in such a manner that it might be ready on the shortest notice, or
at least in something full the value in kind. As the landlord was
proposing to sell the farm which Dorcas occupied, and as he valued
it at little more than five hundred guineas, he thought he could not
lay out the money to greater advantage than in the purchase of this
farm; for, should a claimant ever appear, he would have no reason to
complain of the disposal of his money, since it would be easy to find
a purchaser for it, after it had received improvements from his labour.
The good pastor entirely agreed in opinion with Dorcas: the purchase
was made, and, as the ground was now in his own hands, he turned it
to much greater advantage. He was happy with his Amarillis, and two
sweet children blessed their union. As he returned from his labour in
the evening, his wife constantly welcomed his return, and met him on
the way with her children, who fondled round him with inexpressible
cheerfulness and delight.
The worthy minister, some years after this happy union, paid the
debt of nature, and was sincerely wept for by both Dorcas and
Amarillis.--The death of this worthy pastor brought them to reflect on
the uncertainty of human life. "My dear partner," said Dorcas, "the
time will come when we must be separated, and when the farm will fall
to our children. You know it is not ours, nor perhaps ever properly
will be. Should the owner appear, he will have nothing to show for it,
and we shall go to the grave without having secured his property."
Dorcas, therefore, drew up a short history of the whole affair in
writing, got the principal inhabitants to sign it, and then put it
into the hands of the succeeding minister. Having thus taken all the
precautions they could to secure the property to the right owner,
should he ever appear, they were much more easy and contented than
before.
Upwards of ten years had elapsed since they had been in possession of
the farm; when Dorcas coming home from the fields one day to dinner,
saw a phaeton in the road, which he had hardly cast his eyes on, till
he saw it overset. He hastened to the spot to give them his assistance,
and offered them the use of his team to convey their baggage. In
the mean time, he begged them to step to his house, and take such
refreshment as it afforded, though they had fortunately received no
hurt.
"This place," said one of the gentlemen, "is always mischievous
to me, and I suppose I must never expect to pass it without some
accident.--About twelve years since, I somewhere hereabouts lost my
bag, as I was returning from the fair, with five hundred guineas in it."
"Five hundred guineas, sir!" said Dorcas, who was all attention. "Did
you make no enquiry after so great a loss?"--"I had it not in my
power," replied the stranger, "as I was then going to the Indies, and
was on my road to Portsmouth, which place I reached before I missed my
bag. The ship was getting under way when I arrived there, and would
have gone without me had I been an hour later. Considering it was money
I had lost, it appeared to me a doubtful matter whether I should hear
any thing of it after making the strictest enquiry; and had I been
fortunate enough to succeed, even in that case, by losing my passage, I
should have sustained a much greater loss than that of my bag and its
contents."
After the part Dorcas has acted, this conversation was undoubtedly
pleasing to him, and he consequently became more earnest in wishing the
travellers to partake of the fare of his table. As there was no house
nearer, they accepted the offer; he walked before to show them the way,
and his wife came out to meet them, to see what accident had happened;
but he desired her to return, and prepare dinner.
While the good woman was dressing the dinner, Dorcas presented his
guests with some refreshments, and endeavoured to turn the conversation
on the traveller's loss. Being convinced of the truth of his
assertions, he ran to the minister, told him who he had with him, and
begged he would come and dine with him. They all sat down to dinner,
and the strangers could not help admiring the order, decency, and
neatness that were every where conspicuous. They could not but notice
the generosity and frankness of Dorcas, and were highly delighted with
his helpmate, and the manner in which she treated her children.
As soon as dinner was over, Dorcas showed them his house, his garden,
sheepfold, flocks, and granaries. "This house and premises," said he,
addressing himself to the traveller who had formerly lost his money,
"is your property. I was fortunate enough to find your bag and money,
with which I purchased this farm, intending to restore it to the owner,
should he ever come forward, and show himself. For fear I should die
before an owner was found, I left a full detail in writing with the
minister, not wishing my children to enjoy what was not their own."
It is impossible to express the surprise and astonishment of the
stranger, who read the paper, and then returned it. He first gazed
on Dorcas, then on Amarillis, and then on their young ones. At last,
"Where am I?" cried he; "and what is it I have heard? Is this world
capable of producing so much probity and virtue! and in what an humble
station do I find it! Is this the whole of your property, my friend?"
"This house, my herd, and my cattle," replied Dorcas, "are all I
possess. Even though you should keep the premises in your hand, still
you will want a tenant, and I shall wish to be indulged with the
preference."
The stranger replied, after a moment's pause, "Integrity like yours
merits a more ample reward. It is upwards of twelve years since I
first lost the money, and Providence threw it in your way. Providence
has been no less kind to me, in blessing my undertakings. I had long
since forgotten my loss, and even were I to add it to my fortune this
day, it would not increase my happiness. Since it has pleased God that
you should be the fortunate finder of it, far be it from me to wish to
deprive you of it. Keep then what you have so well merited, and may
heaven bless and prosper you with it."
He then tore the paper, on which Dorcas had made his acknowledgment of
finding the purse, saying, "I will have a different writing drawn up,
which shall contain my free gift of these premises, and shall serve to
hand down to posterity the virtue and probity of this amiable pair." He
fulfilled his word, by immediately sending for a lawyer, when he made
over the premises to Dorcas and his heirs for ever.
Dorcas and Amarillis were then going to fall at the feet of their
generous benefactor, but he would by no means permit it. "I am
infinitely happy," said the generous stranger, "in having it in my
power this day to confirm your felicity. May your children long after
you inherit your farm, and imitate all your virtues!"
Remember, my youthful readers, that the pleasures and the comforts of
human life are not in proportion to the extent of our possessions,
but to the manner in which we enjoy them. The cottage of liberty,
peace, and tranquility, is preferable to the gilded palaces of slavery,
anxiety, and guilt.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_The Conversation._
It happened on one of those delightful summer afternoons, when the heat
of the day was tempered with the gently-wafting zephyrs, that Madam
Heathcote was entertaining a large company at tea in her arbour in
the garden. No situation could be more delightful. The arbour looked
full in front of a fine river, on which some were busily employed
in fishing, or pursuing their different occupations, while others
were skimming on its surface for amusement. All round the arbour the
luxuriant grapes hung in clusters, and the woodbine and jessamine stole
up between them. A situation like this will naturally incline the mind
to be thoughtful, and the whole company, by imperceptible degrees,
began to draw moral reflections. They remarked, how different were the
objects of our pursuits, how unsteady and fickle are all human affairs,
and what empty baubles frequently attract our most serious attention.
After some time being spent in a kind of desultory conversation, the
principal speakers began to arrange their ideas under distinct heads,
and of this class the first who spoke was
_Dr. Chamberlaine._
I am very well acquainted with two brothers, whom I shall conceal under
the borrowed names of Mercurius and Honestus.
Mercurius was the elder son of a gentleman, who, with a moderate
fortune, and by a nice management, so regulated his affairs, that
he was generally thought to be exceedingly rich.--He gave a genteel
education to his two sons, who finished their studies at Cambridge.
Mercurius attached himself more to the gaiety and politeness of the
college, than to the drudgery of books. He was a gay and lively
companion, and a perfect master of those little arts which always
recommend a young gentleman to the acquaintance of the giddy fools
of fortune, who are sent to both our universities more out of
complaisance to fashion, than to improve their morals, or enlarge their
understandings.
Mercurius had drawn this conclusion, (and it must be confessed, that
experience tells us it is too true a conclusion), that powerful
connections are more likely to raise a man's fortune in life than all
the natural and acquired abilities which human nature is capable of
possessing. He, therefore, took every opportunity to ingratiate himself
with the noble young students, whose follies he flattered, and the fire
of whose vanities he fanned.
Amidst this pursuit after fortune and grandeur, his father died, and
left but a small pittance for the support of him and his brother
Honestus.--This was soon known in the college, where fortune is
considered as the first of all things.--Mercurius was now forced, in
order to keep up his noble connections, to stoop to many meannesses,
such as the thirst of ambition only can persuade the true dignity of a
man to submit to; but, when we once quit the path of virtue in pursuit
of imaginary pleasure, we must give up every hope of a retreat.
Among the patrons of Mercurius was a young nobleman of great fortune
and connections, such as were more than sufficient to make a coxcomb
of the happiest genius. The time arrived in which he was to quit
college, and Mercurius accompanied him to London as his companion and
friend. He was the constant partner of his nocturnal revels, and little
more, in fact, than his footman out of livery. He was the dupe to his
prejudices, the constant butt of his wit, and the contempt of every
independent mind. But let us leave this mistaken man to the feelings
of his own mind, and his fears for his future existence, that we may
return to his brother.
Honestus, less ambitious than his brother, had a mind above stooping
too low in order to rise the higher. He applied himself closely to
his studies, and employed the little his father had left him in the
most frugal manner. He turned his whole attention to the study of the
law, in which he became a very able proficient, and at last quitted
the university with the reputation of a profound scholar, a cheerful
companion, and a sincere friend.
These, however, are seldom characters sufficient to raise a man in the
world. He long remained unnoticed in his profession as a counsellor;
but, however long the beams of the sun may be obscured, they at last
pierce through the densest bodies, and shine in their native lustre. He
now reaps the fruits of his honest labours, and often looks back with
pity on the tottering state of his brother, and the parade of empty
ambition.
_Madam Lenox._
When we consider the short duration of human life, when extended even
to its longest period, and the many perplexities, cares, and anxities,
which contribute to disturb the repose of even those whom we should
be led to consider as happy mortals, what is there in our sublunary
pursuits that ought to make any long and lasting impression on our
minds?
We have seen many of the wisest people, on the loss of a darling
child, or on a sudden and unexpected wreck in their affairs, retire
from the world, and endeavour to seek consolation, by indulging their
melancholy in some gloomy retreat. Surely, however, nothing can be more
inconsistent with the dignity of human nature than such a conduct.
If to fly from the face of an enemy in the hour of battle, and seek
a retreat in some sequestered forest, may be considered as cowardice
in the soldier, is it no less so in the moral militant, who has not
courage to face the storms of fortune, but precipitately flies from the
field of adversity, the ground of which he ought to dispute inch by
inch?
It has been an old and long-received maxim, that Fortune favours the
daring, and shuns the coward. Whatever may be the whims and caprice
of Dame Fortune, who sometimes makes a peer of a beggar, and as often
reduces the peer to a state of penury, yet experience tells us, that
she is seldom able, for any considerable length of time, to withstand
resolute and unremitted importunities; and, when she has hurled us to
the bottom of her wheel, whatever motion that wheel afterwards makes,
it must throw us upwards. As those, who have enjoyed a good state of
health during the prime of their lives, feel the infirmities of age,
or a sudden sickness, more keenly than those who have laboured under
a weakly and sickly constitution; so those, who have basked in the
perpetual sunshine of fortune, are more susceptible of the horrors of
unexpected calamities, than those who have been rocked in the cradle of
misfortune.
To bear prosperity and adversity with equal prudence and fortitude is,
perhaps, one of the greatest difficulties we have to conquer; and it
is from hence we may venture to form our opinions of the generality of
people. Those who are insolent in prosperity will be mean in adversity;
but he who meets adversity with manly courage and fortitude, will, in
the hour of prosperity, be humane, gentle, and generous.
To fly from misfortunes, and endeavour to console ourselves by
retiring from the world, is undoubtedly increasing the evil we wish
to lessen. This has often been the case of disappointed lovers, when
the object of their hearts has proved inconstant or ungrateful. They
have vainly imagined that there must be something very soothing to the
afflicted mind, in listening to the plaintive sound of some purling and
meandering stream, or in uttering their plaints to the gentle breezes
and the nodding groves. But, alas! these delusive consolations only
contribute to feed the disorders of the mind, and increase the evil,
till melancholy takes deep root in their souls, and renders their
complaints incurable.
The society of the polite and refined of both sexes is the only relief,
at least the principal one, for any uneasiness of the mind. Here a
variety of objects will insensibly draw our attention from that one
which tyrannises in our bosom, and endeavours to exclude all others.
In the commerce of this life there is hardly an evil which has not
some good attending it; nor a blessing which does not, in some degree
or other, carry with it some bitter ingredient. To be, therefore, too
confident in prosperity, is a folly; and to despair in adversity, is
madness.
Those who enjoy the good while they have it in their power, and support
the evil without sinking under its weight, are surely best fitted for
this uncertain and transitory state. To have too nice and delicate
feelings is, perhaps, a misfortune; and the wise man has very justly
said, "as we increase in knowledge, so we increase in sorrow."
We are apt to form too great an opinion of ourselves, and to examine
so closely into the conduct of others, that we at last begin to shun
and despise all the world, in whom we can find no belief; but were we
to examine our own conduct as critically, we should find, that we have
as much to ask from the candour of others, as we have cause to give.
Self-love and pride are the sources from whence flow most of our real,
as well as imaginary woes; and if we seek the retired and sequestered
hut, it is not so much with a view to avoid misery itself, as to
endeavour to conceal it in ourselves from the eyes of the world.
_Sir John Chesterfield._
Certain philosophers tell us, that "there is no such thing as happiness
or misery in this life, and that they are terms merely confined to the
ideas of different people, who differently define them." It must indeed
be confessed, from constant and invariable experience, that what a man,
at one time in his life, considered as a misery, he will at another
consider as a happiness.
Cleorus was, from his childhood, bred to business, and the pursuit
of riches appeared to him as the principal blessing he had in view,
since, from his worldly possessions, he hoped to derive every comfort
of life. He viewed, with an eye of pity and contempt, the follies and
extravagancies of young fellows of his own age, and considered their
nocturnal revels and excursions as so many sad scenes of misery.
He continued in this opinion till he was turned of the age of forty;
at which period, losing his wife, and finding his circumstances easy,
he joined in the company of those we call _free_ and _easy_. New
company, by degrees, made him imbibe new sentiments, and what he had
formerly considered as miseries, began insensibly to assume the name
of pleasure, and his former happiness was soon construed to be misery.
He began to reflect on the dull path he had trodden all the prime of
his life, and therefore determined to atone for it in the evening of
his days, by entering on such scenes as were disgraceful even to the
youthful partners of his follies. Suffice it to say, that after having
exchanged prudence for pleasure, he soon fell a martyr to his vices.
It is a melancholy but a just observation, that the man who turns
vicious in the evening of his life, is generally worse than the
youthful libertine, and his conversation often more lewd and obscene.
Hence we may conclude with Ovid, that no man can be truly said to
be blessed, till death has put a seal on his virtuous actions, and
rendered him incapable of committing bad ones.
The destruction of happiness and misery is, perhaps, more on a level
than we are in general apt to imagine. If the labouring man toils all
the day, and hardly earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, yet every
meal is to him a sumptuous feast, and he sleeps as soundly between
coarse blankets as on a bed of down; nor does any part of his life
betray a sense of that state of misery, such as it would be considered
by the courtier.
If the courtier basks in the sunshine of fortune; if he be loaded
with honours, riches, and titles, keeps a brilliant equipage, and has
numerous dependants at his command, the world in general will consider
him as placed in a state of happiness; but, if we contemplate him at
leisure, see the anxieties of his mind to be still more great and
powerful, which interrupt his broken slumbers, and see how insipid to
him are all the luxuries of his table, his perpetual succession of
false pleasure, and the mean adoration he is compelled to pay to the
idol of power, we shall hardly allow him the idea of happiness, but
justly consider him as more miserable than the labouring peasant.
The mind is undoubtedly the seat of happiness and misery, and it is
within our power to determine which shall hold the empire there. To
maintain a uniform conduct through all the varying stations of life--to
content ourselves with what comes within our reach, without pining
after what we cannot obtain, or envying others what they possess--to
maintain a clear unsullied conscience--and to allow for the infirmities
of others from a retrospect of our own, are perhaps some of the best
rules we can lay down, in order to banish misery from this mortal
frame, and to acquire such a degree of happiness, as may enable us to
perform our terrestrial journey with some degree of satisfaction to
ourselves and others.
_Lady Heathcote._
Though the depravity, luxury, and corruption of the times, form just
subjects of complaint for the grave, the thoughtful, and the aged, yet
I cannot help believing, that many of these complainants are themselves
lending a helping hand to render the rising generation as effeminate
and corrupt as the present.
I am now appealing to parents on the education of their children, which
appears to me a subject that ought to attract the serious attention
of those who wish longevity, peace, and happiness to their children,
and prosperity, repose, and a reformation of manners to the rising
generation.
"The first seasoning," says Plato, "sticks longest by the vessel. Thus
those, who are permitted from their earliest periods to do wrong, will
hardly ever be persuaded, when they arrive at maturity, to do right."
It is a maxim with some people, a maxim surely founded only on pride,
that their children shall not be checked in their early years, but be
indulged in whatever their little hearts shall pant after; and for this
reason, because they will grow wiser as they grow older. But, since the
love of ease, finery, and pleasure, is natural to almost every youthful
mind, how careful ought each parent to be to check those juvenile
sallies, which, if encouraged, will in time be productive of the very
evils they complain of in the present generation.
It is not only in childhood, but also in their progress through school,
and during their apprenticeship, that these indulgences are continued;
and an excuse is always ready, that their children must not be more
hardly treated than others. Hence it follows, that you often meet the
apprentice of eighteen strutting through the streets in his boots on
an errand of business, or screening himself from the dew of heaven
under the shade of a large silken umbrella!--It would be worse than
sacrilege, in their opinions, to appear abroad with an apron before
them, or in their working dress.
Their evenings are too often spent abroad at chair clubs, in
alehouses, at the theatres, or in some gardens. "To know the world,"
as they call it, is more their study than the attainment of their
profession, by which they are hereafter to live. But of what does
this knowledge of the world consist?--To despise virtue, to laugh
at morality, and to give way to the most shocking scenes of folly
and dissipation. Their Sundays, part of which, at least, ought to
be spent in acts of piety, are passed in revelling and drunkenness;
and the exploits and excesses of that day furnish plenty of boastful
conversation for the rest of the week.
What can be expected from a youth, when he shall arrive at manhood,
who has thus passed the morning of his life? and with what reason can
either parents or masters complain of the depravity of the times,
since they themselves take so little care of the morals of the rising
generation?
The youth who has been long accustomed to revel through the dangerous
wilds of gaiety and pleasure, and has once given a loose to the
excesses of the town, will hardly ever be prevailed on to quit them,
for what he considers as the dull enjoyments of a calm, peaceable, and
virtuous life. Deaf to all remonstrances, he pursues his pleasures, and
perishes in the midst of his delusive enjoyments.
To check these evils, and thereby prevent the fatal consequences, the
infant mind must be carefully watched, and the unruly passions made
to give way to the reason and authority of the parent. Nothing can be
so pleasing and delightful, and, at the same time, more the duty of
the parent, than to watch over the tender thought, and teach the young
ideas to flow in a proper channel. To leave these cares to the vain
hope, that reason and maturity will gradually fix the wandering mind,
and bring it to a proper sense of its duty, is as absurd and ridiculous
as to expect that the fiery steed, who has never felt the spur nor the
curb, the saddle nor the bridle, will with age become the peaceful, the
quiet, and the obedient animal.
Nature seems, in some instances, to have given to the inferior class
of beings that degree of instinct, which sometimes puts human reason
to the blush. Shall inferior beings, merely by the power of instinct
qualities, show more care and prudence in rearing their tender
offspring, than proud man, with all his lordly and boasted superiority
of human reason?
_Dr. Sterne._
When I was last summer on my travels through Yorkshire, I one day met
with a person who gave me a very singular history of himself, of the
veracity of which I was assured by some gentlemen I might rely upon. I
shall repeat his history to you, as nearly as I can recollect, in his
own words.