas the talents that produce greatness are the gift

of nature; though they may be improved by our own efforts, they cannot

be acquired. But if goodness is the proper object of our love and

esteem, greatness deserves our high admiration and respect. This Mr.

Brindley before us is by all accounts a worthy man, but it is not for

this reason I have brought you to see him. I wish you to look upon him

as one of those sublime and uncommon objects of nature which fill the

mind with a certain awe and astonishment. Next to being great oneself,

it is desirable to have a true relish for greatness.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I am one of four sisters; and having some reason to think myself not

well used either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you

a sketch of our history and characters. You will not wonder there should

be frequent bickerings among us, when I tell you that in our infancy we

were continually fighting; and so great was the noise, and din, and

confusion, in our continual struggles to get uppermost, that it was

impossible for anybody to live among us in such a scene of tumult and

disorder. These brawls, however, by a powerful interposition, were put

an end to; our proper place was assigned to each of us, and we had

strict orders not to encroach on the limits of each other’s property,

but to join our common offices for the good of the whole family.

My first sister (I call her the first, because we have generally allowed

her the precedence in rank) is, I must acknowledge, of a very active,

sprightly disposition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than

any of us; but she is hot: everything serves for fuel to her fury when

it is once raised to a certain degree, and she is so mischievous

whenever she gets the upper hand, that notwithstanding her aspiring

disposition, if I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to make a

good servant, but a very bad mistress.

I am almost ashamed to mention that, notwithstanding her seeming

delicacy, she has a most voracious appetite, and devours everything that

comes in her way; though, like other eager thin people, she does no

credit to her keeping. Many a time she has consumed the product of my

barns and storehouses, but it is all lost upon her. She has even been

known to get into an oil-shop or tallow-chandler’s, when everybody was

asleep, and lick up with the utmost greediness whatever she found there.

Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though she is

admitted into the best families, they take care to watch her very

narrowly. I should not forget to mention, that my sister was once in a

country where she was treated with uncommon respect; she was lodged in a

sumptuous building, and had a number of young women of the best families

to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health: in short, she

was looked upon as something more than a common mortal. But she always

behaved with great severity to her maids, and if any of them were

negligent of their duty, or made a slip in their own conduct, nothing

would serve her but burying the poor girls alive. I have myself had some

dark hints and intimations from the most respectable authority, that she

will some time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder,

therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next sister I shall mention to you has so far the appearance of

modesty and humility, that she generally seeks the lowest place. She is

indeed of a very yielding easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a

sweet placid smile upon her countenance; but she is easily ruffled, and

when worked up, as she often is, by another sister, whom I shall mention

to you by-and-by, she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so apt to

swell with sudden gusts of passion, that she is suspected at times to be

a little lunatic. Between her and my first-mentioned sister, there is a

more settled antipathy than between the Theban pair; and they never meet

without making efforts to destroy one another. With me she is always

ready to form the most intimate union, but it is not always to my

advantage. There goes a story in our family, that when we were all

young, she once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under water

a considerable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my

constitution is generally thought to have been essentially injured by it

ever since. From that time she has made no such atrocious attempt, but

she is continually making encroachments upon my property, and even when

she appears most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such an

undermining way with her, that her insinuating arts are as much to be

dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonstrate, but it is a known

part of her character, that nothing makes any lasting impression upon

her.

As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the ill office she does

me with my last-mentioned one, who is entirely under her influence. She

is besides of a very uncertain, variable temper, sometimes hot, and

sometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightness is ever

proverbial, and she has nothing to give those who live with her more

substantial than the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she keeps in

her service three or four rough blustering bullies, with puffed cheeks,

who when they are let loose, think they have nothing to do but drive the

world before them. She sometimes joins with my first sister, and their

violence occasionally throws me into such a trembling, that, though

naturally of a firm constitution, I shake as if I was in an ague fit.

As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper; not shining, indeed, but

kind and liberal, quite a Lady Bountiful. Every one tastes of my

beneficence, and I am of so grateful a disposition, that I have been

known to return a hundred-fold for any present that has been made me. I

feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch

who has no other. I bear with unrepining patience all manner of ill

usage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wounded with the most cutting

strokes; I am pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most secret

chambers; notwithstanding which I am always ready to return good for

evil, and am continually subservient to the pleasures or advantage of

others; yet so ungrateful is the world, that because I do not possess

all the airiness and activity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as dull

and heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called by way of derision one

of my children; and if a person on entering a room does but turn his

eyes upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good

company. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding that people always

incline towards me as they grow older; and that those who seemed proudly

to disdain any affinity with me, are content to sink at last into my

bosom. You will probably wish to have some account of my person. I am

not a regular beauty; some of my features are rather harsh and

prominent, when viewed separately; but my countenance has so much

variety of expression, and so many different aspects of elegance, that

those who study my face with attention find out continually new charms;

and it may be truly said of me, what Titus says of his mistress, and for

a much longer space:—

“Pendant cinq ans entières tous les jours je la vois,

Et crois toujours la voir pour la première fois.”

“For five whole years each day she meets my view,

Yet every day I seem to see her new.”

Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a surprising air of

youth and freshness, which is assisted by all the advantages of

well-chosen ornament, for I dress well, and according to the season.

This is what I have to say chiefly of myself and my sisters. To a person

of your sagacity it will be unnecessary for me to sign my name. Indeed,

one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a

loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the difference in our

features and characters.

THE GAIN OF A LOSS.

Philander possessed a considerable place about the court, which obliged

him to live in a style of show and expense. He kept high company, made

frequent entertainments, and brought up a family of several daughters in

all the luxurious elegance which his situation and prospects seemed to

justify. His wife had balls and routs at her own house, and frequented

all the places of fashionable amusement. After some years passed in this

manner, a sudden change of parties threw Philander out of his

employment, and at once ruined all his plans of future advancement.

Though his place had been lucrative, the expense it led him into more

than compensated the profits, so that, instead of saving anything, he

had involved himself considerably in debt. His creditors, on hearing of

the change in his affairs, became so importunate, that, in order to

satisfy them, he was compelled to sell a moderate paternal estate in a

remote county, reserving nothing out of it but one small farm. Philander

had strength of mind sufficient to enable him at once to decide on the

best plan to be followed in his present circumstances; instead,

therefore, of wasting his time and remaining property in fruitless

attempts to interest his town friends in his favour, he sold off his

fine furniture, and without delay carried down his whole family to the

little spot he could still call his own, where he commenced a life of

industry and strict frugality in the capacity of a small farmer. It was

long before the female part of his household could accommodate

themselves to a mode of living so new to them, and so destitute of all

that they had been accustomed to regard as essential to their very

existence. At length, however, mutual affection and natural good sense,

and above all, necessity, brought them to acquiesce tolerably in their

situation, and to engage in earnest in its duties. Occasional regrets,

however, could not but remain; and the silent sigh would tell whither

their thoughts were fled.

Philander perceived it, but took care never to embitter their feelings

by harsh chidings or untimely admonitions. But on the anniversary of

their taking possession of the farmhouse, he assembled them under a

spreading tree that grew before their little garden, and while the

summer’s sun gilded all the objects around, he thus addressed them:—

“My dear partners in every fortune, if the revolution of a year has had

the effect on your mind that it has on mine, I may congratulate you on

your condition. I am now able with a firm tone to ask myself, what have

I lost? and I feel so much more to be pleased with than to regret, that

the question gives me rather comfort than sorrow. Look at yon splendid

luminary, and tell me if its gradual appearance above the horizon on a

fine morning, shedding light and joy over the wide creation, be not a

grander as well as a more heart-cheering spectacle than that of the most

magnificent saloon, illuminated with dazzling lustres. Is not the spirit

of the wholesome breeze, fresh from the mountain, and perfumed with wild

flowers, infinitely more invigorating to the senses than the air of the

crowded drawing-room, loaded with scented powder and essences? Did we

relish so well the disguised dishes with which a French cook strove to

whet our sickly appetites, as we do our draught of new milk, our

homemade loaf, and the other articles of our simple fare? Was our sleep

so sweet after midnight suppers and the long vigils of cards, as it is

now, that early rising and the exercises of the day prepare us for

closing our eyes as soon as night has covered everything with her

friendly veil? Shall we complain that our clothes at present only answer

the purpose of keeping us warm, when we recollect all the care and pains

it cost us to keep pace with the fashion, and the mortification we

underwent at being outshone by our superiors in fortune? Did not the

vexation of insolent and unfaithful servants overbalance the trouble we

now find in waiting on ourselves? We may regret the loss of society;

but, alas! what was the society of a crowd of visiters who regarded us

merely as the keepers of a place of public resort, and whom we visited

with similar sensations? If we formerly could command leisure to

cultivate our minds and acquire polite accomplishments, did we, in

reality, apply much leisure to these purposes, and is not our time now

filled more to our satisfaction by employments of which we cannot doubt

the usefulness? not to say that the moral virtues we are now called upon

to exercise afford the truest cultivation to our minds. What, then, have

we lost? In improved health, the charms of a beautiful country, a decent

supply of all real wants, and the love and kind offices of each other,

do not we still possess enough for worldly happiness? We have lost,

indeed, a certain rank and station in life; but have we not acquired

another as truly respectable? We are debarred the prospects of future

advancement; but if our present condition is a good one, why need we

lament that it is likely to be lasting? The next anniversary will find

us more in harmony with our situation than even the present. Look

forward, then, cheerily. The storm is past. We have been shipwrecked,

but we have only exchanged a cumbrous vessel for a light pinnace, and we

are again on our course. Much of our cargo has been thrown overboard,

but no one loses what he does not miss.”

Thus saying, Philander tenderly embraced his wife and daughters. The

tear stood in their eyes, but consolation beamed on their hearts.

WISE MEN.

“You may remember, Arthur,” said Mr. C. to his son, “that, sometime ago,

I endeavoured to give you a notion what a _great man_ was. Suppose we

now talk a little about _wise men_?”

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

_Mr. C._ A wise man, then, is _he who pursues the best ends by the

properest means_. But as this definition may be rather too abstract to

give you a clear comprehension of the thing, I shall open it to you by

examples. What do you think is the best end a man can pursue in life?

_Ar._ I suppose to make himself happy.

_Mr. C._ True. And as we are so constituted that we cannot be happy

ourselves without making others happy, the best end of living is to

produce as much general happiness as lies in our power.

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

_Mr. C._ It is; and therefore wisdom includes goodness. The wise man

always intends what is good, and employs skill or judgment in attaining

it. If he were to pursue the best things weakly, he could not be wise;

any more than if he were to pursue bad or indifferent things

judiciously. One of the wisest men I know is our neighbour Mr. Freeland.

_Ar._ What, the justice?

_Mr. C._ Yes, few men have succeeded more perfectly in securing their

own happiness, and promoting that of those around them. Born to a

competent estate, he early settled upon it, and began to improve it. He

reduced all his expenses within his income, and indulged no tastes that

could lead him into excesses of any kind. At the same time he did not

refuse any proper and innocent pleasures that came in his way; and his

house has always been distinguished for decent cheerfulness and

hospitality. He applied himself with diligence to mending the morals and

improving the condition of his dependants. He studied attentively the

laws of his country, and qualified himself for administering justice

with skill and fidelity. No one discovers sooner where the right lies,

or takes surer means to enforce it. He is the person to whom the

neighbours of all degrees apply for counsel in their difficulties. His

conduct is always consistent and uniform—never violent, never rash,

never in extremes, but always deliberating before he acts, and then

acting with firmness and vigour. The peace and good order of the whole

neighbourhood materially depend upon him; and upon every emergency his

opinion is the first thing inquired after. He enjoys the respect of the

rich, the confidence of the poor, and the good-will of both.

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

_Mr. C._ It is a great abuse of words to call Harpy a wise man. He is of

another species—_a cunning man_—who is to a wise man what an ape is to a

human creature—a bad and contemptible resemblance.

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

_Mr. C._ Harpy has a good natural understanding, a clear head, and a

cool temper; but his only end in life has been to raise a fortune by

base and dishonest means. Being thoroughly acquainted with all the

tricks and artifices of the law, he employed his knowledge to take undue

advantages of all who intrusted him with the management of their

affairs; and under colour of assisting them, he contrived to get

possession of all their property. Thus he has become extremely rich,

lives in a great house with a number of servants, is even visited by

persons of rank, yet is universally detested and despised, and has not a

friend in the world. He is conscious of this, and is wretched. Suspicion

and remorse continually prey upon his mind. Of all whom he has cheated,

he has deceived himself the most; and has proved himself as much a fool

in the end he has pursued, as a knave in the means.

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

_Mr. C._ They are so, if that knowledge and learning are employed to

make them happier and more useful. But it too often happens that their

speculations are of a kind neither beneficial to themselves nor to

others; and they often neglect to regulate their tempers while they

improve their understandings. Some men of great learning have been the

most arrogant and quarrelsome of mortals, and as foolish and absurd in

their conduct as the most untaught of their species.

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

_Mr. C._ A philosopher is properly a _lover of wisdom_; and if he

searches after it with a right disposition, he will probably find it

oftener than other men. But he must practise as well as know, in order

to be truly wise.

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

_Mr. C._ They were men distinguished for their knowledge and talents,

and some of them for their virtue, too. But wiser than them all was

Socrates, whose chief praise it was that he turned philosophy from vain

and fruitless disputation to the regulation of life and manners, and

that he was himself a great example of the wisdom he taught.

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

_Mr. C._ In my opinion, few wiser men have ever existed than the late

Dr. Franklin, the American. From the low station of journeyman-printer

to the elevated one of ambassador plenipotentiary from his country to

the court of France, he always distinguished himself by sagacity in

discovering, and good sense in practising, what was most beneficial to

himself and others. He was a great natural philosopher, and made some

very brilliant discoveries; but it was ever his favourite purpose to

turn everything to use, and to extract some practical advantage from his

speculations. He thoroughly understood _common life_, and all that

conduces to its comfort; and he has left behind him treasures of

domestic wisdom, superior, perhaps, to any of the boasted maxims of

antiquity. He never let slip any opportunity of improving his knowledge,

whether of great things or of small; and was equally ready to converse

with a day-labourer and a prime-minister upon topics from which he might

derive instruction. He rose to wealth, but obtained it by honourable

means. He prolonged his life by temperance to a great age, and enjoyed

it to the last. Few men knew more than he, and none employed knowledge

to better purposes.

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

deal?

_Mr. C._ If he knows everything belonging to his station, it is wisdom

enough; and a peasant may be as truly wise in his place as a statesman

or a legislator. You remember that fable of Gay, in which a shepherd

gives lessons of wisdom to a philosopher.

_Ar._ O yes—it begins:—

“Remote from cities lived a swain.”

_Mr. C._ True. He is represented as drawing all his maxims of conduct

from observation of brute animals. And they, indeed, have universally

that character of wisdom, of pursuing the ends best suited to them by

the properest means. But this is owing to the impulse of unerring

instinct. Man has reason for his guide, and his wisdom can only be the

consequence of the right use of his reason. This will lead him to

virtue. Thus the fable we have been mentioning rightly concludes with—

“’Thy fame is just,’ the sage replies;

‘Thy _virtue_ proves thee _truly wise_.’”

[Illustration:

EVENING XXIX.

]

A FRIEND IN NEED.

George Cornish, a native of London, was brought up to the sea. After

making several voyages to the East Indies in the capacity of mate, he

obtained the command of a ship in the country-trade there, and passed

many years of his life in sailing from one port to another of the

Company’s different settlements, and residing at intervals on shore with

the superintendence of their commercial concerns. Having by these means

raised a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he

felt a strong desire of returning to his native country, and seeing his

family and friends, concerning whom he had received no tidings for a

long time. He realized his property, settled his affairs, and taking his

passage for England, arrived in the Downs after an absence of sixteen

years.

He immediately repaired to London, and went to the house of an only

brother whom he had left possessed of a genteel place in a public

office. He found that his brother was dead, and the family broken up;

and he was directed to the house of one of his nieces, who was married

and settled at a small distance from town. On making himself known, he

was received with great respect and affection by the married niece, and

a single sister who resided with her; to which good reception the idea

of his bringing back with him a large fortune did not a little

contribute. They pressed him in the most urgent manner to take up his

abode there, and omitted nothing that could testify their dutiful regard

to so near a relation. On his part, he was sincerely glad to see them,

and presented them with some valuable Indian commodities which he had

brought with him. They soon fell into conversation concerning the family

events that had taken place during his long absence. Mutual condolences

passed on the death of the father; the mother had been dead long before.

The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of

befriending the survivors of the family, and his wishes of seeing the

second sister as comfortably settled in the world as the first seemed to

be.

“But,” said he, “are you two the only ones left? What is become of my

little smiling playfellow Amelia? I remember her as if it were

yesterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a sly pull, and then

running away that I might follow her for a kiss. I should be sorry if

anything had happened to her.”—“Alas! sir,” said the eldest niece, “she

has been the cause of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends! She

was always a giddy girl, and her misconduct has proved her ruin. It

would be happy if we could all forget her!”—“What, then,” said the

uncle, “has she dishonoured herself? Poor creature!”—“I cannot say,”

replied the niece, “that she has done so in the worst sense of the word;

but she has disgraced herself and her family by a hasty foolish match

with one beneath her, and it is ended, as might have been expected, in

poverty and wretchedness.”—“I am glad,” returned the captain, “that it

is no worse; for though I much disapprove of improper matches, yet young

girls may fall into still greater evils, and where there is no crime,

there can be no irreparable disgrace. But who was the man, and what did

my brother say to it?”—“Why, sir, I cannot say but it was partly my

father’s own fault; for he took a sort of liking to the young man, who

was a drawing-master employed in the family, and would not forbid him

the house, after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment

between Amelia and him. So when it was too late, he fell into a violent

passion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl

directly into her lover’s arms. They married, and soon fell into

difficulties. My father of course would do nothing for them; and when he

died, he not only disinherited her, but made us promise no longer to

look upon her as a sister.”—“And you _did_ make that promise?” said the

captain, in a tone of surprise and displeasure. “We could not disobey

our parent,” replied the other sister; “but we have several times sent

her relief in her necessities, though it was improper for us to see

her.”—“And pray, what has become of her at last—where is she

now?”—“Really, she and her husband have shifted their lodgings so often,

that it is sometime since we heard anything about them.”—“Sometime! how

long?”—“Perhaps half a year or more.”—“Poor outcast!” cried the captain,

in a sort of muttered half-voice; “_I_ have made no promise, however, to

renounce thee. Be pleased, madam,” he continued, addressing himself

gravely to the married niece, “to favour me with the last direction you

had to this unfortunate sister.” She blushed and looked confused; and at

length, after a good deal of searching, presented it to her uncle. “But,

my dear sir,” said she, “you will not think of leaving us to-day? My

servant shall make all the inquiries you choose, and save you the

trouble; and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think

proper.”—“My good niece,” said the captain, “I am but an indifferent

sleeper, and I am afraid things would run in my head and keep me awake.

Besides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my business myself.

You will excuse me.”—So saying, he took up his hat, and without much

ceremony, went out of the house, and took the road to town on foot,

leaving his two nieces somewhat disconcerted.

When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was

a by-street near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings informed him,

that the persons he inquired after had left them several months, and

they did not know what was become of them. This threw the captain into

great perplexity; but while he was considering what he should do next,

the woman of the house recollected that Mr. Bland (that was the

drawing-master’s name) had been employed at a certain school, where

information about him might possibly be obtained. Captain Cornish

hastened away to the place, and was informed by the master of the school

that such a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceased to

attend for some time past. “He was a very well-behaved, industrious

young man,” added the master, “but in distressed circumstances, which

prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all

who attend our school; so I was obliged to dismiss him. It was a great

force upon my _feelings_, I assure you, sir, to do so; but you know the

thing could not be helped.” The captain eyed him with indignant

contempt, and said, “I suppose, then, sir, your _feelings_ never

suffered you to inquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became

of him afterward?”—“As to that,” replied the master, “every man knows

his own business best, and my time is fully taken up with my own

concerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then

occupied—here it is.” The captain took it, and turning on his heel,

withdrew in silence.

He posted away to the place, but there, too, had the mortification of

learning that he was too late. The people, however, told him that they

believed he might find the family he was seeking in a neighbouring

alley, at a lodging up three pair of stairs. The captain’s heart sunk

within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately

to the spot. On going up the narrow creaking staircase, he met a man

coming down with a bed on his shoulders. At the top of the landing stood

another with a bundle of blankets and sheets. A woman with a child in

her arms was expostulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, “Cruel!

not to leave me _one_ bed for myself and my poor children!”—“Stop,” said

the captain to the man, “set down those things.” The man hesitated. The

captain renewed his command in a peremptory tone, and then advanced

towards the woman. They looked earnestly at each other. Through her pale

and emaciated features he saw something of his little smiler; and at

length, in a faint voice, he addressed her, “Are you Amelia

Cornish?”—“That _was_ my name,” she replied. “I am your uncle,” he

cried, clasping her in his arms, and sobbing as if his heart would

break. “My uncle!” said she, and fainted. He was just able to set her

down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other

young children came running up, and began to scream with terror. Amelia

recovered herself. “Oh, sir, what a situation you see me in!”—“A

situation, indeed!” said he. “Poor forsaken creature! but you have _one_

friend left!”

He then asked what was become of her husband? She told him, that having

fatigued himself with walking every day to a great distance for a little

employment that scarcely afforded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was

now in an hospital, and that after having been obliged to sell most of

their little furniture and clothes for present subsistence, their

landlord had just seized their only remaining bed for some arrears of

rent. The captain immediately discharged the debt, and causing the bed

to be brought up again, dismissed the man. He then entered into a

conversation with his niece about the events that had befallen her.

“Alas! sir,” said she, “I am sensible I was greatly to blame in

disobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps

something might be alleged in my excuse—at least, years of calamity and

distress may be an expiation. As to my husband, however, he has never

given me the least cause of complaint—he has ever been kind and good,

and what we have suffered has been through misfortune, and not fault. To

be sure, when we married, we did not know how a family was to be

maintained. His was a poor employment, and sickness and other accidents

soon brought us to a state of poverty, from which we could never

retrieve ourselves. He, poor man! was never idle when he could help it,

and denied himself every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of

me and the children. I did my part too as well as I was able. But my

father’s unrelenting severity made me quite heart-broken; and though my

sisters two or three times gave us a little relief in our pressing

necessities—for nothing else could have made me ask in the manner I

did—yet they would never permit me to see them, and for some time past

have entirely abandoned us. I thought Heaven had abandoned us too. The

hour of extremest distress was come; but you have been sent for our

comfort.”—“And your comfort, please God! I will be,” cried the captain

with energy. “You are my own dear child, and your little ones shall be

mine too. Dry up your tears—better days I hope, are approaching.”

Evening was now coming on, and it was too late to think of changing

lodgings. The captain procured a neighbour to go out for some provisions

and other necessaries, and then took his leave, with a promise of being

with his niece early the next morning. Indeed, as he proposed going to

pay a visit to her husband, she was far from wishing to detain him

longer. He went directly thence to the hospital, and having got access

to the apothecary, begged to be informed of the real state of his

patient, Bland. The apothecary told him that he laboured under a slow

fever, attended with extreme dejection of spirits, but that there were

no signs of urgent danger. “If you will allow me to see him,” said the

captain, “I believe I shall be able to administer a cordial more

effectual, perhaps, than all your medicines.” He was shown up to the

ward where the poor man lay, and, seated by his bedside, “Mr. Bland,”

said he, “I am a stranger to you, but I come to bring you some news of

your family.” The sick man roused himself, as it were, from a stupor,

and fixed his eyes in silence on the captain. He proceeded—“Perhaps you

may have heard of an uncle that your wife had in the East Indies—he is

come home, and—and—I am he.” Upon this he eagerly stretched out his

hand, and taking that of Bland, which was thrust out of the bedclothes

to meet it, gave it a cordial shake. The sick man’s eyes glistened—he

grasped the captain’s hand with all his remaining strength, and drawing

it to his mouth, kissed it with fervour. All he could say was, “God

bless you!—be kind to poor Amelia!”—“I will—I will,” cried the captain,

“I will be a father to you all. Cheer up—keep up your spirits—all will

be well.” He then, with a kind look and another shake of the hand,

wished him a good night, and left the poor man lightened at once of half

his disease.

The captain went home to the coffee-house where he lodged, got a light

supper, and went early to bed. After meditating sometime with heartfelt

satisfaction on the work of the day, he fell into a sweet sleep, which

lasted till daybreak. The next morning early he rose and sallied forth

in search of furnished lodgings. After some inquiry, he met with a

commodious set, in a pleasant airy situation, for which he agreed. He

then drove to Amelia, and found her and her children neat and clean, and

as well dressed as their poor wardrobe would admit. He embraced them

with the utmost affection, and rejoiced Amelia’s heart with a favourable

account of her husband. He then told them to prepare for a ride with

him. The children were overjoyed at the proposal, and they accompanied

him down to the coach in high spirits. Amelia scarcely knew what to

think or expect. They drove first to a warehouse for ready-made linen,

where the captain made Amelia furnish herself with a complete set of

everything necessary for present use for the children and herself, not

forgetting some shirts for her husband. Thence they went to a clothes

shop, where the little boy was supplied with a jacket and trowsers, a

hat and great coat, and the girl with another great coat and a

bonnet—both were made as happy as happy could be. They were next all

furnished with new shoes. In short, they had not proceeded far, before

the mother and three children were all in complete new habiliments,

decent but not fine; while the old ones were all tied up in a great

bundle, and destined for some family still poorer than they had been.

The captain then drove to the lodgings he had taken, and which he had

directed to be put in thorough order. He led Amelia upstairs, who knew

not whither she was going. He brought her into a handsome parlour, and

seated her in a chair. “This, my dear,” said he, “is your house. I hope

you will let me now and then come and see you in it?” Amelia turned pale

and could not speak. At length, a flood of tears came to her relief, and

she suddenly threw herself at her uncle’s feet, and poured out thanks

and blessings in a broken voice. He raised her, and kindly kissing her

and her children, slipped a purse of gold into her hand, and hurried

downstairs.

He next went to the hospital, and found Mr. Bland sitting up in bed, and

taking some food with apparent pleasure. He sat down by him. “God bless

you! sir,” said Bland, “I see now it is all a reality, and not a dream.

Your figure has been haunting me all night, and I have scarcely been

able to satisfy myself whether I had really seen and spoke to you, or

whether it was a fit of delirium. Yet my spirits have been lightened,

and I have now been eating with a relish I have not experienced for many

days past. But may I ask how is my poor Amelia and my little

ones?”—“They are well and happy, my good friend;” said the captain, “and

I hope you will soon be so along with them.” The apothecary came up and

felt his patient’s pulse. “You are a lucky doctor, indeed, sir,” said he

to Captain Cornish, “you have cured the poor man of his fever. His pulse

is as calm as my own.” The captain consulted him about the safety of

removing him; and the apothecary thought that there would be no hazard

in doing it that very day. The captain waited the arrival of the

physician, who confirmed the same opinion. A sedan-chair was procured,

and full directions being obtained for the future treatment, with the

physician’s promise to look after him, the captain walked before the

chair, to the new lodgings. On the knock at the door, Amelia looked out

of the window, and seeing the chair, ran down, and met her uncle and

husband in the passage. The poor man, not knowing where he was, and

gazing wildly around him, was carried upstairs and placed upon a good

bed, while his wife and children assembled around it. A glass of wine

brought by the people of the house restored him to his recollection,

when a most tender scene ensued, which the uncle closed as soon as he

could, for fear of too much agitating the yet feeble organs of the sick

man.

By Amelia’s constant attention, assisted by proper help, Mr. Bland

shortly recovered; and the whole family lost their sickly, emaciated

appearance, and became healthy and happy. The kind uncle was never long

absent from them, and was always received with looks of pleasure and

gratitude that penetrated his very soul. He obtained for Mr. Bland a

good situation in the exercise of his profession, and took Amelia and

her children into his special care. As to his other nieces, though he

did not entirely break off his connexion with them, but, on the

contrary, showed them occasional marks of the kindness of a relation,

yet he could never look upon them with true cordiality. And as they had

so well kept their promise to their father of never treating Amelia as a

sister, while in her afflicted state, he took care not to tempt them to

break it, now she was in a favoured and prosperous condition.

[Illustration:

A Secret Character Unveiled, p. 359.

EVENING XXX.

]

EARTH AND HER CHILDREN.

In a certain district of the globe things one year went so ill, that

almost the whole race of living beings, animals and vegetables, carried

their lamentations and complaints to their common mother _the Earth_.

First came _Man_. “O Earth,” said he, “how can you behold unmoved the

intolerable calamities of your favourite offspring! Heaven shuts up all

the sources of its benignity to us, and showers plagues and pestilence

on our heads—storms tear to pieces all the works of human labour—the

elements of fire and water seem let loose to devour us—and in the midst

of all these evils some demon possesses us with a rage of worrying and

destroying one another; so that the whole species seems doomed to

perish. O, intercede in our behalf, or else receive us again into your

maternal womb, and hide us from the sight of these accumulated

distresses!”

The other animals then spoke by their deputies, the horse, the ox, and

the sheep. “O pity, mother Earth, those of your children that repose on

your breast, and derive their subsistence from your foodful bosom! We

are parched with drought, we are scorched by lightning, we are beaten by

pitiless tempests, salubrious vegetables refuse to nourish us, we

languish under disease, and the race of men treat us with unusual

rigour. Never, without speedy succour, can we survive to another year.”

The vegetables next, those that form the verdant carpet of the earth,

that cover the waving fields of harvest, and that spread their lofty

branches in the air, sent forth their complaint:—“O, our general mother,

to whose breast we cleave, and whose vital juices we drain, have

compassion upon us! See, how we wither and droop under the baleful gales

that sweep over us—how we thirst in vain for the gentle dew of

Heaven—how immense tribes of noxious insects pierce and devour us—how

the famishing flocks and herds tear us up by the roots—and how men,

through mutual spite, lay waste and destroy us, while yet immature.

Already whole nations of us are desolated, and unless you save us,

another year will witness our total destruction.”

“My children,” said Earth, “I have now existed some thousand years; and

scarcely one of them has passed in which similar complaints have not

risen from one quarter or another. Nevertheless, everything has remained

in nearly the same state, and no species of created beings has been

finally lost. The injuries of one year are repaired by the gifts of the

succeeding one. The growing vegetables may be blasted, but the seeds of

others lie secure in my bosom, ready to receive the vital influence of

more favourable seasons. Animals may be thinned by want and disease, but

a remnant is always left, in whom survives the principle of future

increase. As to man, who suffers not only from natural causes, but from

the effects of his own follies and vices, his miseries rouse within him

the latent powers of remedy, and bring him to his reason again; while

experience continually goes along with him to improve his means of

happiness, if he will but listen to its dictates. Have patience, then,

my children! You were born to suffer, as well as to enjoy, and you must

submit to your lot. But console yourselves with the thought that you

have a kind Master above, who created you for benevolent purposes, and

will not withhold his protection when you stand most in need of it.”

A SECRET CHARACTER UNVEILED.

At a small house in a court in London, there resided for many years, a

person beyond the middle age of life, whose family consisted of one male

and one female servant, both of long standing. He was of grave and

somewhat pensive aspect. His dress was perfectly plain and never varied.

He wore his own gray hair, and his general appearance resembled that of

a Quaker, though without the peculiarities of that sect. He was not

known to his neighbours but by sight. They frequently observed him go

out and come in, almost always on foot, even in the worst weather. He

did not appear to keep any company, and his mode of life seemed to be

very uniform. He paid ready money to the few tradespeople with whom he

dealt, and never made any one call a second time for dues and taxes. In

some charitable collections that were set on foot in the parish, he gave

as much as was expected from him, and no more. He returned the

salutation of the hat to those who gave it him, but never exceeded a

word or two in conversation with his neighbours. His religion and

political sentiments were entirely unknown. The general notion about him

was, either that he was a reduced gentleman, obliged to live privately,

or one concerned in some private money transactions, and bent upon

hoarding a fortune. His name, from the parish-books, appeared to be

_Mortimer_.

After he had thus lived a long time, a train of accidental circumstances

occurred within a short space, which fully displayed his character.

In a blind alley at some little distance, there lived a poor widow who

had several children, the eldest a beautiful girl of eighteen. The woman

was very industrious, and supported her family by taking in work in

which her children assisted. It happened that some of them, and at

length herself, fell ill of a fever, which continued so long as to

reduce them to great distress. She was obliged to part with many things

for a present subsistence; and, on their recovery, a half-year’s rent

being due which she was unable to pay, the landlord threatened to seize

the remainder of her goods, and turn her and her children into the

street. He intimated, however, that it might be in the power of the

eldest daughter to settle accounts with him in a less difficult manner;

but his hints were treated with virtuous disdain. The girl had a

faithful lover, a journeyman-carpenter, who, during the illness of the

family, contributed half his wages to their support, and now by promises

endeavoured to mollify the landlord, but in vain. He was coming

disconsolately one night after work to pay his usual visit to the

distressed family, when he observed Mr. Mortimer, whom he knew, having

worked at his house, stealing upstairs to the widow’s lodging. The

suspicion natural to a lover led him to follow. He saw him open the

door, and he entered unperceived after him. Mr. Mortimer walked into the

room where were all the poor family; the mother and eldest daughter

weeping over the rest. They showed much surprise at his approach, and

still more, when, going up to the widow, he put a purse of guineas into

her hand, and immediately turned about and went away. “What angel from

heaven,” cried the poor woman, “has brought me this? Run after him,

daughter, and thank him on your knees!” She ran, but he was got almost

down stairs. “I know him,” cried the journeyman-carpenter, making his

appearance, “’t is Mr. Mortimer.”

In a chamber of a house in an obscure part of the town a gang of

clippers and coiners were detected by the officers of justice. A poor

lame fellow, who lived in the adjoining room, was brought along with the

rest for examination. “Well,” said one of the justices, “and who are

you?”

“Please your worship, I am a poor man who have lost the use of my limbs

these seven years.”

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

“Why, sir, I might have starved long ago, as I have no settlement in

these parts, and the masters for whom I worked would do nothing for me,

but a very good gentleman has been so kind as to give me five shillings

a week for these six years.”

“Ay! you were lucky, indeed, to light upon such a kind gentleman. Pray,

what is his name?”

“I don’t know it, your worship.”

“No!—that’s very strange, that you should not know the name of the

person who keeps you from starving. But where does he live?”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know that neither. I know nothing at all of him

but the good he does me.”

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

“I had just been turned out of the hospital incurable, and was thinking

that nothing remained for me but begging and starving in the streets,

when the gentleman came up to my poor lodging (God knows how he found

it) and gave me a guinea to buy some necessaries, and told me, if I

would do what little I could to maintain myself, he would take care that

I should not want. And ever since, either he or his man has brought me a

crown every week.”

“This story, my friend, will hardly pass. But tell me what trade you

worked at before you lost the use of your limbs?”

“Plating and gilding, your worship.”

“O! ho! Then you understand working in metals! You must be kept till you

give a more probable account of yourself.”

The poor man in vain protested that every word he had said was true, and

offered to bring proof of his honesty and sobriety from his neighbours;

he was ordered to a place of confinement till further examination. The

constable was taking him thither, when by good fortune he chanced to spy

his benefactor crossing the street just before him. He called aloud, and

requested him to stop; and then in a piteous tone relating his story,

entreated him to go back with them to the justice, and bear witness in

his behalf. This could not be refused. They were admitted into a crowded

hall, when the constable told the cause of his return. All eyes were

turned upon the gentleman, who was desired to give his name. “It is

Mortimer,” said he. He then, in a few words, mentioned, that having some

years ago come to the knowledge of the poor man’s character and

distress, he had since taken care of him.

“’Tis enough, sir,” said a gentleman at the board; “I have the honour of

being a neighbour of yours, but I did not before know _what_ a neighbour

I had.” Mr. Mortimer bowed and retired. The poor fellow was discharged.

Two maiden sisters, daughters of a very worthy tradesman, whom

misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who died of a broken heart, were

for several years supported by an annuity of forty pounds each, which

came from an unknown quarter. The mode in which they received it was,

that twice a year, at night, a person knocked at the door of their

lodging, which was upon a second floor, and delivered into the hands of

one of them a parcel containing two twenty-pound bank-notes, with a

paper on which was written, “To be continued—no inquiry!” Though this

injunction prevented them from taking any steps to detect their

benefactor, yet many were the conjectures which, between themselves,

they made on this subject, but without attaining to the least

probability. One night, about the time that the above-related events

happened, the person, who came as usual to deliver the notes, on hastily

turning round to retire, fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom.

The lady shrieked out, and running down, found the man lying senseless

and bloody. Help was procured, and he was taken up to their lodging. A

surgeon was immediately sent for, who, by bleeding and other means,

restored him to his senses. As soon as the man recovered his speech, he

requested to be taken to his master’s. “Who is your master?” cried the

surgeon; “Mr. Mortimer, of —— Court.”—“What!” exclaimed the elder of the

ladies, “Mr. Mortimer, my poor father’s greatest creditor—is it he to

whom we have been so long indebted for everything?” The man laid his

finger on his lips, and she was silent, but not a word had escaped the

surgeon. The servant was sent away in a coach, the surgeon accompanying

him. They arrived at Mr. Mortimer’s, where, after the confusion

occasioned by the accident had subsided, the surgeon found that the face

of both master and man were familiar to him. “I am sure I am not

mistaken,” said he, “you are the gentleman who so charitably took care

of the poor fellow that had such a bad broken leg in this neighbourhood,

and paid me for my attendance.” Mr. Mortimer assented. “Here is a double

discovery,” said the surgeon to himself; and on taking his leave,

“Permit me to assure you, sir,” he cried, “that I venerate you beyond

any other human being!”—At the corner of the court where Mr. Mortimer

resided was a shoemaker’s shop, kept by a man who had a wife and five

children. He was one of the most industrious creatures breathing, and

with great exertions was just able to maintain decently his family, of

whom he was extremely fond. A younger brother of his had come up out of

the country, and obtained a place in a public office, for which it was

necessary to give security; and he had prevailed upon his brother to

enter into a joint bond with him for two hundred pounds. The brother

fell into vicious courses, and at length absconded with all the money he

was intrusted with. The shoemaker was now called upon to pay the

forfeiture of his bond, which, on account of bad debts, and having been

lately drained of all his ready money to pay for leather, he was unable

to do; and, in consequence, was sent to jail. The distress this brought

upon the family was aggravated by the condition of his wife, who was

near lying-in; and their mutual affection was turned into a source of

the bitterest grief. He had been about six weeks in prison, without any

prospect of release, all his friends and relations having been in vain

tried, when, one evening, the keeper who had treated him with much

compassion, came up to his room with pleasure in his countenance, and

said, “You are free.” The poor man could at first scarcely believe him,

but finding him persist in the truth of it, he almost fainted away

through surprise and joy. When he was sufficiently recovered to reflect

on the matter, he was quite bewildered in conjecturing how it had been

brought about. He could only learn, that a discharge of the debt bad

been sent to the jail, and all the fees and expenses there paid by a

person whose name was unknown, but whose face they were well acquainted

with, as he had several times been on the same errand there before. “O!”

cried the shoemaker, “that I could but know my benefactor!” He hastened

home, where his unexpected appearance almost overwhelmed his poor

family. On talking over the business with his wife, he learned that Mr.

Mortimer’s servant had a few days before been at the shop, and had been

very particular in inquiring the cause and place of his confinement.

This occasioned a strong suspicion, for Mr. Mortimer’s character now

came to be talked of; and soon after it was changed into certainty by a

visit from the keeper of the prison, who acquainted the shoemaker, that

they had now discovered who his benefactor and that of so many others

was; one of their people having chanced to be at the sessions-house when

Mr. Mortimer appeared there in behalf of the lame man taken up on

suspicion, and having recognised him to be the same person. The

shoemaker was overjoyed at this intelligence, but was still at a loss to

know in what manner he ought to express his gratitude. He was afraid of

offending, by doing it in a public manner, as it had evidently been Mr.

Mortimer’s intention to remain concealed; yet it was necessary that his

heart should have some vent for its emotions. He took his wife and

children, and went to Mr. Mortimer’s house, desiring to speak with him.

Being admitted into the study, the poor man began a speech which he had

prepared; but instead of going on, he burst into a fit of crying, fell

on his knees, seizing one hand of his benefactor, while his wife did the

same on the other side, and kissing them with the utmost fervency, both

in a broken voice implored endless blessings on his head. The children

fell on their knees, too, and held up their little hands. Mr. Mortimer

was moved and remained awhile silent; at length, recollecting himself,

“Too much! too much!” he cried, “Go home, go home, my good people! God

bless you all!” and thus dismissed them.

An old clergyman from the country came up to town on business about this

time, and paid a visit to an intimate friend of the same profession.

After some mutual greetings and inquiries, “Ah! my good friend,” said

the country clergyman, “our parish has undergone a blessed alteration

since you knew it! The principal estate was sold some years ago to a

gentleman in London, who is one of those few that are never wearied in

well-doing. He built, in the first place, half a score neat cottages,

where all the industrious poor who are past labour are comfortably

maintained at his expense. He endowed a free school for all the children

of the parish without exception, where they are taught to read and

write, and some of the poorest are clothed. Every winter he orders the

baker to deliver twice a week a large loaf at the house of each cottager

during the hard weather. He has frequently remitted his rents to poor

tenants in bad seasons; and, in short, I should never have done were I

to enumerate all his deeds of charity. I myself have in various ways

been much indebted to him, and I am well informed that he contributes

largely to the support of an aged dissenting minister in the parish. But

what is singular, he is very shy of being seen, nor do we know anything

of his rank and profession, or his town residence; nay, I believe we

should not have learned his name, had not the purchase necessarily made

it public. It is Mortimer.”

“Why,” said his friend, “I have a parishioner of that name; and from

what I have lately heard of him, I suspect him to be the man.”

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

“Probably you may,” said the other; and presently, seeing him cross the

court, he pointed him out.

“Ah! that is the blessed man!” exclaimed the old clergyman in a rapture.

And running out, he went up, grasped him eagerly by the hand, and poured

out the most affectionate wishes for his welfare.

Mr. Mortimer now stood _completely detected_.

The world, however, was not satisfied with the general knowledge of his

goodness and benevolence. Curiosity was at work to discover his

connexions, habits, property, employment; in short, the whole personal

history of the man. One only friend, to whom he intrusted all the

secrets of his heart and life, thought fit, after he was removed from

this mortal state, to gratify the world in this particular.

Mr. Mortimer was a younger son of a respectable family in the country,

and came to London at an early age, to be educated for commercial life.

In this he succeeded so well, that after going through the different

stages of clerk, partner, and principal, he found himself possessed of a

considerable fortune. For sometime he made that use of his wealth which

persons who live within the bounds of what is called decency think

permitted to them. But the common pleasures of the world palled daily

more and more upon his taste. He found a void which could only be filled

by reading and contemplation. He grew fond of taking enlarged views of

mankind, their several conditions, characters, and destinations. He

compared the higher classes with the lower, the instructed with the

ignorant; above all, he examined _himself_, and inquired into the great

purpose for which he was brought into the world. In order to augment his

sphere of knowledge, he resolved to visit foreign countries; and having

no family encumbrances, he drew his affairs into a small compass,

relinquished business, and went abroad. During a course of some years,

he was a wanderer through most countries of Europe, travelling chiefly

on foot, avoiding common routes, and mingling with the mass of the

people.

He saw, abroad as well as at home, a great deal of misery; he saw

wretchedness everywhere close in the train of splendour—indigence by the

side of prodigality—baseness under the foot of authority. He lamented

the evils of the world; but whatever might be their original source, he

saw that man had within himself the power of remedying many of them. In

exercising this power, all duty, all virtue seemed to consist. “This,

then,” said he, “must be the proper business of every man in this life.

It is then _mine_; and how shall I best perform it?”

Full of these meditations, he returned; and convinced that the great

inequality of rank and property is one principal cause (though a

necessary one) of the ills of life, he resolved, as much as it lay in

his power, to counteract it. “How few things,” thought he, “are

necessary to my external comfort! Wholesome food, warm clothing, clean

lodging, a little waiting upon, and a few books. This is all that even

selfishness asks of me. Whose, then, is the superfluity?”

That he might at once get rid of the craving and burdensome demands

which _opinion_ imposes, he took a house in a part of the town where his

name was unknown; and of all his former acquaintance, he only reserved

one or two congenial friends. He selected out of the number of his

former domestics one of each sex, steady and confidential, whose lives

he made as comfortable as his own. After all the expenses of his frugal,

but not scanty mode of living were discharged, there remained two thirds

of his income, which he never failed to bestow in secret charity. He

chose that his charities should be secret, not only as being utterly

averse to all ostentation, but also to avoid those importunities which

might lead his bounty to unworthy objects. He would himself know the

real circumstances of every case; and it was the chief employment of his

time, by hunting into obscure corners, and searching out the private

history of the indigent classes of the community, to obtain exact

information of the existence of misery, and the proper modes of

relieving it. He neglected no kinds of distress, but it was his great

delight to relieve virtuous poverty, and alleviate those keen wounds of

fortune which she inflicts on those who have once participated in some

share of her smiles. Hence the sums which he bestowed were often so

considerable as at once to retrieve the affairs of the sufferer, nor did

he think it right to withdraw his sustaining hand as long as its support

was needful.

With respect to his opinions on other subjects, his enlarged

acquaintance with men and books effectually preserved him from bigotry.

He well knew in what points mankind agreed, and in what they differed,

and he attached much superior importance to the former.

So he lived—so he died! injuring none—benefiting many—bearing with pious

resignation the evils that fell to his own lot—continually endeavouring

to alleviate those of others—and hoping to behold a state in which all

evil shall be abolished.

[Illustration:

Providence, or the Shipwreck, p. 377.

EVENING XXXI.

]

A GLOBE-LECTURE.

_Papa_—_Lucy_.

_Papa._ You may remember, Lucy, that I talked to you sometime ago about

the earth’s motion round the sun.

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

about the other planets.

_Pa._ I mean some day to take you to the lecture of an ingenious

philosopher, who has contrived a machine that will give you a better

notion of these things in an hour, than I could by mere talking in a

week. But it is now my intention to make you better acquainted with this

globe which we inhabit, and which, indeed, is the most important to us.

Cast your eyes upon this little ball. You see it is a representation of

the earth, being covered with a painted map of the world. This map is

crossed with lines in various directions; but all you have to observe

relative to what I am going to talk about, is the great line across the

middle called the _equator_ or _equinoctial line_, and the two points at

top and bottom called the _poles_, of which the uppermost is the

northern, the lowermost the southern.

_Lu._ I see them.

_Pa._ Now, the sun, which illuminates all the parts of this globe by

turns as they roll round before it, shines directly upon the equator,

but darts its rays aslant toward the poles; and this is the cause of the

great heat perceived in the middle regions of the earth, and of its

gradual diminution as you proceed from them on either side toward the

extremities. To use a familiar illustration, it is like a piece of meat

roasting before a fire, the middle part of which is liable to be

overdone, while the two ends are raw.

_Lu._ I can comprehend that.

_Pa._ From this simple circumstance some of the greatest differences on

the surface of the earth, with respect to man, other animals, and

vegetables, proceed; for heat is the great principle of life and

vegetation; and where it most prevails, provided it be accompanied with

due moisture, nature is most replenished with all sorts of living and

growing things. In general, then, the countries lying on each side about

the equator, and forming a broad belt round the globe, called the

_tropics_, or _torrid zone_, are rich and exuberant in their products to

a degree much superior to what we see in our climates. Trees and other

plants shoot to a vast size, and are clothed in perpetual verdure, and

loaded with flowers of the gayest colours and sweetest fragrance,

succeeded by fruits of high flavour or abundant nutriment. The insect

tribe is multiplied so as to fill all the air, and many of them astonish

by their size and extraordinary forms, and the splendour of their hues.

The ground is all alive with reptiles, some harmless, some armed with

deadly poisons.

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

_Pa._ The birds, however, decked in the gayest plumage conceivable, must

give unmixed delight; and a tropical forest, filled with parrots,

macaws, and peacocks, and enlivened with the gambols of monkeys and

other nimble quadrupeds, must be a very amusing spectacle. The largest

of quadrupeds, too, the elephant, the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus,

are natives of these regions; and not only these sublime and harmless

animals, but the terrible lion, the cruel tiger, and all the most

ravenous beasts of prey, are here found in their greatest bulk and

fierceness.

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

_Pa._ The sea likewise is filled with inhabitants of an immense variety

of size and figure; not only fishes, but tortoises, and all the shelly

tribes. The shores are spread with shells of a beauty unknown to our

coasts; for it would seem as if the influence of the solar heat

penetrated into the farthest recesses of nature.

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

_Pa._ But the elements, too, are there upon a grand and terrific scale.

The sky either blazes with intolerable beams, or pours down rain in

irresistible torrents. The winds swell to furious hurricanes, which

often desolate the whole face of nature in a day. Earthquakes rock the

ground, and sometimes open it in chasms which swallow up entire cities.

Storms raise the waves of the ocean into mountains, and drive them in a

deluge to the land.

_Lu._ Ah! that would spoil my shell-gathering. These countries may be

very fine, but I don’t like them.

_Pa._ Well, then—we will turn from them to the _temperate_ regions. You

will observe, on looking at the map, that these chiefly lie on the

northern side of the tropics; for on the southern side the space is

almost wholly occupied by sea. Though geographers have drawn a boundary

line between the torrid and temperate zones, yet nature has made none;

and for a considerable space on the borders, the diminution of heat is

so gradual as to produce little difference in the appearance of nature.

But, in general, the temperate _zones_ or _belts_ form the most

desirable districts on the face of the earth. Their products are

extremely various, and abound in beauty and utility. Corn, wine, and

oil, are among their vegetable stores: the horse, the ox, and the sheep,

graze their verdant pastures. Their seasons have the pleasing

vicissitudes of summer and winter, spring and autumn. Though in some

parts they are subject to excess of heat, and in others of cold, yet

they deserve the general praise of a mild temperature compared to the

rest of the globe.

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

_Pa._ You _do_ live in one of them, though our island is situated so far

to the north that it ranks rather among the cold countries than the warm

ones. However, we have the good fortune to be a long way removed from

those dreary and comfortless tracts of the globe which lie about the

poles, and are called the _frigid zones_. In these, the cheering

influence of the sun gradually becomes extinct, and perpetual frost and

snow take possession of the earth. Trees and plants diminish in number

and size, till at length no vegetables are found but some mosses and a

few stunted herbs. Land animals are reduced to three or four

species—raindeer, white bears, and arctic foxes. The sea, however, as

far as it remains free from ice, is all alive with aquatic birds, and

with the finny tribe. Enormous whales spout and gambol among the

floating ice-islands, and herds of seals pursue the shoals of smaller

fish, and harbour in the caverns of the rocky coasts.

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

_Pa._ Nature has given them powers of enduring cold beyond those of many

other animals; and then the water is always warmer than the land in cold

climates; nay, at a certain depth, it is equally warm in all parts of

the globe.

_Lu._ Well, but as I cannot go to the bottom of the sea, I desire to

have nothing to do with these dismal countries. But do any men live

there?

_Pa._ It is one of the wonderful things belonging to man, that he is

capable of living in all parts of the globe where any other animals

live. And as nothing relative to this earth is so important to us as the

condition of human creatures in it, suppose we take a general survey of

the different races of men who inhabit all the tracts we have been

speaking of?

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

_Pa._ Surely. If a black dog is as much a dog as a white one, why should

not a black man be as much a man? I know nothing that colour has to do

with mind. Well, then—to go back to the equator. The middle or tropical

girdle of the earth, which by the ancients was concluded to be

uninhabitable from its extreme heat, has been found by modern

discoveries to be as well filled with men as it is with other living

creatures. And no wonder; for life is maintained here at less cost than

elsewhere. Clothes and fuel are scarcely at all necessary. A shed of

bamboo covered with palm-leaves serves for a house; and food is almost

the spontaneous produce of nature. The bread-fruit, the cocoa, the

banana, and the plantain, offer their stores freely to the gatherer; and

if he takes the additional pains to plant a few yams, or sow a little

Indian corn, he is furnished with never-failing plenty. Hence the

inhabitants of many tropical countries live nearly in what is called a

state of nature, without care or labour, using the gifts of Providence

like the animals around them. The naked Indian, stretched at ease under

the shade of a lofty tree, passes his hours in indolent repose, unless

roused to temporary exertion by the passion of the chase, or the love of

dancing and other social sports.

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

_Pa._ So the poet Thomson seemed to think, when he burst into a

rapturous description of the beauties and pleasures afforded by these

favoured regions. Perhaps you can remember some of his lines?

_Lu._ I will try.

——“Thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow

Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cooled,

Broad o’er my head the verdant cedar wave,

And high palmettoes lift their grateful shade.

O, stretched amid these orchards of the sun,

Give me to drain the cocoa’s milky bowl,

And from the palm to draw its freshening wine!”

_Pa._ Delightful! Think, however, at what price they purchase this

indolent enjoyment of life. In the first place, all the work that is

done is thrown upon the women, who are always most tyrannized over, the

nearer a people approach to a state of nature.

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

_Pa._ Then the mind not having that spur to exertion which necessity

alone can give, moulders in inaction, and becomes incapable of those

advances in knowledge and vigour which raise and dignify the human

character.

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

_Pa._ True. The excessive heat, however, of these countries seems of

itself to relax the mind, and unfit it for its noblest exertions. And I

question if a single instance could be produced of an original

inhabitant of the tropics, who had attained to eminence in the higher

walks of science. It is their general character to be gay, volatile, and

thoughtless, subject to violent passions, but commonly mild and gentle,

fond of society and amusements, ingenious in little arts, but incapable

of great or long-continued efforts. They form a large portion of the

human race, and probably not the least happy. You see what vast tracts

of land lie within this division; most of Africa and South America, all

the great islands of Asia and two of its large peninsulas. Of these the

Asiatic part is the most populous and civilized; indeed, many of its

nations are as far removed from a state of nature as we are, and their

constitutional indolence has been completely overcome by necessity. The

clothing of those who are in a civilized state is mostly made of cotton,

which is a natural product of those climates. Their food is chiefly of

the vegetable kind and besides the articles already mentioned, consists

much of rice.

_Lu._ Are the people all black?

_Pa._ Yes; entirely or nearly so.

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

_Pa._ Undoubtedly; for we find all the shades from jet black to tawny,

and at length white, as we proceed from the equator toward the poles.

The African negroes, however, from their curled woolly hair and their

flat features, have been supposed an originally distinct race of

mankind. The East Indian blacks, though under an equally hot climate,

have long flowing hair, and features not different from their fairer

neighbours. Almost all these nations are subject to despotic

governments. In religion they are mostly pagans, with a mixture of

Mohammedans.

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

_Pa._ Well, then—look again on the globe to the northern side of the

tropics, and see what a tour we shall take among the inhabitants of the

north temperate zone. Here are all the most famous places on the earth;

rich, populous countries, renowned at different periods for arts and

arms. Here is the greatest part of Asia, a little of Africa, all Europe,

and North America.

_Lu._ I suppose, however, there must be great differences both in the

climate and the way of life, in so many countries?

_Pa._ Extremely great. The southern parts partake a good deal of the

character of the tropical regions. The heat is still excessive, and

renders exertion painful; whence the people have in general been

reckoned soft, effeminate, and voluptuous. Let us, however, look at them

a little closer. Here is the mighty empire of China, swarming with

people to such a degree, that, notwithstanding its size and fertility,

the inhabitants are obliged to exert the greatest industry to procure

the necessaries of life. Nearly in a line with it are the Mogul’s

Empire, the kingdom of Persia, and the Turkish dominions in Asia; all

warm climates abounding in products of use and beauty, and inhabited by

numerous and civilized people. Here stretches out the great peninsula of

Arabia, for the most part a dry and desert land, overspread with burning

sands, only to be crossed by the patient camel. Wild and ferocious

tribes of men wander over it, chiefly supported by their herds and

flocks, and by the trade of robbery, which they exercise on all

travellers that fall in their way. A tract somewhat similar, though in a

colder climate, is the vast country of Tartary, stretching like a belt

from east to west across the middle of Asia; over the immense plains and

deserts of which, a number of independent tribes continually roam,

fixing their moveable habitations in one part or another, according as

they afford pasturage to their herds of cattle and horses. These men

have for many ages lived in the same simple state, unacquainted as well

with the arts as the vices of civilized nations.

_Lu._ Well. I think it must be a very pleasant life to ramble about from

place to place, and change one’s abode according to the season.

_Pa._ The Tartars think so; for the worst wish they can find for man, is

that he may live in a house and work like a Russian. Now look at Europe.

See what a small figure it makes on the surface of the globe as to size;

and yet it has for many ages held the first place in knowledge,

activity, civilization, and all the qualities that elevate man among his

fellows. For this it is much indebted to that temperature of climate

which calls forth all the faculties of man in order to render life

comfortable, yet affords enough of the beauties of nature to warm the

heart and exalt the imagination. Men here earn their bread with the

sweat of their brow. Nature does not drop her fruits into their mouths,

but offers them as the price of labour. Human wants are many. Clothes,

food, lodging, are all objects of much care and contrivance, but the

human powers fully exerted are equal to the demand; and nowhere are

enjoyments so various and multiplied. What the land does not yield

itself, its inhabitants by their active industry procure from the

remotest parts of the globe. When we drink tea, we sweeten the infusion

of a Chinese herb with the juice of a West Indian cane; and your common

dress is composed of materials collected from the equator to the frigid

zone. Europeans render all countries and climates familiar to them; and

everywhere they assume a superiority over the less enlightened or less

industrious natives.

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

_Pa._ That part of North America which has been settled by Europeans, is

only another Europe in manners and civilization. But the original

inhabitants of that extensive country were bold and hardy barbarians,

and many of them continue so to this day. So much for the temperate

zone, which contains the prime of mankind. They differ extremely,

however, in government, laws, customs, and religions. The Christian

religion has the credit of reckoning among its votaries all the

civilized people of Europe and America. The Mahometan possesses all the

nearer parts of Asia, and the north of Africa, but China, Japan, and

most of the circumjacent countries, profess different forms of paganism.

The East, in general, is enslaved to despotism; but the nobler West

enjoys in most of its states more or less of freedom.

As to the frigid zone, its few inhabitants can but just sustain a life

little better than that of the brutes. Their faculties are benumbed by

the climate. Their chief employment is the fishery or the chase, by

which they procure their food. The tending of herds of raindeer in some

parts varies their occupations and diet. They pass their long winters in

holes dug underground, where they doze out most of their time in stupid

repose.

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

_Pa._ Yet none of the inhabitants of the globe seem more attached to

their country and way of life. Nor do they, indeed, want powers to

render their situation tolerably comfortable. Their canoes, and fishing,

and hunting tackle, are made with great ingenuity; and their clothing is

admirably adapted to fence against the rigours of cold. They are not

without some amusements to cheer the gloom of their condition: but they

are abjectly superstitious, and given to fear and melancholy.

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

country.

_Pa._ Perhaps the warmer countries are pleasanter; but there are few

advantages which are not balanced by some inconveniences; and it is the

truest wisdom to be contented with our lot, and endeavour to make the

best of it. One great lesson, however, I wish you to derive from this

_globe-lecture_. You see that no part of the world is void of our human

brethren, who, amid all the diversities of character and condition, are

yet all _men_, filling the station in which their Creator has placed

them. We are too apt to look at the differences of mankind, and to

undervalue all those who do not agree with us in matters that we think

of high importance. But who are we—and what cause have we to think

ourselves right, and all others wrong? Can we imagine that hundreds of

millions of our species in other parts of the world are left destitute

of what is essential to their well-being, while a favoured few like

ourselves are the only ones who possess it? Having all a common nature,

we must necessarily agree in more things than we differ in. The road to

virtue and happiness is alike open to all. The mode of pursuit is

various: the end is the same.

ENVY AND EMULATION.

At one of the celebrated schools of painting in Italy, a young man named

Guidotto produced a piece so excellent, that it was the admiration of

the masters in the art, who all declared it to be their opinion that he

could not fail of rising to the summit of his profession, should he

proceed as he had begun.

This performance was looked upon with very different eyes by two of his

fellow-scholars. Brunello, the elder of them, who had himself acquired

some reputation in his studies, was mortified in the highest degree at

this superiority of Guidotto; and regarding all the honour his rival had

acquired as so much taken from himself, he conceived the most rancorous

dislike of him, and longed for nothing so much as to see him lose the

credit he had gained. Afraid openly to decry the merit of a work which

had obtained the approbation of the best judges, he threw out secret

insinuations that Guidotto had been assisted in it by one or other of

his masters; and he affected to represent it as a sort of lucky hit,

which the reputed author would never equal.

Not so Lorenzo. Though a very young proficient in the art, he

comprehended in its full extent the excellence of Guidotto’s

performance, and became one of the sincerest of his admirers. Fired with

the praises he saw him receive on all sides, he ardently longed one day

to deserve the like. He placed him before his eyes as a fair model,

which it was his highest ambition to arrive at equalling—for, as to

excelling him, he could not as yet conceive the possibility of it. He

never spoke of him but with rapture, and could not bear to hear the

detractions of Brunello.

But Lorenzo did not content himself with words. He entered with his

whole soul into the career of improvement—was first and last of all the

scholars in the designing-room—and devoted to practice at home those

hours which the other youths passed in amusement. It was long before he

could please himself with any of the attempts, and he was continually

repeating over them, “Alas! how far distant is this from Guidotto’s!” At

length, however, he had the satisfaction of becoming sensible of

progress; and having received considerable applause on account of one of

his performances, he ventured to say to himself, “And why may not I too

become a Guidotto?”

Meanwhile, Guidotto continued to bear away the palm from all

competitors. Brunello struggled awhile to contest with him, but at

length gave up the point, and consoled himself under his inferiority by

ill-natured sarcasm and petulant criticism. Lorenzo worked away in

silence, and it was long before his modesty would suffer him to place

any piece of his in view at the same time with one of Guidotto’s.

There was a certain day in the year in which it was customary for all

the scholars to exhibit their best performance in a public hall, where

their merit was solemnly judged by a number of select examiners, and a

prize of value was awarded to the most excellent. Guidotto had prepared

for this anniversary a piece which was to excel all he had before

executed. He had just finished it on the evening before the exhibition,

and nothing remained but to heighten the colouring by means of a

transparent varnish. The malignant Brunello contrived artfully to convey

into the vial containing this varnish some drops of a caustic

preparation, the effect of which would be entirely to destroy the beauty

and splendour of the piece. Guidotto laid it on by candlelight, and then

with great satisfaction hung up his picture in the public room against

the morrow.

Lorenzo, too, with beating heart, had prepared himself for the day. With

vast application he had finished a piece which he humbly hoped might

appear not greatly inferior to some of Guidotto’s earlier performances.

The important day was now arrived. The company assembled, and were

introduced into the great room, where the light had just been fully

admitted by drawing up a curtain. All went up with raised expectations

to Guidotto’s picture, when, behold! instead of the brilliant beauty

they had conceived, there was nothing but a dead surface of confused and

blotched colours. “Surely,” they cried, “this cannot be Guidotto’s!” The

unfortunate youth himself came up, and in beholding the dismal change of

his favourite piece, burst out into an agony of grief, and exclaimed

that he was betrayed and undone. The vile Brunello in a corner was

enjoying his distress. But Lorenzo was little less affected than

Guidotto himself. “Trick! knavery!” he cried. “Indeed, gentlemen, this

is not Guidotto’s work: I saw it when only half finished, and it was a

most charming performance. Look at the outline, and judge what it must

have been before it was so basely injured.”

The spectators were all struck with Lorenzo’s generous warmth, and

sympathized in the disgrace of Guidotto; but it was impossible to

adjudge the prize to his picture, in the state in which they beheld it.

They examined all the others attentively, and that of Lorenzo, till then

an unknown artist to them, gained a great majority of suffrages. The

prize was therefore awarded to him; but Lorenzo, on receiving it, went

up to Guidotto, and presenting it to him, said, “Take what merit would

undoubtedly have acquired for you, had not the basest malice and envy

defrauded you of it. To me it is honour enough to be accounted your

second. If hereafter I may aspire to equal you, it shall be by means of

fair competition, not by the aid of treachery.”

Lorenzo’s nobleness of conduct excited the warmest encomiums among the

judges, who at length determined, that for this time there should be two

equal prizes distributed; for that if Guidotto had deserved the prize of

painting, Lorenzo was entitled to that of virtue.

PROVIDENCE; OR, THE SHIPWRECK.

It was a dreadful storm. The wind blowing full on the seashore, rolled

tremendous waves on the beach, while the half-sunk rocks at the entrance

of the bay were enveloped in a mist of white foam. A ship appeared in

the offing, driving impetuously under her bare poles to land; now

tilting aloft on the surging waves, now plunging into the intervening

hollows. Presently, she rushed among the rocks, and there struck, the

billows beating over her deck, and climbing up her shattered rigging.

“Mercy! mercy!” exclaimed an ancient solitary, as he viewed from the

cliff the dismal scene. It was in vain. The ship fell on her side and

was seen no more.

Soon, however, a small, dark object appeared coming from the rocks

toward the shore; at first, dimly descried through the foam, then quite

plain as it rode on the summit of a wave, then for a time totally lost.

It approached, and showed itself to be a boat with men in it rowing for

their lives. The solitary hastened down to the beach, and in all the

agonizing vicissitudes of hope and fear watched its advance. At length,

after the most imminent hazards, the boat was thrown violently on the

shore, and the dripping, half-dead mariners crawled out on dry land.

“Heaven be praised!” cried the solitary, “what a providential escape!”

And he led the poor men to his cell, where, kindling a good fire, and

bringing out his little store of provisions, he restored them to health

and spirits. “And are you six men the only ones saved?”—“That we are,”

answered one of them. “Threescore and fifteen men, women, and children,

were in the ship when she struck. You may think what a clamour and

confusion there were: women clinging to their husbands’ necks, and

children hanging about their clothes, all shrieking, crying, and

praying! There was no time to be lost. We got out the small-boat in a

twinkling—jumped in, without staying for our captain, who was fool

enough to be minding the passengers—cut the rope, and pushed away just

time enough to be clear of the ship as she went down; and here we are,

all alive and merry!” An oath concluded his speech. The solitary was

shocked, and could not help secretly wishing that it had pleased

Providence to have saved some of the innocent passengers, rather than

these reprobates.

The sailors having got what they could, departed, scarcely thanking

their benefactor, and marched up the country. Night came on. They

descried a light at some distance, and made up to it. It proceeded from

the window of a good-looking house, surrounded with a farmyard and

garden. They knocked at the door, and in a supplicating tone made known

their distress, and begged relief. They were admitted, and treated with

compassion and hospitality. In the house were the mistress, her

children, and women-servants, an old man and a boy: the master was

abroad. The sailors, sitting round the kitchen fire, whispered to each

other that here was an opportunity of making a booty that would amply

compensate for the loss of clothes and wages. They settled their plan;

and on the old man’s coming with logs to the fire, one of them broke his

scull with the poker, and laid him dead. Another took up a knife which

had been brought with the loaf and cheese, and running after the boy,

who was making his escape out of the house, stabbed him to the heart.

The rest locked the doors, and after tying all the women and children,

began to ransack the house. One of the children continuing to make loud

exclamations, a fellow went and strangled it. They had nearly finished

packing up such of the most valuable things as they could carry off,

when the master of the house came home. He was a smuggler as well as a

farmer, and had just returned from an expedition, leaving his companions

with their goods at a neighbouring public-house. Surprised at finding

the doors locked, and seeing lights moving about in the chambers, he

suspected something amiss; and upon listening, he heard strange voices,

and saw some of the sailors through the windows. He hastened back to his

companions, and brought them with him just as the robbers opened the

door, and were coming out with their pillage, having first set fire to

the house, in order to conceal what they had done. The smuggler and his

friends let fly their blunderbusses in the midst of them, and then

rushing forward, seized the survivors, and secured them. Perceiving

flames in the house, they ran and extinguished them. The villains were

next day led to prison amid the curses of the neighbourhood.

The good solitary, on hearing of the event, at first exclaimed, “What a

wonderful interference of Providence, to punish guilt, and protect

innocence!” Pausing awhile, he added, “Yet had Providence thought fit to

have drowned these sailors in their passage from the ship, where they

left so many better people to perish, the lives of three innocent

persons would have been saved, and these wretches would have died

without such accumulated guilt and ignominy. On the other hand, had the

master of the house been at home, instead of following a lawless and

desperate trade, he would perhaps have perished with all his family, and

the villains have escaped with their booty. What am I to think of all

this?” Thus pensive and perplexed he laid him down to rest, and after

some time spent in gloomy reflections, fell asleep.

In his dream he fancied himself seated on the top of a high mountain,

where he was accosted by a venerable figure in a long white garment, who

asked him the cause of the melancholy expressed on his countenance. “It

is,” said he, “because I am unable to reconcile the decrees of

Providence with my ideas of wisdom and justice.”—“That,” replied the

stranger, “is probably because thy notions of Providence are narrow and

erroneous. Thou seekest it in _particular events_, and dost not raise

thy survey to the _great whole_. Every occurrence in the universe is

_providential_, because it is the consequence of those laws which divine

wisdom has established as most productive of the general good. But to

select individual facts as more directed by the hand of Providence than

others, because we think we see a particular good purpose answered by

them, is an infallible inlet to error and superstition. Follow me to the

edge of the cliff.” He seemed to follow.

“Now look down,” said the stranger, “and tell me what thou seest.” “I

see,” replied the solitary, “a hawk darting amid a flock of small birds,

one of which he has caught, while the others escape.”—“And canst thou

think,” rejoined the stranger, “that the single bird made a prey of by

the hawk lies under any particular doom of Providence, or that those who

fly away are more the objects of divine favour than it? Hawks by nature

were made to feed upon living prey, and were endowed with strength and

swiftness to enable them to overtake and master it. Thus life is

sacrificed to the support of life. But to this destruction limits are

set. The small birds are much more numerous and prolific than the birds

of prey; and though they cannot resist his force, they have dexterity

and nimbleness of flight sufficient in general to elude his pursuit. It

is in this _balance_ that the wisdom of Providence is seen; and what can

be a greater proof of it, than that both species, the destroyer and his

prey, have subsisted together from their first creation? Now, look

again, and tell me what thou seest.”

“I see,” said the solitary, “a thick black cloud gathering in the sky. I

hear the thunder rolling from side to side of the vault of heaven. I

behold the red lightning darting from the bosom of darkness. Now it has

fallen on a stately tree and shattered it to pieces, striking to the

ground an ox sheltered at its foot. Now it falls again in the midst of a

flock of timorous sheep, and several of them are left on the plain;—and

see! the shepherd himself lies extended by their side. Now it strikes a

lofty spire, and at the same time sets in a blaze an humble cottage

beneath. It is an awful and terrible sight!”

“It is so,” returned the stranger, “but what dost thou conclude from it?

Dost thou not know, that from the genial heat which gives life to plants

and animals, and ripens the fruits of the earth, proceeds this

electrical fire, which ascending to the clouds, and charging them beyond

what they are able to contain, is launched again in burning bolts to the

earth? Must it leave its direct course to strike the tree rather than

the dome of worship, or to spend its fury on the herd rather than the

herdsman! Millions and millions of living creatures have owed their

birth to this active element; and shall we think it strange if a few

meet their deaths from it? Thus the mountain torrent that rushes down to

fertilize the plain, in its course may sweep away the works of human

industry, and man himself with them; but could its benefits be purchased

at another price?”

“All this,” said the solitary, “I tolerably comprehend; but may I

presume to ask whence have proceeded the _moral evils_ of the painful

scenes of yesterday? What good end is answered by making man the scourge

of man, and preserving the guilty at the cost of the innocent?”

“That, too,” replied the venerable stranger, “is a consequence of the

same wise laws of Providence. If it was right to make man a creature of

habit, and render those things easy to him with which he is most

familiar, the sailor, of course, must be better able to shift for

himself in a shipwreck than the passenger; while that self-love, which

is essential to the preservation of life must, in general, cause him to

consult his own safety before that of others. The same force of habit in

a way of life full of peril and hardship, must conduce to form a rough,

bold, and unfeeling character. This, under the direction of principle,

will make a brave man; without it, a robber and a murderer. In the

latter case, human laws step in to remove the evil which they have not

been able to prevent. Wickedness meets with the fate which sooner or

later always awaits it; and innocence, though it occasionally suffers,

is proved in the end to be the surest path to happiness.”

“But,” resumed the solitary, “can it be said that the lot of innocence

is _always_ preferable to that of guilt in this world?”

“If it cannot,” replied the other, “thinkest thou that the Almighty is

unable to make retribution in a future world? Dismiss, then, from thy

mind the care of _single events_, secure that the _great whole_ is

ordered for the best. Expect not a particular interposition of Heaven,

because such an interposition would seem to thee seasonable. Thou,

perhaps, wouldest stop the vast machine of the universe to save a fly

from being crushed under its wheels. But innumerable flies and men are

crushed every day, yet the grand motion goes on, and will go on, to

fulfil the benevolent intentions of its Author.”

He ceased, and sleep on a sudden left the eyelids of the solitary. He

looked abroad from his cell, and beheld all nature smiling around him.

The rising sun shone in a clear sky. Birds were sporting in the air, and

fish glancing on the surface of the waters. Fleets were pursuing their

steady course, gently wafted by the pleasant breeze. Light fleecy clouds

were sailing over the blue expanse of heaven. His soul sympathized with

the scene, and peace and joy filled his bosom.

EPILOGUE.

And now, so many _Evenings_ past,

Our _Budget_’s fairly out at last;

Exhausted all its various store,

Nor like to be replenished more.

Then, youthful friends, farewell! my heart

Shall speak a blessing as we part.

May Wisdom’s seeds in every mind

Fit soil and careful culture find;

Each generous plant with vigour shoot.

And kindly ripen into fruit!

Hope of the world, the _rising race_

May Heaven with fostering love embrace,

And turning to a whiter page,

Commence with them a _better age_!

An age of light and joy, which we,

Alas! in promise only see.

J. A.

THE END

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Corrected and to any on p. 216.

2. Corrected beating to heating on p. 223.

3. Corrected my to by on p. 237.

4. Added missing word I on p. 241.

5. Corrected and to an on p. 308.

6. Corrected “a ways” to “always” on p. 346.

7. Removed unnecessary word “a” on p. 348.

8. Silently corrected typographical errors.

9. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

10. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.