Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the confidence to give
disagreeable advice.
Our family had now made several attempts to be fine; but some
unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured
to take the advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good
sense in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. ‘You see, my
children,’ cried I, ‘how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon
the world, in coping with our betters. Such as are poor and will
associate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and
despised by these they follow. Unequal combinations are always
disadvantageous to the weaker side: the rich having the pleasure, and
the poor the inconveniencies that result from them. But come, Dick, my
boy, and repeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for the good of
the company.’.
‘Once upon a time,’ cried the child, ‘a Giant and a Dwarf were friends,
and kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake
each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was
with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of
the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little
injury, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf’s
arm. He was now in a woeful plight; but the Giant coming to his
assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain,
and the Dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They then
travelled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded
Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not
quite so fierce now as before; but for all that, struck the first blow,
which was returned by another, that knocked out his eye: but the Giant
was soon up with them, and had they not fled, would certainly have
killed them every one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and
the damsel who was relieved fell in love with the Giant, and married
him. They now travelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met
with a company of robbers. The Giant, for the first time, was foremost
now; but the Dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long.
Wherever the Giant came all fell before him; but the Dwarf had like to
have been killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the
two adventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was now without
an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single wound.
Upon which he cried out to his little companion, My little heroe, this
is glorious sport; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have
honour for ever. No, cries the Dwarf who was by this time grown wiser,
no, I declare off; I’ll fight no more; for I find in every battle that
you get all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.’
I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off
to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr Burchell, upon my daughters
intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the
advantages that would result from it. Mr Burchell, on the contrary,
dissuaded her with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present
dissuasions seemed but the second part of those which were received
with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high while poor
Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was
obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her
harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all: she knew, she
said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they advised;
but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the
future.—‘Madam,’ cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which
tended to enflame her the more, ‘as for secret reasons, you are right:
I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not
able to answer those of which I make no secret: but I find my visits
here are become troublesome; I’ll take my leave therefore now, and
perhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the
country.’ Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of
Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his
going.
When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion.
My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern
with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to
reprove: ‘How, woman,’ cried I to her, ‘is it thus we treat strangers?
Is it thus we return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that these
were the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing that ever
escaped your lips!’—‘Why would he provoke me then,’ replied she; ‘but I
know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my
girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my youngest
daughter’s company here at home. But whatever happens, she shall chuse
better company than such low-lived fellows as he.’—‘Low-lived, my dear,
do you call him,’ cried I, ‘it is very possible we may mistake this
man’s character: for he seems upon some occasions the most finished
gentleman I ever knew.—Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you
any secret instances of his attachment?’—‘His conversation with me,
sir,’ replied my daughter, ‘has ever been sensible, modest, and
pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have
heard him say he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that
seemed poor.’ ‘Such, my dear,’ cried I, ‘is the common cant of all the
unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly
of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from
one who has been so very bad an oeconomist of his own. Your mother and
I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you will
probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more
prudent choice.’ What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion, I
can’t pretend to determine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that
we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of
hospitality went to my conscience a little: but I quickly silenced that
monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy and
reconcile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the man who has
already done wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those
faults it has not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice
enough to accuse.