----Tho’ tempest frowns,
Tho’ nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heav’n!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
Dr. YOUNG.
Happiness is more sought after, and with much greater avidity, than any
other blessing with which this terraqueous ball is supposed is be
endued. Yet, notwithstanding the eagerness with which it is pursued,
none has been less substantially obtained. The reason is obvious.
Mankind are dissatisfied with their respective situations in life, and
content dwells not in their bosoms: their minds are satiated with what
they possess; new objects hardly delight for a moment, ere fresh ones
present themselves; and man, unthinking creature as he is, follows the
airy phantom, promising himself perfect happiness, can he but attain
another wish; but which, when acquired, proves, alas! like the former,
the visionary satisfaction of an instant.
Content constitutes continual happiness; for with that sweet companion,
the peasant is greater than a prince destitute of the benign blessing.
The glittering, gaudy tinsel of a court, is unable to convey that real
happiness to man, which the honest rustic feels at the sweet lispings of
his innocent babes, and the heartfelt welcome of a faithful wife as they
greet his return every evening from a hard day’s toil. Surrounded by
this happy group, he sits down, breaks the bread of virtuous industry,
blesses Him who gave him strength to earn the scanty meal, and lays down
on the pallet of penury in peace, to arise with the morn to labour and
to happiness. This life he enjoys, because he aspires to nothing above
that sphere in which it has pleased Omnipotence to place him.
How few, even in any state, do we find happy? Alas! the number is by far
too few. To the improper pursuit after happiness, can we only attribute
the misery of mankind; daily, nay even hourly, do we see dread examples
of this serious truth. But where is the eye that has not beheld, the
mind that has not felt, or the heart that has not pitied, some object
who has, in grasping at the shadow of happiness, lost the substance;
whether it has met the observation as a culprit at the bar of a criminal
court, a lunatic, a beggar, a deluded female, or a debtor in the dreary
mansion of a prison? Where is the tongue but must confess, that they
have lost their probity, their reason, their independence, their virtue,
or their liberty, in an improper pursuit after happiness? However wrong
their ideas might be, that, and that only, was the aim.
It will be asked, and with great propriety, what remedy we should apply
for the prevention or cure of such an unremitting disease? We can only
recommend content; not merely as the interest, but the duty of mankind.
For, if man repines, at whom is it? It is at Him who in mercy infinite
made man. There are few, it is presumed, if they consider this serious
and important truth, who will not cease to murmur and be discontented;
or they must, at least, cease to offend the Almighty, by repeating those
words which his beloved Son himself hath taught us, saying, “thy will be
done on earth, as it is in heaven.”
* * * * *
* * * *
+Of the GENIUS of the ARABS.+
Arabia has ever been as celebrated for horses of a gentle, generous
spirit, as the Arabs for their skill in training them. That this praise
is not undeserved, nothing can more clearly illustrate, I conceive, than
the following incident, recounted by an English gentleman, whose credit
and repute are well known among his countrymen in Bengal.
Temporarily resident at Bussorah, after a trading voyage to the Gulph of
Persia, Mr. T---- went, one afternoon, to pay a visit at the English
factory. Whilst the Chief, with several other gentlemen besides himself,
were drinking coffee in a balcony, an Arab, gallantly mounted, and his
horse superbly caparisoned, galloped into the courtyard: there, for some
time, he exercised his steed, displayed perfect address in the manege,
curvetting, prancing, volting, wheeling, and caprioling his courser,
with inimitable grace, and as much expertness in the easy management of
his arms, darting a spear in the air, and recovering it again at full
tilt, with other feats, equally dexterous and entertaining.
Unluckily, however, for the poor fellow, in crossing a bank and ditch,
leading from the area to an adjacent field, the horse, being fatigued,
fell down, and threw his rider headlong in the dust. A stream of blood
gushed, at the same time, from the creature’s nostrils, and he lay
extended and motionless on the ground. The Arab seemed stunned by the
fall; but at length recovering, shook his ears, brushed the dust from
his cloaths, replaced his turban, and approached his horse.
But no man nor pencil can express the anguish and affliction conspicuous
in the man’s countenance, on beholding the animal lie in that condition.
At first he raved and screamed, in a delirium of agony; then bursting
into tears, kissed and embraced his horse, bewailing and bemoaning his
loss in all the excess of despondency. So animated, indeed, appeared his
grief, and so deep his distress, as to inspire a sympathetic affection
in the bosoms of all the spectators.
The gentlemen instantly called him up, and learning that the horse had
been bred from a colt in his house, and was the only support (as the man
served as a monthly Sepahi in the Bashaw’s army) of his father, mother,
himself, his wife, and three small children, and that the loss now
deprived the whole of subsistence, they humanely raised a handsome
contribution for him, immediately among themselves and their dependents,
and, giving the man the money, bid him be comforted, and go and buy
another horse.
With effusions of the most lively gratitude, yet not unaccompanied by
sighs and sobs, the man received the bounty, and once more repaired,
dejectedly, towards his horse, in order, as it should seem, to take off
the trappings and furniture. But no sooner had the wily Arab repassed
the ditch, than, at a word, the horse started up; the master vaulted
upon his back, and rode away full speed, laughing aloud at the credulity
of his staring and astonished dupes, and at the success of his own
contrivance.
* * * * *
* * * *
+The HISTORY of Mrs. MORDAUNT.+
[Written by Herself.]
(Concluded from our last.)
Be consoled that our hearts are not tainted with evil, and that the
consciousness of never committing aught offensive to innocence, hangs
like a friendly shade around us, to blunt the pointed arrows of
adversity. Fatigue at length overpowered the veteran, and he died under
a holly tree. A tributary tear of gratitude fell from me, but I quickly
supprest my feelings, and envied him his fate. The minister of the
parish was a good man, and had him interred. When the rustics retired
who had attended the funeral, I seated myself by the sod which covered
the remains of my last friend, how often did I raise my eyes to heaven,
and beseech the Supreme to take me to eternal peace. I continued lost in
gloomy reveries till night surrounded me, I arose with an intention of
proceeding to the next hamlet. As I walked slow and pensive, my ears
were struck by a soft voice familiar to them, which came from a
flower-woven arbour on the road side. I listened attentively, it was the
voice of my child, amazed, doubting my own senses, I crept to the spot.
She was singing a little air, which had once been a favourite of mine,
there is no describing the melancholy melody with which she sung it; she
was often interrupted by sighs, and her hands were raised to wipe away
her tears, the beams of the moon shone around us, affording sufficient
light to discern every object. She turned around and perceived me, the
paleness and agony of my countenance terrified her, “Gracious Heaven!”
cried she, “what do I behold?” “A miserable old man,” I exclaimed,
“whose heart is broken by ingratitude and grief.” She shrieked, she
would have fled, but her limbs aided not her intention, fainting she
sunk at my feet, I knelt beside her, I clasped her with a kind of
phrenzy to my breast, called upon her to revive, and bless a father who
never ceased to regret her loss, she opened her eyes, “Alas! I am
unworthy of such tenderness,” “No, my child, mercy is the sweetest
attribute of heaven, to err, the weakness of humanity.” Her head fell
upon my shoulder, I wept with her, my heart seemed breaking, at that
moment comfort seemed fled from both for ever. By degrees I calmed her
agitation, “Alas!” said she, “was it in search of such a wretch you
came? oh! my father, how could I ever forget thy precepts, or deviate
from the path in which you brought me up, but if penitence and remorse
can palliate error, mine is lessened, from the moment of error I have
been superlatively wretched, and incessantly looked back to regret that
peace which can only result from unsullied innocence.” A thousand times
the dear unhappy girl knelt at my feet, to implore my forgiveness, I as
often assured her she had obtained it.
“Though peace and innocence,” said I, “shall no more brighten my
cottage, yet pity and repentance shall render it not an unpleasing
asylum, but may some signal punishment from heaven, fall upon the author
of your wrongs.”
The shocks my Patty had experienced preyed upon her life, unceasing
anguish like a worm in the bud, fed on her damask cheek, the glow of
health, the fire of imagination, and the animation of youth were fled,
and a deep melancholy seized the soul of my child, she in whom my life
was wrapt, whom I had nourished with so much tenderness, lay expiring
before me, like a blossom immaturely blighted, I attended her in dumb
despair. A few moments before she died, she thus spoke, “Alas my father,
I have overwhelmed you with sorrow, regret me not, let not those tears
fall on my account, in this world all must have been misery, the
blackness of despair, I go, blessed by thy forgiveness, and the promise
which scripture holds out of penitence meeting mercy, a broken and
contrite heart is acceptable.” Her hands were extended, her eyes closed,
and she expired. The power who supported me in such trials, pardoned the
first delirium of grief, in the days of my felicity I had pictured to
myself such scenes of bliss, I looked forward to a prattling progeny,
who would be the comfort of my old age.
“How desultory are the schemes of man, he lays plans of permanent
felicity, when the whirlwind of affliction arrives, and destroys the
towering edifice of creative hope.
“After those occurrences, my mind was too perturbed to allow me to
attend to the duties of my function, I surrendered my living, left that
part of the country, and retired to this spot, where unknown and
unmolested, I may brood over my losses, and where I frequently picture
to myself the terminating scene.”
Exquisite were the sensations of grief and horror, which this little
tale excited in our breasts; to my feelings was added a painful degree
of surprise from the name of Mordaunt, I enquired, though in accents of
dread and hesitation, and learned he was the destroyer of Hume’s
happiness.
Our visits were frequently repeated to the cottage of the unfortunate
old man, to me they were inexpressibly soothing, from kindred grief
there was derived a congenial sympathy.
Two years had rolled away since my retirement in Harley’s cottage, when
I was called down one morning to a gentleman in the parlour, my heart
trembled at the summons, and my tottering limbs could scarcely support
me to the spot. A stranger in deep mourning met my view, I gazed
attentively on him, and recollected the features of my brother, grief
had so altered my form, so worn away all traces of my former self, that
he knew me not, till my weak voice pronounced his name.
“Ah my sister,” cried he, “think not your brother could ever forget your
gentle worth, could ever think you deserving of censure, or like the
world be biassed by misfortune to forget you, a father’s interdiction
prevented me ere this, visiting your retreat, that father no longer
exists to oppose my intentions, he died convinced of your innocence, and
breathing wishes for your felicity. Harland, the penitent Harland is no
more, sensible of the injustice he had done you, he acknowledged his
cruelty, and has by his death, restored you to fame, to fortune, and to
your child.”
I wept as my brother spoke--my heart was opprest by a variety of
emotions, and my gloomy soul turned to the untimely grave of Harland--my
brother conjectured my feelings--“I see” cried he, “from what a mingled
source your tears flow, but ah my sister, in this life happiness must
ever receive some alloy.”
His consolations strengthened my reason in combating grief--I reflected
that even if Harland lived, to me he must have been lost, since after
the unfortunate rencontre between him and my husband, a connection with
him would have confirmed an invidious world in every idea they had
formed prejudicial to me.
He was soon struck by the charms and innocent simplicity of Louisa, her
heart returned his partiality, and I had the happiness of witnessing
their union.
Their happiness, the education of my child, and self-exertion, roused me
from the lethargy of grief, and diffused a calm over my mind I never
hoped to have experienced.
* * * * *