[Illustration: "In that instant the grateful Black rushed on like
lightning to assist him, and assailing the bull with a weighty stick
that he held in his hand, compelled him to turn his rage upon a new
object." _P. 349._]
THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.
BY THOMAS DAY.
=Six Coloured Engravings on Steel.=
=Philadelphia:=
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
MDCCCLXVIII.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton--Adventure
with the Snake--Harry in Mr Merton's house--Mr Barlow
undertakes the education of Tommy--The first day at Mr
Barlow's--Story of the Flies and the Ants--Harry rescues
a Chicken from a Kite--Story of the Gentleman and the
Basket-maker--Tommy learns to read--Story of the two dogs, 1
CHAPTER II.
Tommy and the Ragged Boy--Story of Androcles and the
Lion--Conversation on Slavery--Conversation about an
Ass--Tommy's Present and its consequences--The Story of
Cyrus--Squire Chase beats Harry--Harry saves the Squire's
life--Making Bread--Story of the Two Brothers--Story of
the Sailors on the Island of Spitzbergen, 47
CHAPTER III.
Harry's Chicken--Tommy tries kindness on the Pig--Account
of the Elephant--Story of the Elephant and the Tailor--Story
of the Elephant and the Child--Stories of the Good Natured Boy
and the Ill Natured Boy--The Boys determine to Build a
House--Story of the Grateful Turk--The Boys' House blown
down--They rebuild it stronger--The Roof lets in the Rain--At
last is made Water-tight, 95
CHAPTER IV.
The Boys' Garden--The Crocodile--The Farmer's Wife--How to
make Cider--The Bailiffs take possession of the Farmer's
Furniture--Tommy pays the Farmer's Debt--Conclusion of the
Story of the Grateful Turk--The three Bears--Tommy and the
Monkey--Habits of the Monkey--Tommy's Robin Redbreast--Is
killed by a Cat--The Cat punished--The Laplanders--Story of
a Cure of the Gout, 185
CHAPTER V.
Lost in the Snow--Jack Smithers' Home--Talk about the
Stars--Harry's pursuit of The Will-o'-the-Wisp--Story of
the Avalanche--Town and Country compared--The Power of the
Lever--The Balance--The Wheel and Axle--Arithmetic--Buying
a Horse--History of Agesilaus--History of Leonidas, 197
CHAPTER VI.
The Constellations--Distance from the Earth--The Magnet
and its Powers--The Compass--The Greenlanders and their
Customs--The Telescope--The Magic Lantern--Story of the
African Prince and the Telescope--Mr Barlow's Poor
Parishioners--His Annual Dinner--Tommy attempts Sledge
Driving--His mishap in the Pond--His Anger, 255
CHAPTER VII.
Tommy and Harry visit Home--The Fashionable Guests--Miss
Simmons takes notice of Harry--Harry's Troubles--Master
Compton and Mash--Estrangement of Tommy--Visit to the
Theatre--Misbehaviour there--Card Playing--The Ball--Harry
Dancing a Minuet--Story of Sir Philip Sidney--Master Mash
insults Harry--The Fight in the Drawing-room--The
Bull-baiting--Tommy strikes Harry--Master Mash's Combat
with Harry--Tommy's Narrow Escape from the Bull--The
Grateful Black, 298
CHAPTER VIII.
Arrival of Mr Barlow--Story of Polemo--Tommy's
repentance--Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy
as an Arabian Horseman--His Mishap--Tommy's
intrepidity--The Poor Highlander's story--Tommy's
Sorrow for his conduct to Harry--Conclusion of the
Story of Sophron and Tigranes--Tommy's resolution
to study nothing but "reason and philosophy"--Visits
Harry and begs his forgiveness--The Grateful Black's
Story--Tommy takes up his abode at Farmer
Sandford's--The Grateful Black's account of
himself--Mr Merton's visit to the Farm--The
unexpected present--Conclusion, 355
THE HISTORY
OF
SANDFORD AND MERTON.
CHAPTER I.
Description of Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton--Adventure with the
Snake--Harry in Mr Merton's house--Mr Barlow undertakes the
education of Tommy--The first day at Mr Barlow's--Story of the
Flies and the Ants--Harry rescues a Chicken from a Kite--Story of
the Gentleman and the Basket-maker--Tommy learns to read--Story of
the two dogs.
In the western part of England lived a gentleman of great fortune, whose
name was Merton. He had a large estate in the Island of Jamaica, where
he had passed the greater part of his life, and was master of many
servants, who cultivated sugar and other valuable things for his
advantage. He had only one son, of whom he was excessively fond; and to
educate this child properly was the reason of his determining to stay
some years in England. Tommy Merton, who, at the time he came from
Jamaica, was only six years old, was naturally a very good-tempered boy,
but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. While he
lived in Jamaica, he had several black servants to wait upon him, who
were forbidden upon any account to contradict him. If he walked, there
always went two negroes with him; one of whom carried a large umbrella
to keep the sun from him, and the other was to carry him in his arms
whenever he was tired. Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or
laced clothes, and had a fine gilded carriage, which was borne upon
men's shoulders, in which he made visits to his play-fellows. His mother
was so excessively fond of him that she gave him everything he cried
for, and would never let him learn to read because he complained that it
made his head ache.
The consequence of this was, that, though Master Merton had everything
he wanted, he became very fretful and unhappy. Sometimes he ate
sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then he suffered a great deal
of pain, because he would not take bitter physic to make him well.
Sometimes he cried for things that it was impossible to give him, and
then, as he had never been used to be contradicted, it was many hours
before he could be pacified. When any company came to dine at the house,
he was always to be helped first, and to have the most delicate parts of
the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed the whole
company. When his father and mother were sitting at the tea-table with
their friends, instead of waiting till they were at leisure to attend
him, he would scramble upon the table, seize the cake and bread and
butter, and frequently overset the tea-cups. By these pranks he not only
made himself disagreeable to everybody else, but often met with very
dangerous accidents. Frequently did he cut himself with knives, at other
times throw heavy things upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped
being scalded to death by a kettle of boiling water. He was also so
delicately brought up, that he was perpetually ill; the least wind or
rain gave him a cold, and the least sun was sure to throw him into a
fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and running like other
children, he was taught to sit still for fear of spoiling his clothes,
and to stay in the house for fear of injuring his complexion. By this
kind of education, when Master Merton came over to England he could
neither write nor read, nor cipher; he could use none of his limbs with
ease, nor bear any degree of fatigue; but he was very proud, fretful,
and impatient.
Very near to Mr Merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer, whose name
was Sandford. This man had, like Mr Merton, an only son, not much older
than Master Merton, whose name was Harry. Harry, as he had been always
accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the labourers while
they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was
active, strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured. He was neither so fair, nor
so delicately shaped as Master Merton; but he had an honest good-natured
countenance, which made everybody love him; was never out of humour, and
took the greatest pleasure in obliging everybody. If little Harry saw a
poor wretch who wanted victuals, while he was eating his dinner, he was
sure to give him half, and sometimes the whole: nay, so very
good-natured was he to everything, that he would never go into the
fields to take the eggs of poor birds, or their young ones, nor practise
any other kind of sport which gave pain to poor animals, who are as
capable of feeling as we ourselves, though they have no words to express
their sufferings. Once, indeed, Harry was caught twirling a cock-chafer
round, which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread:
but then this was through ignorance and want of thought; for, as soon as
his father told him that the poor helpless insect felt as much, or more
than he would do, were a knife thrust through his hand, he burst into
tears, and took the poor animal home, where he fed him during a
fortnight upon fresh leaves; and when he was perfectly recovered, turned
him out to enjoy liberty and fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry was
so careful and considerate, that he would step out of the way for fear
of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to all the
animals in the neighbourhood. He used to stroke the horses as they were
at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for the pigs; if he walked in
the fields, he was sure to gather green boughs for the sheep, who were
so fond of him that they followed him wherever he went. In the winter
time, when the ground was covered with frost and snow, and the poor
little birds could get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed,
that he might feed the robin-redbreasts; even toads, and frogs, and
spiders, and such kinds of disagreeable animals, which most people
destroy wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry; he used
to say, they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel
and unjust to kill creatures, only because we did not like them.
These sentiments made little Harry a great favourite with everybody,
particularly with the clergyman of the parish, who became so fond of him
that he taught him to read and write, and had him almost always with
him. Indeed, it was not surprising that Mr Barlow showed so particular
an affection for him; for besides learning, with the greatest readiness,
everything that was taught him, little Harry was the most honest,
obliging creature in the world. He was never discontented, nor did he
ever grumble, whatever he was desired to do. And then you might believe
Harry in everything he said; for though he could have gained a plum-cake
by telling an untruth, and was sure that speaking the truth would expose
him to a severe whipping, he never hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he
like many other children, who place their whole happiness in eating: for
give him but a morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be
satisfied, though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every other
nicety, in his way.
With this little boy did Master Merton become acquainted in the
following manner:--As he and the maid were once walking in the fields on
a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves with gathering different
kinds of wild flowers, and running after butterflies, a large snake, on
a sudden, started up from among some long grass, and coiled itself round
little Tommy's leg. You may imagine the fright they were both in at this
accident; the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, who was
in an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he was
standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near the place, came running
up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, who was sobbing most
piteously, could not find words to tell him, but pointed to his leg, and
made Harry sensible of what had happened. Harry, who, though young, was
a boy of a most courageous spirit, told him not to be frightened; and
instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as
resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg, and threw him to a great distance
off.
[Illustration: "Harry, instantly seizing the snake by the neck, with as
much dexterity as resolution, tore him from Tommy's leg and threw him to
a great distance off." _P. 6._]
Just as this happened, Mrs Merton and all the family, alarmed by the
servant's cries, came running breathless to the place, as Tommy was
recovering his spirits, and thanking his brave little deliverer. Her
first emotions were to catch her darling up in her arms, and, after
giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him whether he had received any
hurt. "No," said Tommy, "indeed I have not, mamma; but I believe that
nasty ugly beast would have bitten me, if that little boy had not come
and pulled him off." "And who are you, my dear," said she, "to whom we
are all so obliged?" "Harry Sandford, madam." "Well, my child, you are a
dear, brave little creature, and you shall go home and dine with us."
"No, thank you, madam; my father will want me." "And who is your father,
my sweet boy?" "Farmer Sandford, madam, that lives at the bottom of the
hill." "Well, my dear, you shall be my child henceforth; will you?" "If
you please, madam, if I may have my own father and mother, too."
Mrs Merton instantly despatched a servant to the farmer's; and, taking
little Harry by the hand, she led him to the mansion-house, where she
found Mr Merton whom she entertained with a long account of Tommy's
danger and Harry's bravery.
Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was carried through costly
apartments, where everything that could please the eye, or contribute
to convenience, was assembled. He saw large looking-glasses in gilded
frames, carved tables and chairs, curtains made of the finest silk, and
the very plates and knives and forks were of silver. At dinner he was
placed close to Mrs Merton, who took care to supply him with the
choicest bits, and engaged him to eat, with the most endearing kindness;
but, to the astonishment of everybody, he neither appeared pleased nor
surprised at anything he saw. Mrs Merton could not conceal her
disappointment; for, as she had always been used to a great degree of
finery herself, she had expected it should make the same impression upon
everybody else. At last, seeing him eye a small silver cup with great
attention, out of which he had been drinking, she asked him whether he
should not like to have such a fine thing to drink out of; and added,
that, though it was Tommy's cup, she was sure he would with great
pleasure, give it to his little friend. "Yes, that I will," says Tommy;
"for you know, mamma, I have a much finer one than that, made of gold,
besides two large ones made of silver." "Thank you with all my heart,"
said little Harry; "but I will not rob you of it, for I have a much
better one at home." "How!" said Mrs Merton, "does your father eat and
drink out of silver?" "I don't know, madam, what you call this; but we
drink at home out of long things made of horn, just such as the cows
wear upon their heads." "The child is a simpleton, I think," said Mrs
Merton: "and why is that better than silver ones?" "Because," said
Harry, "they never make us uneasy." "Make you uneasy, my child!" said
Mrs Merton, "what do you mean?" "Why, madam, when the man threw that
great thing down, which looks just like this, I saw that you were very
sorry about it, and looked as if you had been just ready to drop. Now,
ours at home are thrown about by all the family, and nobody minds it."
"I protest," said Mrs Merton to her husband, "I do not know what to say
to this boy, he makes such strange observations."
The fact was, that during dinner, one of the servants had thrown down a
large piece of plate, which, as it was very valuable, had made Mrs
Merton not only look very uneasy, but give the man a very severe
scolding for his carelessness.
After dinner, Mrs Merton filled a large glass of wine, and giving it to
Harry, bade him drink it up, but he thanked her, and said he was not
dry. "But, my dear," said she, "this is very sweet and pleasant, and as
you are a good boy, you may drink it up." "Ay, but, madam, Mr Barlow
says that we must only eat when we are hungry, and drink when we are
dry: and that we must only eat and drink such things are as easily met
with; otherwise we shall grow peevish and vexed when we can't get them.
And this was the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good men."
Mr Merton laughed at this. "And pray," said he, "little man, do you know
who the Apostles were?" "Oh! yes, to be sure I do." "And who were they?"
"Why, sir, there was a time when people were grown so very wicked, that
they did not care what they did; and the great folks were all proud, and
minded nothing but eating and drinking and sleeping, and amusing
themselves; and took no care of the poor, and would not give a morsel of
bread to hinder a beggar from starving; and the poor were all lazy, and
loved to be idle better than to work; and little boys were disobedient
to their parents, and their parents took no care to teach them anything
that was good; and all the world was very bad, very bad indeed. And then
there came from Heaven the Son of God, whose name was Christ; and He
went about doing good to everybody, and curing people of all sorts of
diseases, and taught them what they ought to do; and He chose out twelve
other very good men, and called them Apostles; and these Apostles went
about the world doing as He did, and teaching people as He taught them.
And they never minded what they did eat or drink, but lived upon dry
bread and water; and when anybody offered them money, they would not
take it, but told them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick: and
so they made the world a great deal better. And therefore it is not fit
to mind what we live upon, but we should take what we can get, and be
contented; just as the beasts and birds do, who lodge in the open air,
and live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water; and yet they are
strong, and active, and healthy."
"Upon my word," said Mr Merton, "this little man is a great philosopher;
and we should be much obliged to Mr Barlow if he would take our Tommy
under his care; for he grows a great boy, and it is time that he should
know something. What say you, Tommy, should you like to be a
philosopher?" "Indeed, papa, I don't know what a philosopher is; but I
should like to be a king, because he's finer and richer than anybody
else, and has nothing to do, and everybody waits upon him, and is afraid
of him." "Well said, my dear," replied Mrs Merton; and rose and kissed
him; "and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit; and here's a
glass of wine for you for making such a pretty answer. And should you
not like to be a king too, little Harry?" "Indeed, madam, I don't know
what that is; but I hope I shall soon be big enough to go to plough, and
get my own living; and then I shall want nobody to wait upon me."
"What a difference between the children of farmers and gentlemen!"
whispered Mrs Merton to her husband, looking rather contemptuously upon
Harry. "I am not sure," said Mr Merton, "that for this time the
advantage is on the side of our son:--But should you not like to be
rich, my dear?" said he, turning to Harry. "No, indeed, sir." "No,
simpleton!" said Mrs Merton: "and why not?" "Because the only rich man I
ever saw, is Squire Chase, who lives hard by; and he rides among
people's corn, and breaks down their hedges, and shoots their poultry,
and kills their dogs, and lames their cattle, and abuses the poor; and
they say he does all this because he's rich; but everybody hates him,
though they dare not tell him so to his face--and I would not be hated
for anything in the world." "But should you not like to have a fine
laced coat, and a coach to carry you about, and servants to wait upon
you?" "As to that, madam, one coat is as good as another, if it will but
keep me warm; and I don't want to ride, because I can walk wherever I
choose; and, as to servants, I should have nothing for them to do, if I
had a hundred of them." Mrs Merton continued to look at him with
astonishment, but did not ask him any more questions.
In the evening, little Harry was sent home to his father, who asked him
what he had seen at the great house, and how he liked being there.
"Why," replied Harry, "they were all very kind to me, for which I'm much
obliged to them: but I had rather have been at home, for I never was so
troubled in all my life to get a dinner. There was one man to take away
my plate, and another to give me drink, and another to stand behind my
chair, just as if I had been lame or blind, and could not have waited
upon myself; and then there was so much to do with putting this thing
on, and taking another off, I thought it would never have been over;
and, after dinner, I was obliged to sit two whole hours without ever
stirring, while the lady was talking to me, not as Mr Barlow does, but
wanting me to love fine clothes, and to be a king, and to be rich, that
I may be hated like Squire Chase."
But at the mansion-house, much of the conversation, in the meantime, was
employed in examining the merits of little Harry. Mrs Merton
acknowledged his bravery and openness of temper; she was also struck
with the very good-nature and benevolence of his character, but she
contended that he had a certain grossness and indelicacy in his ideas,
which distinguish the children of the lower and middling classes of
people from those of persons of fashion. Mr Merton, on the contrary,
maintained, that he had never before seen a child whose sentiments and
disposition would do so much honour even to the most elevated
situations. Nothing, he affirmed, was more easily acquired than those
external manners, and that superficial address, upon which too many of
the higher classes pride themselves as their greatest, or even as their
only accomplishment; "nay, so easily are they picked up," said he, "that
we frequently see them descend with the cast clothes to maids and
valets; between whom and their masters and mistresses there is little
other difference than what results from the former wearing soiled
clothes and healthier countenances. Indeed, the real seat of all
superiority, even of manners, must be placed in the mind: dignified
sentiments, superior courage, accompanied with genuine and universal
courtesy, are always necessary to constitute the real gentleman; and
where these are wanting, it is the greatest absurdity to think they can
be supplied by affected tones of voice, particular grimaces, or
extravagant and unnatural modes of dress; which, far from becoming the
real test of gentility, have in general no other origin than the caprice
of barbers, tailors, actors, opera-dancers, milliners, fiddlers, and
French servants of both sexes. I cannot help, therefore, asserting,"
said he, very seriously, "that this little peasant has within his mind
the seeds of true gentility and dignity of character; and though I shall
also wish that our son may possess all the common accomplishments of his
rank, nothing would give me more pleasure than a certainty that he would
never in any respect fall below the son of farmer Sandford."
Whether Mrs Merton fully acceded to these observations of her husband, I
cannot decide; but, without waiting to hear her particular sentiments,
he thus went on:--"Should I appear more warm than usual upon this
subject, you must pardon me, my dear, and attribute it to the interest I
feel in the welfare of our little Tommy. I am too sensible that our
mutual fondness has hitherto treated him with rather too much
indulgence. While we have been over-solicitous to remove from him every
painful and disagreeable impression, we have made him too delicate and
fretful; our desire of constantly consulting his inclinations has made
us gratify even his caprices and humours; and, while we have been too
studious to preserve him from restraint and opposition, we have in
reality been ourselves the cause that he has not acquired even the
common attainments of his age and situation. All this I have long
observed in silence, but have hitherto concealed, both from my fondness
for our child, and my fear of offending you; but at length a
consideration of his real interests has prevailed over every other
motive, and has compelled me to embrace a resolution, which I hope will
not be disagreeable to you--that of sending him directly to Mr Barlow,
provided he would take the care of him; and I think this accidental
acquaintance with young Sandford may prove the luckiest thing in the
world, as he is so nearly the age and size of our Tommy. I shall
therefore propose to the farmer, that I will for some years pay for the
board and education of his little boy, that he may be a constant
companion to our son."
As Mr Merton said this with a certain degree of firmness, and the
proposal was in itself so reasonable and necessary, Mrs Merton did not
make any objection to it, but consented, although very reluctantly, to
part with her son. Mr Barlow was accordingly invited to dinner the next
Sunday, and Mr Merton took an opportunity of introducing the subject,
and making the proposal to him; assuring him at the same time, that,
though there was no return within the bounds of his fortune which he
would not willingly make, yet the education and improvement of his son
were objects of so much importance to him, that he should always
consider himself the obliged party.
To this, Mr Barlow, after thanking Mr Merton for the confidence and
liberality with which he treated him, answered him in the following
manner:--"I should be little worthy of the distinguished regard with
which you treat me, did I not with the greatest sincerity assure you,
that I feel myself totally unqualified for the task. I am, sir, a
minister of the Gospel, and I would not exchange that character, and the
severe duties it enjoins, for any other situation in life. But you must
be sensible that the retired manner of life which I have led for these
twenty years, in consequence of my profession, at a distance from the
gaities of the capital, and the refinements of polite life, is little
adapted to form such a tutor as the manners and opinions of the world
require for your son. Gentlemen in your situation of life are accustomed
to divide the world into two general classes; those who are persons of
fashion, and those who are not. The first class contains everything that
is valuable in life; and therefore their manners, their prejudices,
their very vices, must be inculcated upon the minds of children, from
the earliest period of infancy; the second comprehends the great body of
mankind, who, under the general name of the vulgar, are represented as
being only objects of contempt and disgust, and scarcely worthy to be
put on a footing with the very beasts that contribute to the pleasure
and convenience of their superiors."
Mr Merton could not help interrupting Mr Barlow here, to assure him
that, though there was too much truth in the observation, yet he must
not think that either he or Mrs Merton carried things to that
extravagant length; and that, although they wished their son to have the
manners of a man of fashion, they thought his morals and religion of
infinitely more consequence.
"If you think so, sir," said Mr Barlow, "it is more than a noble lord
did, whose written opinions are now considered as the oracles of polite
life, and more than, I believe, most of his admirers do at this time.
But if you allow what I have just mentioned to be the common
distinctions of genteel people, you must at one glance perceive how
little I must be qualified to educate a young gentleman intended to move
in that sphere; I, whose temper, reason, and religion, equally combine
to make me reject the principles upon which those distinctions are
founded. The Christian religion, though not exclusively, is,
emphatically speaking, the religion of the poor. Its first ministers
were taken from the lower orders of mankind, and to the lower orders of
mankind was it first proposed; and in this, instead of feeling myself
mortified or ashamed, I am the more inclined to adore the wisdom and
benevolence of that Power by whose command it was first promulgated.
Those who engross the riches and advantages of this world are too much
employed with their pleasures and ambition to be much interested about
any system, either of religion or of morals; they too frequently feel a
species of habitual intoxication, which excludes every serious thought,
and makes them view with indifference everything but the present moment.
Those, on the contrary, to whom all the hardships and miseries of this
world are allotted as their natural portion--those who eat the bread of
bitterness, and drink the waters of affliction, have more interest in
futurity, and are therefore more prepared to receive the promises of the
Gospel. Yes, sir; mark the disingenuousness of many of our modern
philosophers; they quarrel with the Christian religion, because it has
not yet penetrated the deserts of Africa, or arrested the wandering
hordes of Tartary; yet they ridicule it for the meanness of its origin,
and because it is the Gospel of the poor: that is to say, because it is
expressly calculated to inform the judgments, and alleviate the miseries
of that vast promiscuous body which constitutes the majestic species of
man. But for whom would these philosophers have Heaven itself
interested, if not for the mighty whole which it has created? Poverty,
that is to say, a state of labour and frequent self-denial, is the
natural state of man; it is the state of all in the happiest and most
equal governments, the state of nearly all in every country; it is a
state in which all the faculties, both of body and mind, are always
found to develope themselves with the most advantage, and in which the
moral feelings have generally the greatest influence. The accumulation
of riches, on the contrary, can never increase, but by the increasing
poverty and degradation of those whom Heaven has created equal; a
thousand cottages are thrown down to afford space for a single palace.
How benevolently, therefore, has Heaven acted, in thus extending its
blessings to all who do not disqualify themselves for the reception by
voluntary hardness of heart! how wisely in thus opposing a continual
boundary to human pride and sensuality; two passions the most fatal in
their effects, and the most apt to desolate the world. And shall a
minister of that Gospel, conscious of these great truths, and professing
to govern himself by their influence, dare to preach a different
doctrine, and flatter those excesses, which he must know are equally
contrary both to reason and religion? Shall he become the abject
sycophant of human greatness, and assist it in trampling all relations
of humanity beneath his feet, instead of setting before it the severe
duties of its station, and the account which will one day be expected of
all the opportunities of doing good, so idly, so irretrievably lost and
squandered? But I beg pardon, sir, for that warmth which has transported
me so far, and made me engross so much of the conversation. But it will
at least have this good effect, that it will demonstrate the truth of
what I have been saying; and show that, though I might undertake the
education of a farmer or a mechanic, I shall never succeed in that of a
modern gentleman."
"Sir," replied Mr Merton, "there is nothing which I now hear from you,
which does not increase my esteem of your character, and my desire to
engage your assistance. Permit me only to ask whether, in the present
state of things, a difference of conditions and an inequality of fortune
are not necessary, and, if necessary, I should infer, not contrary to
the spirit of Christianity?"
"So it is declared, sir, that offences must come; but that does not
prevent a severe denunciation against the offenders. But, if you wish to
know, whether I am one of those enthusiasts, who are continually
preaching up an ideal state of perfection, totally inconsistent with
human affairs, I will endeavour to give you every satisfaction upon the
subject. If you mean by difference of conditions and inequality of
fortunes, that the present state of human affairs in every society we
are acquainted with, does not admit that perfect equality which the
purer interpretations of the Gospel inculcate, I certainly shall not
disagree with you in opinion. He that formed the human heart certainly
must be acquainted with all the passions to which it would be subject;
and if, under the immediate dispensation of Christ himself, it was found
impossible for a rich man to give his possessions to the poor, that
degree of purity will hardly be expected now, which was not found in the
origin. But here, sir, permit me to remark, how widely the principles of
genuine Christianity differ from that imaginary scheme of ideal
perfection, equally inconsistent with human affairs and human
characters, which many of its pretended friends would persuade us to
believe in; and, as comparisons sometimes throw a new and sudden light
upon a subject, give me leave to use one here, which I think bears the
closest analogy to what we are now considering. Were some physician to
arise, who, to a perfect knowledge of all preceding medical facts, had
added by a more than human skill a knowledge of the most secret
principles of the human frame, could he calculate, with an accuracy that
never was deceived, the effect of every cause that could act upon our
constitutions; and, were he inclined, as the result of all his science
and observation, to leave a rule of life that might remain unimpeached
to the latest posterity, I ask, what kind of one would he form?"
"I suppose one," said Mr Merton, "that was the most adapted to the
general circumstances of the human species, and, which observed, would
confer the greatest degree of health and vigour."
"Right," said Mr Barlow; "I ask again, whether, observing the common
luxury and intemperance of the rich, he would take his directions from
the usages of a polite table, and recommend that heterogeneous
assemblage of contrary mixtures, high seasonings, poignant sauces,
fermented and distilled poisons, which is continually breeding diseases
in their veins, as the best means of preserving or regaining health?"
"Certainly not. That were to debase his heart, and sanction abuses,
instead of reforming them."
"Would he not, then, recommend simplicity of diet, light repasts, early
slumbers, and moderate exercise in the open air, if he judged them
salutary to human nature, even though fashionable prejudice had stamped
all these particulars with the mark of extreme vulgarity?"
"Were he to act otherwise, he must forfeit all pretensions either to
honesty or skill."
"Let us then apply all this to the mind, instead of the body, and
suppose for an instant, that some legislator, either human or divine,
who comprehended all the secret springs that govern the mind, was
preparing a universal code for all mankind; must he not imitate the
physician, and deliver general truths, however unpalatable, however
repugnant to particular prejudices, since upon the observance of these
truths alone the happiness of the species must depend?"
"I think so, indeed."
"Should such a person observe, that an immoderate desire and
accumulation of riches, a love of ostentatious trifles, unnecessary
splendour in all that relates to human life, and an habitual indulgence
of sensuality, tended not only to produce evil in all around, but even
in the individual himself, who suffered the tyranny of these vices; how
would you have the legislator act? Should he be silent?"
"No, certainly; he should arraign these pernicious habitudes by every
means within his power--by precept, by example."
"Should he also observe, that riches employed in another manner, in
removing the real miseries of humanity, in cherishing, comforting, and
supporting all around, produced a contrary effect, and tended equally to
make the obliged and the obliger happy; should he conceal this great
eternal truth, or should he divulge it with all the authority he
possessed, conscious, that in whatever degree it became the rule of
human life, in the same degree would it tend to the advantage of all the
world?"
"There cannot be a doubt upon the subject."
"But, should he know, either by the spirit of prophecy, or by intuitive
penetration, that the majority of mankind would never observe these
rules to any great degree, but would be blindly precipitated by their
passions into every excess against which he so benevolently cautioned
them; should this be a reason for his withdrawing his precepts and
admonitions, or for seeming to approve what was in its own nature most
pernicious?
"As prudent would it be to pull off the bridle when we mounted an
impetuous horse, because we doubted of our power to hold him in; or to
increase his madness by the spur, when it was clearly too great before.
Thus, sir, you will perceive, that the precepts of the Christian
religion are founded upon the most perfect knowledge of the human heart,
as they furnish a continual barrier against the most destructive
passions, and the most subversive of human happiness. Your own
concessions sufficiently prove, that it would have been equally
derogatory to truth, and the common interests of the species, to have
made the slightest concessions in favour either of human pride or
sensuality. Your extensive acquaintance with mankind will sufficiently
convince you, how prone the generality are to give an unbounded loose to
these two passions; neither the continual experience of their own
weakness, nor of the fatal effects which are produced by vicious
indulgences, has yet been capable of teaching them either humility or
moderation. What then could the wisest legislator do, more useful, more
benevolent, more necessary, than to establish general rules of conduct,
which have a continual tendency to restore moral and natural order, and
to diminish the wide inequality produced by pride and avarice? Nor is
there any greater danger that these precepts should be too rigidly
observed, than that the bulk of mankind should injure themselves by too
abstemious a temperance. All that can be expected from human weakness,
even after working from the most perfect model, is barely to arrive at
mediocrity; and, were the model less perfect, or the duties less severe,
there is the greatest reason to think, that even that mediocrity would
never be attained. Examine the conduct of those who are placed at a
distance from all labour and fatigue, and you will find the most
trifling exertions act upon their imaginations with the same force as
the most insuperable difficulties.
"If I have now succeeded in laying down the genuine principles of
Christian morality, I apprehend it will not be difficult to deduce the
duty of one who takes upon him the office of its minister and
interpreter. He can no more have a right to alter the slightest of its
principles than the magistrate can be justified in giving false
interpretations to the laws. The more the corruptions of the world
increase, the greater the obligation that he should oppose himself to
their course; and he can no more relax in his opposition than the pilot
can abandon the helm, because the winds and the waves begin to augment
their fury. Should he be despised, or neglected by all the rest of the
human species, let him still persist in bearing testimony to the truth,
both in his precepts and example; the cause of virtue is not desperate
while it retains a single friend; should it even sink for ever, it is
enough for him to have discharged his duty. But, although he is thus
restricted as to what he shall teach, I do not assert that it is
improper for him to use his understanding and experience as to the
manner of his instruction. He is strictly bound never to teach anything
contrary to the purest morality; but he is not bound always to teach
that morality in its greatest extent. In that respect, he may use the
wisdom of the serpent, though guided by the innocence of the dove. If,
therefore, he sees the reign of prejudice and corruption, so firmly
established, that men would be offended with the genuine simplicity of
the Gospel, and the purity of its primeval doctrines, he may so far
moderate their rigour as to prevent them from entirely disgusting weak
and luxurious minds. If we cannot effect the greatest possible
perfection, it is still a material point to preserve from the grossest
vices. A physician that practises amongst the great may certainly be
excused, though he should not be continually advising the exercise, the
regimen of the poor; not that the doctrine is not true, but that there
would not be the smallest probability of its ever being adopted. But,
although he never assents to that luxurious method of life, which he is
continually obliged to see, he may content himself with only inculcating
those restrictions which even the luxurious may submit to, if they
possess the smallest portion of understanding. Should he succeed thus
far, there is no reason for his stopping in his career, or not
enforcing a superior degree of temperance; but should it be difficult to
persuade even so slight a restriction, he could hope for no success,
were he to preach up a Spartan or a Roman diet. Thus the Christian
minister may certainly use his own discretion in the mode of conveying
his instructions; and it is permitted him to employ all his knowledge of
the human heart in reclaiming men from their vices, and winning them
over to the cause of virtue. By the severity of his own manners, he may
sufficiently evince the motives of his conduct; nor can he, by any
means, hope for more success than if he shows that he practises more
than he preaches, and uses a greater degree of indulgence to the
failings of others than he requires for his own."
"Nothing," said Mr Merton, "can be more rational or moderate than these
sentiments; why then do you persist in pleading your incapacity for an
employment which you can so well discharge?"
"Because," said Mr Barlow, "he that undertakes the education of a child,
undertakes the most important duty in society, and is severally
answerable for every voluntary omission. The same mode of reasoning,
which I have just been using, is not applicable here. It is out of the
power of any individual, however strenuous may be his endeavours, to
prevent the mass of mankind from acquiring prejudices and corruptions;
and, when he finds them in that state, he certainly may use all the
wisdom he possesses for their reformation. But this rule will never
justify him for an instant in giving false impressions where he is at
liberty to instil truth, and in losing the only opportunity which he
perhaps may ever possess, of teaching pure morality and religion. How
will such a man, if he has the least feeling, bear to see his pupil
become a slave, perhaps to the grossest vices; and to reflect with a
great degree of probability that this catastrophe has been owing to his
own inactivity and improper indulgence? May not all human characters
frequently be traced back to impressions made at so early a period, that
none but discerning eyes would ever suspect their existence? Yet nothing
is more certain; what we are at twenty depends upon what we were at
fifteen; what we are at fifteen upon what we were at ten; where shall we
then place the beginning of the series? Besides, sir, the very
prejudices and manners of society, which seem to be an excuse for the
present negligence in the early education of children, act upon my mind
with a contrary effect. Need we fear that, after every possible
precaution has been taken, our pupil should not give a sufficient loose
to his passions, or should be in danger of being too severely virtuous?
How glorious would be such a distinction, how much to be wished for, and
yet how little to be expected by any one who is moderately acquainted
with the world! The instant he makes his entrance there, he will find a
universal relaxation and indifference to everything that is serious;
everything will conspire to represent pleasure and sensuality as the
only business of human beings, and to throw a ridicule upon every
pretence to principle or restraint. This will be the doctrine that he
will learn at theatres, from his companions, from the polite circles
into which he is introduced. The ladies, too, will have their share in
the improvement of his character; they will criticise the colour of his
clothes, his method of making a bow, and of entering a room. They will
teach him that the great object of human life is to please the fair; and
that the only method of doing it is to acquire the graces. Need we fear
that, thus beset an every side, he should not attach a sufficient
importance to trifles, or grow fashionably languid in the discharge of
all his duties? Alas! sir, it seems to me that this will unavoidably
happen in spite of all our endeavours. Let us, then, not lose the
important moment of human life, when it is possible to flatter ourselves
with some hopes of success in giving good impressions; they may succeed;
they may either preserve a young man from gross immorality, or have a
tendency to reform him when the first ardour of youth is past. If we
neglect this awful moment, which can never return, with the view which,
I must confess, I have of modern manners, it appears to me like
launching a vessel in the midst of a storm, without a compass and
without a pilot."
"Sir," said Mr Merton, "I will make no other answer to what you have now
been saying, than to tell you, it adds, if possible, to my esteem of
your character; and that I will deliver my son into your hands, upon
your own conditions. And as to the terms--"
"Pardon me," replied Mr Barlow, "if I interrupt you here, and give you
another specimen of the singularity of my opinions. I am contented to
take your son for some months under my care, and to endeavour by every
means within my power to improve him. But there is one circumstance
which is indispensable, that you permit me to have the pleasure of
serving you as a friend. If you approve of my ideas and conduct, I will
keep him as long as you desire. In the mean time, as there are, I fear,
some little circumstances which have grown up, by too much tenderness
and indulgence, to be altered in his character, I think that I shall
possess more of the necessary influence and authority, if I, for the
present, appear to him and your whole family rather in the light of a
friend than that of a schoolmaster."
However disagreeable this proposal was to the generosity of Mr Merton,
he was obliged to consent to it; and little Tommy was accordingly sent
the next day to the vicarage, which was at the distance of about two
miles from his father's house.
The day after Tommy came to Mr Barlow's, as soon as breakfast was over,
he took him and Harry into the garden; when he was there, he took a
spade into his own hand, and giving Harry a hoe, they both began to work
with great eagerness. "Everybody that eats," says Mr Barlow, "ought to
assist in procuring food; and therefore little Harry and I begin our
daily work. This is my bed, and that other is his; we work upon it every
day, and he that raises the most out of it will deserve to fare the
best. Now, Tommy, if you choose to join us, I will mark you out a piece
of ground, which you shall have to yourself, and all the produce shall
be your own." "No, indeed," said Tommy, very sulkily, "I am a gentleman
and don't choose to slave like a ploughboy." "Just as you please, Mr
Gentleman," said Mr Barlow; "but Harry and I, who are not above being
useful, will mind our work."
In about two hours, Mr Barlow said it was time to leave off; and, taking
Harry by the hand, he led him into a very pleasant summer-house, where
they sat down; and Mr Barlow, taking out a plate of very fine ripe
cherries, divided them between Harry and himself.
Tommy, who had followed, and expected his share, when he saw them both
eating without taking any notice of him, could no longer restrain his
passion, but burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. "What is
the matter?" said Mr Barlow very coolly to him. Tommy looked upon him
very sulkily, but returned no answer. "Oh! sir, if you don't choose to
give me an answer, you may be silent; nobody is obliged to speak here."
Tommy became still more disconcerted at this, and, being unable to
conceal his anger, ran out of the summer-house, and wandered very
disconsolately about the garden, equally surprised and vexed to find
that he was now in a place where nobody felt any concern whether he was
pleased or the contrary.
When all the cherries were eaten, little Harry said, "You promised to be
so good as to hear me read when we had done working in the garden; and,
if it is agreeable to you, I will now read the story of the 'Flies and
the Ants.'" "With all my heart," said Mr Barlow; "remember to read it
slowly and distinctly, without hesitating or pronouncing the words
wrong; and be sure to read it in such a manner as to show that you
understand it."
Harry then took up the book, and read as follows:--
"THE FLIES AND THE ANTS."
"In the corner of a farmer's garden, there once happened to be a nest of
ants, who, during the fine weather of the summer, were employed all day
long in drawing little seeds and grains of corn into their hole. Near
them there happened to be a bed of flowers, upon which a great quantity
of flies used to be always sporting, and humming, and diverting
themselves by flying from one flower to another. A little boy, who was
the farmer's son, used frequently to observe the different employments
of these animals; and, as he was very young and ignorant, he one day
thus expressed himself:--'Can any creature be so simple as these ants?
All day long they are working and toiling, instead of enjoying the fine
weather, and diverting themselves like these flies, who are the happiest
creatures in the world.' Some time after he had made this observation,
the weather grew extremely cold, the sun was scarcely seen to shine, and
the nights were chill and frosty. The same little boy, walking then in
the garden, did not see a single ant, but all the flies lay scattered up
and down, either dead or dying. As he was very good-natured, he could
not help pitying the unfortunate animals, and asking at the same time,
what had happened to the ants that he used to see in the same place? The
father said, 'The flies are all dead, because they were careless
animals, who gave themselves no trouble about laying up provisions, and
were too idle to work; but the ants, who had been busy all the summer,
in providing for their maintenance during the winter, are all alive and
well; and you will see them as soon as the warm weather returns.'"
"Very well, Harry," said Mr Barlow, "we will now take a walk." They
accordingly rambled out into the fields, where Mr Barlow made Harry take
notice of several kinds of plants, and told him the names and nature of
them. At last Harry, who had observed some very pretty purple berries
upon a plant that bore a purple flower, and grew in the hedges, brought
them to Mr Barlow, and asked whether they were good to eat. "It is very
lucky," said Mr Barlow, "young man, that you asked the question before
you put them into your mouth; for, had you tasted them, they would have
given you violent pains in your head and stomach, and perhaps have
killed you, as they grow upon a plant called night-shade, which is a
rank poison." "Sir," said Harry, "I take care never to eat anything
without knowing what it is, and I hope, if you will be so good as to
continue to teach me, I shall very soon know the names and qualities of
all the herbs which grow."
As they were returning home, Harry saw a very large bird called a kite,
upon the ground, who seemed to have something in its claws, which he was
tearing to pieces. Harry, who knew him to be one of those ravenous
creatures which prey upon others, ran up to him, shouting as loud as he
could; and the bird, being frightened, flew away, and left a chicken
behind him, very much hurt indeed, but still alive. "Look, sir," said
Harry, "if that cruel creature has not almost killed this poor chicken;
see how he bleeds, and hangs his wings! I will put him into my bosom to
recover him, and carry him home; and he shall have part of my dinner
every day till he is well, and able to shift for himself."
As soon as they came home, the first care of little Harry was to put his
wounded chicken into a basket with some fresh straw, some water and some
bread. After that Mr Barlow and he went to dinner.
In the meantime, Tommy, who had been skulking about all day, very much
mortified and uneasy, came in, and, being very hungry, was going to sit
down to the table with the rest; but Mr Barlow stopped him, and said,
"No, sir, as you are too much of a gentleman to work, we, who are not
so, do not choose to work for the idle." Upon this Tommy retired into a
corner, crying as if his heart would break, but more from grief than
passion, as he began to perceive that nobody minded his ill-temper.
But little Harry, who could not bear to see his friend so unhappy,
looked up half crying into Mr Barlow's face, and said, "Pray, sir, may I
do as I please with my share of the dinner?" "Yes, to be sure, child."
"Why, then," said he, getting up, "I will give it all to poor Tommy who
wants it more than I do." Saying this, he gave it to him as he sat in
the corner; and Tommy took it, and thanked him without ever turning his
eyes from off the ground. "I see," said Mr Barlow, "that though
gentlemen are above being of any use themselves, they are not above
taking the bread that other people have been working hard for." At this
Tommy cried still more bitterly than before.
The next day Mr Barlow and Harry went to work as before; but they had
scarcely begun before Tommy came to them, and desired that he might have
a hoe too, which Mr Barlow gave him; but, as he had never before learned
to handle one, he was very awkward in the use of it, and hit himself
several strokes upon his legs. Mr Barlow then laid down his own spade,
and showed him how to hold and use it, by which means, in a short time,
he became very expert, and worked with the greatest pleasure. When their
work was over they retired all three to the summer-house; and Tommy felt
the greatest joy imaginable when the fruit was produced, and he was
invited to take his share, which seemed to him the most delicious he had
ever tasted, because working in the air had given him an appetite.
As soon as they had done eating, Mr Barlow took up a book, and asked
Tommy whether he would read them a story out of it? but he, looking a
little ashamed, said he had never learned to read. "I am very sorry for
it," said Mr Barlow, "because you lose a very great pleasure; then Harry
shall read to you." Harry accordingly took up the book and read the
following story:--
"THE GENTLEMAN AND THE BASKET-MAKER."
"There was, in a distant part of the world, a rich man, who lived in a
fine house, and spent his whole time in eating, drinking, sleeping, and
amusing himself. As he had a great many servants to wait upon him, who
treated him with the greatest respect, and did whatever they were
ordered, and, as he had never been taught the truth, nor accustomed to
hear it, he grew very proud, insolent, and capricious, imagining that he
had a right to command all the world, and that the poor were only born
to serve and obey him.
"Near this rich man's house there lived an honest and industrious poor
man, who gained his livelihood by making little baskets out of dried
reeds, which grew upon a piece of marshy ground close to his cottage.
But though he was obliged to labour from morning to night, to earn food
enough to support him, and though he seldom fared better than upon dry
bread, or rice, or pulse, and had no other bed than the remains of the
rushes of which he made baskets, yet was he always happy, cheerful, and
contented; for his labour gave him so good an appetite, that the
coarsest fare appeared to him delicious; and he went to bed so tired
that he would have slept soundly even upon the ground. Besides this, he
was a good and virtuous man, humane to everybody, honest in his
dealings, always accustomed to speak the truth, and therefore beloved
and respected by all his neighbours.
"The rich man, on the contrary, though he lay upon the softest bed, yet
could not sleep, because he had passed the day in idleness; and though
the nicest dishes were presented to him, yet could he not eat with any
pleasure, because he did not wait till nature gave him an appetite, nor
use exercise, nor go into the open air. Besides this, as he was a great
sluggard and glutton, he was almost always ill; and, as he did good to
nobody, he had no friends; and even his servants spoke ill of him behind
his back, and all his neighbours, whom he oppressed, hated him. For
these reasons he was sullen, melancholy, and unhappy, and became
displeased with all who appeared more cheerful than himself. When he was
carried out in his palanquin (a kind of bed, borne upon the shoulders of
men) he frequently passed by the cottage of the poor basket-maker, who
was always sitting at the door, and singing as he wove the baskets. The
rich man could not behold this without anger. 'What!' said he, 'shall a
wretch, a peasant, a low-born fellow, that weaves bulrushes for a scanty
subsistence, be always happy and pleased, while I, that am a gentleman,
possessed of riches and power, and of more consequence than a million of
reptiles like him, am always melancholy and discontented!' This
reflection arose so often in his mind, that at last he began to feel the
greatest degree of hatred towards the poor man; and, as he had never
been accustomed to conquer his own passions, however improper or unjust
they might be, he at last determined to punish the basket-maker for
being happier than himself.
"With this wicked design, he one night gave orders to his servants (who
did not dare to disobey him) to set fire to the rushes which surrounded
the poor man's house. As it was summer, and the weather in that country
extremely hot, the fire soon spread over the whole marsh, and not only
consumed all the rushes, but soon extended to the cottage itself, and
the poor basket-maker was obliged to run out almost naked to save his
life.
"You may judge of the surprise and grief of the poor man, when he found
himself entirely deprived of his subsistence by the wickedness of his
rich neighbour, whom he had never offended; but, as he was unable to
punish him for this injustice, he set out and walked on foot to the
chief magistrate of that country, to whom, with many tears, he told his
pitiful case. The magistrate, who was a good and just man, immediately
ordered the rich man to be brought before him; and when he found that he
could not deny the wickedness, of which he was accused, he thus spoke to
the poor man:--'As this proud and wicked man has been puffed up with the
opinion of his own importance, and attempted to commit the most
scandalous injustice from his contempt of the poor, I am willing to
teach him of how little value he is to anybody, and how vile and
contemptible a creature he really is; but, for this purpose, it is
necessary that you should consent to the plan I have formed, and go
along with him to the place whither I intend to send you both.'
"The poor man replied, 'I never had much; but the little I once had is
now lost by the mischievous disposition of this proud and oppressive
man. I am entirely ruined; I have no means left in the world of
procuring myself a morsel of bread the next time I am hungry; therefore
I am ready to go wherever you please to send me; and, though I would not
treat this man as he has treated me, yet should I rejoice to teach him
more justice and humanity, and to prevent his injuring the poor a second
time.'
"The magistrate then ordered them both to be put on board a ship, and
carried to a distant country, which was inhabited by a rude and savage
kind of men, who lived in huts, were strangers to riches, and got their
living by fishing.
"As soon as they were set on shore, the sailors left them as they had
been ordered, and the inhabitants of the country came round them in
great numbers. The rich man, seeing himself thus exposed, without
assistance or defence, in the midst of a barbarous people, whose
language he did not understand, and in whose power he was, began to cry
and wring his hands in the most abject manner; but the poor
basket-maker, who had always been accustomed to hardships and dangers
from his infancy, made signs to the people that he was their friend, and
was willing to work for them, and be their servant. Upon this the
natives made signs to them that they would do them no hurt, but would
make use of their assistance in fishing and carrying wood.
"Accordingly, they led them both to a wood at some distance, and showing
them several logs, ordered them to transport them to their cabins. They
both immediately set about their tasks, and the poor man, who was strong
and active, very soon had finished his share; while the rich man, whose
limbs were tender and delicate, and never accustomed to any kind of
labour, had scarcely done a quarter as much. The savages, who were
witnesses to this, began to think that the basket-maker would prove very
useful to them, and therefore presented him with a large portion of
fish, and several of their choicest roots; while to the rich man they
gave scarcely enough to support him, because they thought him capable
of being of very little service to them; however, as he had now fasted
several hours, he ate what they gave him with a better appetite than he
had ever felt before at his own table.
"The next day they were set to work again; and as the basket-maker had
the same advantage over his companion, he was highly caressed and well
treated by the natives, while they showed every mark of contempt towards
the other, whose delicate and luxurious habits had rendered him very
unfit for labour.
"The rich man now began to perceive with how little reason he had before
valued himself, and despised his fellow-creatures; and an accident that
fell out shortly after, tended to complete his mortification. It
happened that one of the savages had found something like a fillet, with
which he adorned his forehead, and seemed to think himself extremely
fine; the basket-maker, who had perceived this appearance of vanity,
pulled up some reeds, and, sitting down to work, in a short time
finished a very elegant wreath, which he placed upon the head of the
first inhabitant he chanced to meet. This man was so pleased with his
new acquisition, that he danced and capered with joy, and ran away to
seek the rest, who were all struck with astonishment at this new and
elegant piece of finery. It was not long before another came to the
basket-maker, making signs that he wanted to be ornamented like his
companion; and with such pleasure were these chaplets considered by the
whole nation, that the basket-maker was released from his former
drudgery, and continually employed in weaving them. In return for the
pleasure which he conferred upon them, the grateful savages brought him
every kind of food their country afforded, built him a hut, and showed
him every demonstration of gratitude and kindness. But the rich man, who
possessed neither talents to please nor strength to labour, was
condemned to be the basket-maker's servant, and to cut him reeds to
supply the continual demand for chaplets.
"After having passed some months in this manner, they were again
transported to their own country, by the orders of the magistrate, and
brought before him. He then looked sternly upon the rich man, and
said:--'Having now taught you how helpless, contemptible, and feeble a
creature you are, as well as how inferior to the man you insulted, I
shall proceed to make reparation to him for the injury you have
inflicted upon him. Did I treat you as you deserve, I should take from
you all the riches that you possess, as you wantonly deprived this poor
man of his whole subsistence, but, hoping that you will become more
humane for the future, I sentence you to give half your fortune to this
man, whom you endeavoured to ruin.'
"Upon this the basket-maker said, after thanking the magistrate for his
goodness:--'I, having been bred up in poverty, and accustomed to labour,
have no desire to acquire riches, which I should not know how to use;
all, therefore, that I require of this man is, to put me into the same
situation I was in before, and to learn more humanity.'
"The rich man could not help being astonished at this generosity, and,
having acquired wisdom by his misfortunes, not only treated the
basket-maker as a friend during the rest of his life, but employed his
riches in relieving the poor, and benefiting his fellow-creatures."
The story being ended, Tommy said it was very pretty; but that, had he
been the good basket-maker, he would have taken the naughty rich man's
fortune and kept it. "So would not I," said Harry, "for fear of growing
as proud, and wicked, and idle as the other."
From this time forward, Mr Barlow and his two pupils used constantly to
work in their garden every morning; and, when they were fatigued, they
retired to the summer-house, where little Harry, who improved every day
in reading, used to entertain them with some pleasant story or other,
which Tommy always listened to with the greatest pleasure. But little
Harry going home for a week, Tommy and Mr Barlow were left alone.
The next day, after they had done work, and retired to the summer-house
as usual, Tommy expected Mr Barlow would read to him; but, to his great
disappointment, found that he was busy, and could not. The next day the
same accident was renewed, and the day after that. At this Tommy lost
all patience, and said to himself, "Now, if I could but read like little
Harry Sandford, I should not need to ask anybody to do it for me, and
then I could divert myself; and why (thinks he) may not I do what
another has done? To be sure, little Harry is clever; but he could not
have read if he had not been taught; and if I am taught, I dare say I
shall learn to read as well as he. Well, as soon as ever he comes home,
I am determined to ask him about it."
The next day little Harry returned, and as soon as Tommy had an
opportunity of being alone with him, "Pray, Harry," said Tommy, "how
came you to be able to read?"
_Harry._--Why, Mr Barlow taught me my letters, and then spelling; and
then, by putting syllables together, I learnt to read. _Tommy._--And
could not you show me my letters? _Harry._--Yes, very willingly.
Harry then took up a book, and Tommy was so eager and attentive, that at
the very first lesson, he learned the whole alphabet. He was infinitely
pleased with this first experiment, and could scarcely forbear running
to Mr Barlow, to let him know the improvement he had made; but he
thought he should surprise him more, if he said nothing about the matter
till he was able to read a whole story. He therefore applied himself
with such diligence, and little Harry, who spared no pains to assist his
friend, was so good a master, that in about two months he determined to
surprise Mr Barlow with a display of his talents. Accordingly, one day,
when they were all assembled in the summer-house, and the book was given
to Harry, Tommy stood up and said, that, if Mr Barlow pleased, he would
try to read. "Oh, very willingly," said Mr Barlow; "but I should as soon
expect you to fly as to read." Tommy smiled with a consciousness of his
own proficiency, and, taking up the book, read with great fluency,--
"THE HISTORY OF THE TWO DOGS."
"In a part of the world, where there are many strong and fierce wild
beasts, a poor man happened to bring up two puppies of that kind which
is most valued for size and courage. As they appeared to possess more
than common strength and agility, he thought that he should make an
acceptable present to his landlord, who was a rich man, living in a
great city, by giving him one of them, which was called Jowler; while he
brought up the other, named Keeper, to guard his own flocks.
"From this time the manner of living was entirely altered between the
brother whelps. Jowler was sent into a plentiful kitchen, where he
quickly became the favourite of the servants, who diverted themselves
with his little tricks and wanton gambols, and rewarded him with great
quantities of pot-liquor and broken victuals; by which means, as he was
stuffing from morning to night, he increased considerably in size, and
grew sleek and comely; he was, indeed, rather unwieldy, and so cowardly
that he would run away from a dog only half as big as himself; he was
much addicted to gluttony, and was often beaten for the thefts he
committed in the pantry; but, as he had learned to fawn upon the
footmen, and would stand upon his hind legs to beg, when he was ordered,
and, besides this, would fetch and carry, he was mightily caressed by
all the neighbourhood.
"Keeper, in the meantime, who lived at a cottage in the country, neither
fared so well, looked so plump, nor had learned all these little tricks
to recommend him; but, as his master was too poor to maintain anything
but what was useful, and was obliged to be continually in the air,
subject to all kinds of weather, and labouring hard for a livelihood,
Keeper grew hardy, active, and diligent; he was also exposed to
continual danger from the wolves, from whom he had received many a
severe bite while guarding the flocks. These continual combats gave him
that degree of intrepidity, that no enemy could make him turn his back.
His care and assiduity so well defended the sheep of his master, that
not one had ever been missing since they were placed under his
protection. His honesty too was so great, that no temptation could
overpower it; and, though he was left alone in the kitchen while the
meat was roasting, he never attempted to taste it, but received with
thankfulness whatever his master chose to give him. From a continual
life in the air he was become so hardy that no tempest could drive him
to shelter when he ought to be watching the flocks; and he would plunge
into the most rapid river, in the coldest weather of the winter, at the
slightest sign from his master.
"About this time it happened that the landlord of the poor man went to
examine his estate in the country, and brought Jowler with him to the
place of his birth. At his arrival there he could not help viewing with
great contempt the rough ragged appearance of Keeper, and his awkward
look, which discovered nothing of the address for which he so much
admired Jowler. This opinion, however, was altered by means of an
accident which happened to him. As he was one day walking in a thick
wood, with no other company than the two dogs, a hungry wolf, with eyes
that sparkled like fire, bristling hair, and a horrid snarl that made
the gentleman tremble, rushed out of a neighbouring thicket, and seemed
ready to devour him. The unfortunate man gave himself over for lost,
more especially when he saw that his faithful Jowler, instead of coming
to his assistance, ran sneaking away, with his tail between his legs,
howling with fear. But in this moment of despair, the undaunted Keeper,
who had followed him, humbly and unobserved, at a distance, flew to his
assistance, and attacked the wolf with so much courage and skill, that
he was compelled to exert all his strength in his own defence. The
battle was long and bloody, but in the end Keeper laid the wolf dead at
his feet, though not without receiving several severe wounds himself,
and presenting a bloody and mangled spectacle to the eyes of his master,
who came up at that instant. The gentleman was filled with joy for his
escape and gratitude to his brave deliverer; and learned by his own
experience that appearances are not always to be trusted, and that great
virtues and good dispositions may sometimes be found in cottagers, while
they are totally wanting among the great."
"Very well indeed," said Mr Barlow. "I find that when young gentlemen
choose to take pains, they can do things almost as well as other people.
But what do you say to the story you have been reading, Tommy? Would you
rather have owned the genteel dog that left his master to be devoured,
or the poor, rough, ragged, meagre, neglected cur that exposed his own
life in his defence?" "Indeed, sir," said Tommy, "I would have rather
had Keeper; but then I would have fed him, and washed him, and combed
him, till he had looked as well as Jowler." "But then, perhaps, he would
have grown idle, and fat, and cowardly, like him," said Mr Barlow; "but
here is some more of it, let us read to the end of the story." Tommy
then went on thus:--
"The gentleman was so pleased with the noble behaviour of Keeper, that
he desired the poor man to make him a present of the dog; which, though
with some reluctance, he complied with. Keeper was therefore taken to
the city, where he was caressed and fed by everybody; and the disgraced
Jowler was left at the cottage, with strict injunctions to the man to
hang him up, as a worthless unprofitable cur.
"As soon as the gentleman had departed, the poor man was going to
execute his commission; but, considering the noble size and comely look
of the dog, and above all, being moved with pity for the poor animal,
who wagged his tail, and licked his new master's feet, just as he was
putting the cord about his neck, he determined to spare his life, and
see whether a different treatment might not produce different manners.
From this day Jowler was in every respect treated as his brother Keeper
had been before. He was fed but scantily; and, from this spare diet,
soon grew more active and fond of exercise. The first shower he was in
he ran away as he had been accustomed to do, and sneaked to the
fire-side; but the farmer's wife soon drove him out of doors, and
compelled him to bear the rigour of the weather. In consequence of this
he daily became more vigorous and hardy, and, in a few months, regarded
cold and rain no more than if he had been brought up in the country.
"Changed as he already was in many respects for the better, he still
retained an insurmountable dread of wild beasts; till one day, as he was
wandering through a wood alone, he was attacked by a large and fierce
wolf, who, jumping out of a thicket, seized him by the neck with fury.
Jowler would fain have run, but his enemy was too swift and violent to
suffer him to escape. Necessity makes even cowards brave. Jowler being
thus stopped in his retreat, turned upon his enemy, and, very luckily
seizing him by the throat, strangled him in an instant. His master then
coming up, and being witness of his exploit, praised him, and stroked
him with a degree of fondness he had never done before. Animated by this
victory, and by the approbation of his master, Jowler, from that time,
became as brave as he had before been pusillanimous; and there was very
soon no dog in the country who was so great a terror to beasts of prey.
"In the mean time Keeper, instead of hunting wild beasts, or looking
after sheep, did nothing but eat and sleep, which he was permitted to
do, from a remembrance of his past services. As all qualities both of
mind and body are lost if not continually exercised, he soon ceased to
be that hardy, courageous animal he was before, and acquired all the
faults which are the consequences of idleness and gluttony.
"About this time the gentleman went again into the country, and, taking
his dog with him, was willing that he should exercise his prowess once
more against his ancient enemies the wolves. Accordingly, the country
people having quickly found one in a neighbouring wood, the gentleman
went thither with Keeper, expecting to see him behave as he had done the
year before. But how great was his surprise when, at the first onset, he
saw his beloved dog run away with every mark of timidity! At this moment
another dog sprang forward, and seizing the wolf with the greatest
intrepidity, after a bloody contest, left him dead upon the ground. The
gentleman could not help lamenting the cowardice of his favourite, and
admiring the noble spirit of the other dog, whom, to his infinite
surprise, he found to be the same Jowler that he had discarded the year
before. 'I now see,' said he to the farmer, 'that it is in vain to
expect courage in those who live a life of indolence and repose, and
that constant exercise and proper discipline are frequently able to
change contemptible characters into good ones.'"
"Indeed," said Mr Barlow, when the story was ended, "I am sincerely glad
to find that Tommy has made this acquisition. He will now depend upon
nobody, but be able to divert himself whenever he pleases. All that has
ever been written in our own language will be from this time in his
power, whether he chooses to read little entertaining stories like what
we have heard to-day, or to read the actions of great and good men in
history, or to make himself acquainted with the nature of wild beasts
and birds, which are found in other countries, and have been described
in books; in short, I scarcely know of anything which from this moment
will not be in his power; and I do not despair of one day seeing him a
very sensible man, capable of teaching and instructing others."
"Yes," said Tommy, something elated by all this praise, "I am determined
to make myself as clever as anybody; and I don't doubt, though I am such
a little fellow, that I know more already than many grown-up people; and
I am sure, though there are no less than six blacks in our house, that
there is not one of them who can read a story like me." Mr Barlow looked
a little grave at this sudden display of vanity, and said rather coolly,
"Pray, who has attempted to teach them anything?" "Nobody, I believe,"
said Tommy. "Where is the great wonder, then, if they are ignorant?"
replied Mr Barlow; "you would probably have never known anything had you
not been assisted; and even now you know very little."