pick up a tolerable education in one of those public schools in the
country, which are supported by voluntary and charitable contributions.
Nature formed me of an active and lively disposition; and, as I grew
up, my vanity began to flatter me, that I was not destitute of genius.
I happened one day, accidentally, to take up the tragedy of the Orphan,
when I was particularly struck with the following lines, which I seemed
inclined never to forget:
"I would be busy in the world, and learn;
Not like a coarse and worthless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, to rot just where I grow."
As soon as I had reached the age of fourteen, I was discharged from the
school, when my parents put me to the farming business; but my ideas
soared above that menial profession.
I had frequently heard it mentioned in our village, that the only place
for preferment was the great and rich city of London; where a young
fellow had only to get himself hired as a porter in some respectable
shop, and he would soon rise to be shopman, then clerk, then master,
and at last a common-councilman, or an alderman, if not a lord mayor.
I, therefore, soon determined to leave my native village, and hasten up
to this centre of preferment and happiness. On my arrival in London, I
was advised to apply to a register office, from whence I was sent to a
capital grocer in the city, who was then in want of a porter, and where
I was accordingly engaged. "How happy am I," said I to myself, "at once
to jump into so capital a place? I shall here learn a fine business,
and in time, like my master, keep a splendid coach, horses, and livery
servants."
However, I was here very sadly mistaken; for I was constantly every
day so driven about, from one end of the town to the other, with
loads, that I had no opportunity of getting the least insight into
the business; and every Sunday morning I almost sunk under a load of
various kinds of provisions I was forced to carry to our villa in
Kentish-town, from whence I returned in the evening with a still more
enormous burden of the produce of the garden, consisting of cabbages,
turnips, and potatoes, or whatever happened to be in season, for the
use of the townhouse, during the ensuing week. I, therefore, was not
much displeased at being obliged to quit this service on my master's
becoming a bankrupt.
I next engaged myself with a wholesale linen-draper, to open and
shut up shop, and go occasionally on errands; but here again I was
disappointed, being obliged to employ all my leisure hours in blacking
shoes, cleaning knives, or whatever the cook-maid was pleased to set
me about. My stay here consequently was but short, any more than in my
next place, where my master starved his servants in order to feed his
horses.
I shall not trouble you with an account of all the places I was in,
during the space of seven years, without the least hopes of success,
till, by accident, I got to be a kind of shopman at a tobacconist's.
Here hope seemed to afford me some glimmerings of success, as I was
well treated in the house, and taken particular notice of by my
master, who was very rich, and had an only daughter, who was young and
beautiful.
I soon fell in love equally with her person and her fortune, and had
great reason to believe, from her looks, that I was not indifferent to
her. One evening, when all the family were out on a visit, and miss had
thought proper to stay at home, being a little indisposed, I determined
to improve the favourable opportunity, and, by one resolute action,
complete the summit of my wishes. I accordingly entered the parlour,
threw myself at her feet, and declared my passion for her, assuring her
that I could not live without her.
She seemed at first surprised; but, recollecting herself, with a most
gracious smile, bid me rise and hope. I instantly retired, thinking I
had done enough for the first attempt. But, alas! I was called up the
next day after dinner, and was desired by miss, in the presence of a
large company, who all joined in the laugh against me, not to trouble
myself with paying her any further addresses. My master then kicked
me down stairs, and out of the house. I am now returned to my native
village, having given over all hopes of ever being either a lord mayor,
an alderman, or even a common-councilman!
* * * * *
Here Dr. Sterne finished; and, as the sun was sunk beneath the horizon,
and night was speedily advancing, the conversation ended for the
present. Madam Heathcote thanked the company for the favour of their
visit, and did not doubt but that the young ladies and gentlemen
who were present, would go away pleased and edified by the polite
conversation they had heard.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Edwin and Matilda._
Edwin and his sister were natives of a town in Glamorganshire, whose
father had but little more to leave them at his death than the virtues
he possessed in his lifetime. His character and assiduity procured
him an employment of consequence, which, in a few years, enabled
him to save a very decent fortune. Honour, virtue, and integrity,
however amiable in themselves, will not always protect us against the
calamities of human life, though they may contribute to soften them.
In the midst of his career of business, he was attacked by a long and
tedious disorder, which considerably impaired his constitution, and
obliged him to relinquish all thoughts of business at a very early
age. Not long after he had given up all mercantile pursuits, the
failure of his banker deprived him of two-thirds of his fortune. The
remainder of his possessions, which consisted only of the house he then
lived in, and a few cottages in the village, afforded him but a scanty
pittance for the support of his wife and two children, Edwin, then
about ten years of age, and Matilda, about nine.
Their mother was tenderly fond of them, and consequently was less able
to endure the afflicting prospect of seeing them reduced so low, and
her philosophy failed her in this instance. The narrow scale of living
to which she was now forced to submit, and the parting with many little
comforts and conveniences in which she had taken pleasure to indulge
her children, and which they were no more to expect;--the affliction of
seeing her dear Edwin and Matilda become her servants, and that dumb
sorrow she fancied she beheld in their countenances whenever she looked
on them;--all these, and many other thoughts, crowding on her mind, so
weakened and impaired her constitution, that she was no longer the same
woman. Every time she looked at her children, the tears stole down her
cheeks; and her husband, who most tenderly loved her, would sometimes
mingle his tears with hers, and at other times retire to conceal them.
As Edwin was one day gathering apples in the orchard, he perceived his
parents in close conversation with each other. A hedge of rosebushes
only parted them, so that he heard every thing they said. His mother
gave a sigh, and his father thus endeavoured to console her.
"I was far from blaming," said he, "the excess of your affliction in
the infancy of our misfortunes, and I did not attempt to interrupt you;
but now you ought to be wiser from experience, and patiently bear those
evils which cannot be removed, but may be increased by our impatience
under them. I have concealed my sorrows, fearing they might add to
yours; but you, in return, put no restraint on yourself; and you are
shortening my days, without being sensible of what you are doing. I
love my children no less than you, and feel for their misfortune in
losing what I hoped they would live to enjoy after we were no more.
Consider my infirmities, which will probably carry me to my long home
before you. You must then act the part of father and mother; but how
will you be able to do this, if you give way to such immoderate grief?
You are sensible these misfortunes are not my own seeking; they are the
works of the Almighty, and it is impiety not to submit to them. It has
pleased him to deprive me of my property and health, while you deprive
me of the satisfaction of seeing you submissive to his decrees. I see
sorrow must pursue me to the grave, and you will not help to protract
that awful hour of my dissolution."
Edwin treasured up in his youthful bosom every word that dropped
from the lips of his father, but his mother answered only in sighs
and half-finished words. "Do not distress your mind," continued her
husband, "on the hapless situation of our children, since they may
still be happy though deprived of their fortune. Edwin has noble and
generous sentiments; and Matilda has been brought up in the strictest
principles of virtue. Let us, therefore, set our children an example,
by teaching them to submit to the will of Providence, instead of
teaching them to repine at his decrees."
As soon as the conversation was ended, Edwin got away as softly as he
could, and, going into the house, met his sister Matilda, who, as she
saw him look very serious, asked him what was the matter with him. They
went together into the parlour, when Edwin thus addressed his sister.
"Ah! my dear sister, had you, like me, heard what has just passed
between my father and mother, on our account, I am sure you would have
been equally afflicted. I was very near the arbour in which they were
conversing; but though I could hear every thing they said, they could
not see me. My mother talks of nothing but about our being ruined;
and my father says every thing he can to pacify and comfort her. You
well know, that my father has never had a good state of health, and my
mother's is going very fast; so that I fear we shall soon lose them
both. What, my dear sister, will become of us, and what shall we do
without them? I could wish to die with them."
"Let us hope," replied Matilda, "that things will not go so hard
with us. Do not let such melancholy thoughts enter your head, and
be particularly careful not to cry in their presence, as that would
affect them more than any thing else. Let us endeavour to be cheerful,
and when they see us so, it will possibly lessen their affliction.
They love us tenderly, and we ought, in return, to do every thing in
our power to make them cheerful and contented, if we cannot make them
happy."
Their father, coming to the door just as they began their conversation,
stopped short, and heard every word that passed between the two young
folks. His heart could not fail of being tenderly affected by their
conversation, he rushed into the room, and caught them in his arms. "My
dear children," said he, "how amiable is your conduct, and how worthy
are you of a better fortune!"
He then took them by the hand, and led them to their mother, who was
reading in another room. "Lay down your book," said he, "and kiss
your children; for neither of us need be any more afflicted on their
account. They stand not in need of our pity, for they have resources
of happiness within their own youthful bosoms. We have been deceiving
each other, in thus afflicting ourselves on their account, when nothing
has disturbed them. Nothing can be wanting to the possessors of so much
virtue."
He then related to their mother the conversation he had just overheard,
and appealed to her tenderest feelings, whether she ought not to exert
herself to the utmost to make herself happy, and endeavour to promote
the felicity of two such children.
Their mother again shed tears, but they were tears of joy. "I will from
henceforth," said she, "endeavour to quiet the storm within my breast,
that I may be the better able to take care of my dear children. It
would be disgraceful in me, to let the world see that I have children
from whom I have to learn lessons of philosophy."
Edwin and Matilda were so lost in the delightful sensations they
received from the words and caresses of their parents, that they
thought themselves the happiest of all little mortals. From this moment
all their griefs and anxities seemed to subside, and the six following
months glided away without even a desponding look from either of the
parties.
Edwin frequently walked abroad with his father, who constantly taught
him to draw some moral reflection, or some useful knowledge in the
commerce of life, from every thing they saw. It is too often the case
with parents, when they take their children abroad, to amuse themselves
with their gossiping tales, instead of teaching them to reflect upon
the different interesting subjects that fall within their view.
Children are much sooner capable of reflecting than the generality of
parents are aware of; and they would soon be convinced of the truth of
this assertion, would they but make the trial, wait patiently for their
answers, and endeavour to correct their youthful ideas when wrong.
Six months had now slid away in peace and serenity; but the apparent
tranquility of their mother was only in outward appearance. Despair had
taken deep root in her heart, and was secretly making great havoc with
her constitution. A fever at last seized her, which soon put a period
to her life.
The death of their mother was the source of inexpressible sorrow to her
husband, who never recovered the shock it gave him. She expired in his
arms, while poor Edwin and Matilda were drowned in tears by her side.
The house, for some time, afforded one continued scene of lamentation.
Her character was truly amiable; her children obeyed her through love,
for fear had no share in their duty. She possessed the happy skill of
penetrating into the infant heart, and making it sensible, by its own
feelings, of the propriety of what she commanded to be done. Thus she
at once improved the heart and understanding, without ruffling the
infant mind.
Edwin and Matilda severely felt the loss of their mother; but it was a
still greater shock to their father, whose health, which was bad enough
before, evidently grew worse from this fatal stroke. Grief brought on
a complication of disorders, which soon confined him to his bed; and
in this sad situation he lived near a twelvemonth, when, his strength
being totally exhausted, he expired in the arms of his son.
The situation of Edwin and Matilda was much to be pitied. They had
no relation left to fly to, and friends are rarely to be found when
distress seeks them. Edwin was almost driven to despair; but Matilda
had more fortitude, and recalled her brother back to reason. It is
certain, that the female mind, in scenes of distress, often shows more
fortitude than we meet with in men.
The young orphans agreed to live together, and cultivate the little
spot that was left them. The remembrance of the virtues of their
parents animated their labour, and their moderation regulated their
wants. They enjoyed the sweets of friendship, and lived happily,
because they had learned how to be contented with little.
Remember, my youthful readers, how fleeting and uncertain is the
possession of riches. Of these Fortune may deprive you, but it cannot
rob you of your virtue. Virtue is an invaluable treasure, which even
the revolutions of states and empires cannot take from you. Like Edwin
and Matilda, love and reverence your parents, cherish them in the
evening of their days, and be a comfort to them in the time of trial,
in the hour of sickness, and in the expiring moments of their lives.
Let every wise mother imitate the mother of Edwin and Matilda, who
never suffered passion to get the upper hand of her reason, when she
argued with her children on those little imperfections, which young
people are apt to run into, and which are necessary to be corrected.
It is better to be beloved than feared; but to indulge children in
excesses, will neither create fear nor esteem. Happy are those parents
who have such children as Edwin and Matilda; and happy those children
who know how properly to love, honour, and obey their parents.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_The pious Hermit._
At the bottom of the Cordillieres, whose towering summits overlook
Peru and Chili in the New World, as it is called, is situated an
uninhabited spot of land, on which nature has exhausted all her art,
being decorated with innumerable beauties. Woods of stately poplars
rear their heads to the clouds, and odoriferous groves shed their
fragrance over every part of it; while the roaring river Oroonoko rolls
its majestic floods through an immense bed which, at length exhausting
itself, contracts into peaceful rills and meandering streams. These
beauties are terminated by a thick, gloomy forest, which serves as a
foil to these enchanting beauties.
In this charming solitude lived Nestor, an old and venerable hermit,
who, for a long time, had withdrawn himself from the tumultuous bustle
of the world, and had seen forty revolving suns pass over his head
in this peaceful retreat. A stranger to the passions, without wishes
or desires, he passed his life in tranquility, without the fear of
experiencing either cares or disappointments. He was grown old in the
practice of virtue, for this spot afforded not even the shadow of
temptations. He felt not the infirmities which are natural to old age;
nor had he any of those complaints, to which the luxurious inhabitants
of cities and large towns are subject before they reach the meridian of
their lives.
He had made himself a hut at the foot of a verdant hill, that screened
it from the cold blasts of winter. Thick leaves and sod composed its
walls, which time had covered and cemented with a mossy crust. A
plantation of various trees, peculiar to the soil, reared their lofty
heads around his mansion, and a narrow path led through them to his
rustic habitation. A clear and transparent spring arose near his hut;
which, after forming a little bason for domestic services, overflowed
and fled away in meandering streams through the wood.
His time was employed in cultivating a little garden he had made
contiguous to his house. Here he studied the works of Nature, and
explored her wonderful operations in the production of fruits and
vegetables. Here Nature furnished him with a volume that was never to
be read through, but discovered something new every time it was opened.
The sun was one evening sinking beneath the horizon, when Nestor was
seated on the stump of a tree, near the door of his hut, shaded with
woodbines and jessamines. His venerable front, which was now whitened
by time, was lifted up towards heaven; calmness and serenity were
seated on his countenance, and every thing about him accorded with
wisdom and philosophy.
"How I delight," said he, "to view the beautiful azure of that glorious
firmament! What a variety of beautiful colours show themselves in those
clouds! O rich and magnificent dome! when shall I leave this sublunary
world, and ascend to those regions of bliss, where my mind will be lost
in raptures that will know no end! However, let me not be impatient,
since the measure of my life is nearly exhausted. I ought not to repine
at the length of my continuance here, since I enjoy, in this solitary
retreat, what is denied to almost every one who is engaged in the busy
pursuits of life. Every thing I possess is my own, and I live in the
enjoyment of what is purely natural, without the troublesome alloy
of ambition and parade. In whatever direction I turn my view, I see
nothing but smiling landscapes. The sun affords to me the same cheering
warmth, and its light in as great a degree, as to the first monarch of
the earth! Should I not live to see his rising beams, yet he will rise
to cheer the hearts of others, when I shall no longer want them.
"Yonder lie the ruins of that ancient habitation in which once lived
the venerable shepherd and his daughter, who taught me how to live,
when I retired from the empty bustle of the world, and first took up my
abode in these mansions of peace. If their hut be fallen into ruins, it
is but an emblem of what will, in a few years, be the fate of the most
stately palaces. Both he and his daughter now lie at rest under the
shade of those neighbouring and lofty poplars.
"The scythe of Time mows down every thing that comes within the reach
of its keen edge; it has destroyed not only towns and cities, but even
whole empires, which were once mistresses of the world, and reduced
them to a state of pity. The most lofty and luxuriant trees, by Time,
are reduced to dry trunks, without being able to give nourishment to a
single leaf. I have seen huge and tremendous rocks, to all appearance
invulnerable, crumbled into powder by the roaring thunders and the
vivid lightnings. Once the rose was blushing in my blooming cheeks; but
grey hairs have now covered my head, and wrinkles hide my forehead. But
the time is now coming, in which my mortal race will be finished."
A young man had, for some years, taken a part in his solitude, and
as the virtuous Nestor found himself weak and exhausted, he exerted
himself in calling upon the youth. Misfortunes more severe than those
that generally happen to mortal beings, first brought him into this
charming solitude. The pleasing gloom of that retreat, which was not
without its beauties to change the scenes, soon calmed the storm within
his bosom, and made him happy in retirement; to which the conversation
of the venerable old man contributed not a little.
"Come hither, my son," said the virtuous Nestor in faltering accents,
"and embrace your friend for the last time in this world. My eyes will
soon be closed for ever, and I must return to the earth from whence I
came. Complain not that I go before you to the regions of bliss, for I
have enjoyed a long succession of happy years. My career is finished,
and I die without a murmur. It is our ignorance only of what may be
our state hereafter, that makes men afraid of death; but everlasting
happiness is promised to us, and death puts us in possession of it.
Though you will in me lose a mortal friend, yet I leave you One in
heaven who is eternal, and who never will forsake you, so long as you
pursue the paths of virtue. As soon as I shall be no more, dig my
grave close by the poplar which grows on the borders of the river,
where it waters my last plantation. That spot afforded me infinite
delight while I was living, and there I wish my body to repose. This is
the last favour I have to ask of you. Farewell for ever, my virtuous
companion.--The earth seems to fly from me--my time is come--once more,
farewell.--Grieve not for the loss of me, but respect my memory.--Keep
constantly in your view the example which it has pleased heaven to
permit me to set you, and you will be happy, because you will be
virtuous."
Having finished these words, the good Nestor closed his eyes, and
expired without a struggle; he passed away like a cloud floating in
the ambient air, which insensibly disperses and dissipates itself in
a sky of azure. How peaceful and tranquil are the last moments of the
virtuous man! The youth looked stedfastly on that venerable front,
which appeared graceful even in death. He embraced him, and could not
help sighing. "O my dear father," said he, "you are no more! You leave
me in this solitude, without any one to partake of it with me. Who
will, in future, be the comfort of my existence? and to whom am I to
tell my tales of past woe?"
His heart was sensibly affected, and the tears flowed down his cheeks;
but he recollected the last words of his friend Nestor, and endeavoured
to moderate his grief. He took the body on his shoulders, and carried
it to the place where Nestor had desired it might be buried. Being
come to the borders of the river, he gently laid down the body of his
deceased friend, and then dug the grave.
While he was thus sadly employed in his last work for Nestor, he
thought all nature, and whatever breathed throughout the region round
him, united their tears for his virtuous benefactor. After he had
deposited the body in the grave, it was some time before he could
prevail on himself to cover it with the earth. He felt his heart very
powerfully affected; he stood almost motionless, and the tears stole
insensibly down his cheeks.
"Happy Nestor," said he, "you can neither see nor condemn my weakness.
If you could, you would forgive me, and pity me. You were my father,
philosopher, and friend; you taught me to love you, and now I have lost
you. Let me indulge my tears in this melancholy moment, as the only
tribute I can pay to your virtues."