if possible, obtain the treasure and make a general distribution of
it amongst themselves. Hans now had the entire neighborhood at his
heels, many fully believing his entire tale and looking anxiously for a
portion of the spoils; others following from sheer impulse, not knowing
what to think or say; whilst others still were led on by curiosity
to see the end of what they simply believed to be a foolish vagary
of a distempered brain. He was but a sorry guide, however, and after
vainly searching for the old building to which he had been led by the
spirit, he gave it as his settled conviction that the imps must have
removed it, leaving no trace behind that it had once existed, lest
they might experience too much difficulty in preserving the wealth it
contained. The conclusion was a wise one, and if it taught nothing
more, it at least illustrated the remark of a learned Genoese, that
“miser’s worship no God but money, and will deny even the very faith
they profess rather than fail in schemes to augment their treasures.”
However faithful servants of satan they may be, he knows that they
would betray even him to gratify their desire, and understands them too
well not to place his possessions beyond their wily clutches, in which
he is certainly more judicious than many mortals.
T. D.
REMARKS
The succeeding essay was read before the Association, and appears, from
the following prefatory remarks, to have been the production of one of
its committees.--EDITOR.
“Your committee, simply from the want of a new theme, have been
compelled, even at the hazard of proving tedious, to confine
themselves to an old one. The many extravagancies daily exhibited by
those around us might perhaps afford more matter for ridicule than
admonition, but few are willing that their follies should be made the
means of amusing others, whilst none will object to a little kind
advice, though he be determined not to heed it. We therefore concluded
that the latter mode of treating our subject, if the most stupid,
would still possess the merit of being the least annoying. Then, too,
stupidity having become a common quality, in which each is privileged
to deal, a sacred right not to be denied without closing the mouths of
more than nine-tenths of the world, our dullness can be no trespass
and consequently needs no apology.”
AN ESSAY.
THE WISDOM OF PRESERVING MODERATION IN OUR WISHES.
“Life runs best on little: nature’s store
Can make all happy that will use their power.”
IN the extended range of our wishes and their diversified character,
the reflective man will recognise one of the greatest sources of
human misery. The many desires which impel us affect alike the mind
and heart, frequently disturbing the healthy repose of the one, and
rendering the other cold and selfish. The illusory nature of life
and its schemes, and the changing influences which ever surround
us, seldom permit us to attain the most moderate aspirations of our
youth. Through the lively impetus constantly given to the imagination
during that period of life, we are prone to devise certain plans and
arrange magnificent schemes to accomplish our desires; yet the weight
of years steals upon us gradually, until we look upon the past but as
a long chain of circumstances, and our present life and condition as
its result. One by one our determinations, however long and fervently
cherished, pass away unrealized; whilst our sanguine wishes, with their
ardor perhaps somewhat abated through the influence of experience and
the cool meditations of riper age, still remain ungratified. He who had
contrived and contemplated schemes to amass wealth, and then retire
to repose amid the comforts and luxuries of the world, may linger out
a life of toil and poverty in some humble hamlet; he who had longed
to ascend the steeps of science and gather in abundance its noble
treasures, may feel the admonishing wrinkles upon his brow even before
he has made one permanent acquisition; and he who had encouraged dreams
of ambition, and courted the uncertain plaudits of fame, may die at
last forgotten and unknown.
Moderation in our wishes is as rarely witnessed as their realization.
It was an argument with the Cynics that absence of all want was the
natural condition of the Gods, and therefore he who stood in need of
but few things most resembled them. The remark ascribed to Taxilles is
admirable and philosophic, “What occasion is there, Alexander, that you
and I must needs quarrel and fight; since you neither came to rob us
of our water nor of our food, which are the only two things that men
in their wits think worth contending for?” The idea of the Cynics is
rarely exemplified in human life, and the moderate desires expressed by
Taxilles equally seldom infuse into men the modest wishes they suggest
to our minds. St. Cyprian, and others before and after him, distributed
their possessions amongst their fellows, reducing themselves to
poverty. If all cannot admire the wisdom of their action, certainly
none can find anything in their motives to condemn. They who have
thus mastered their selfishness and avarice, two vices sufficiently
powerful to destroy many of the nobler virtues, have obtained a command
over themselves more desirable than wealth or distinction. They have
conquered impulses whose end not unfrequently is agony of mind and
destruction to all the sensibilities of the soul; they have subjected
their wishes and tamed their desires to encounter the vicissitudes of
life with philosophic calmness.
The present pleasure may pass away into oblivion, or it may leave
a permanent sting behind; and yet it is for this that extravagant
wishes leap into being and expand to the limit of possibility, or to
the extent of our comprehension. The diviner philosophy which teaches
us the vanity of our desires, and the vexation of spirit attending
even their full gratification, is neglected until forced upon us by
the irresistible teachings of experience. The most excellent lessons
of virtue are treated with indifference to further imposing schemes
for riches, for fame, or for power; yet the one is not attended by
peace of mind, the other brings no quiet comfort to the soul, and the
third fails to realize happiness and contentment. The flatteries of
friends and sycophants which follow you in each, only fill your face
with frowns and your heart with loathing and disgust. The wealth of
Crassus, the Rich, brought him neither contentment nor protection; the
distinction of Pompey could not brook the rising glory of his great
rival, and but provoked his malice and his envy; the power of Cæsar
only increased his ambition, which continued to prey upon his soul
and in his longings for the crown it became his own avenger; and the
flatterers of Canute but made him feel his insignificance and aroused
his contempt.
The wish for distinction and renown, however, may not only be blameless
in itself, but when restrained within proper bounds, highly honorable.
There is a medium between ambition and a total neglect of reputation
as hard distinctly to define as it is difficult to practice. Few have
known how to follow it, and many whose wishes were at first confined to
the rule of a town, afterwards aspired to empire. History even refuses
to agree with Cicero in according to Cæsar the credit of having, at
the beginning of his career, devised and pursued a definite plan to
subvert the Roman Commonwealth and elevate himself to the tyranny.
None would add to the infamy of Marius or Sylla by supposing that
the first aspirations of either were for absolute power. When it is
remembered how difficult it is to be restrained within this medium, it
will not appear strange that so many should have overstepped it, often
to the great injury of themselves and more frequently still to the
great affliction of the people. If our wishes be prompted by motives
to promote the public good, they may justly acquire the title of
patriotism; and when, in addition, they are so wholly under our control
as to enable us to assume the command to-day and renounce it to-morrow
should the interests of the country require it, we are eminently
qualified for every sphere or position in the Republic. Frederick,
the Elector of Saxony, refused the crown under the impression that an
Emperor more powerful than himself was needed to preserve Germany;
and the humble Cincinnatus found more repose and pleasure in the
cultivation of his little fields than in the exercise of power or the
trappings of wealth. Unlike the treacherous decemviri, when the duties
of his high positions had been performed, he meekly resigned them again
to seek the approving smiles of his Attillia and the content of his
humble home. These are examples with which history does not abound, and
whatever credit we may accord to their deeds of worth and valor, we
yet see more to admire in their generous humility and the noble command
they constantly reserved over themselves.
It is a small matter to wish for virtue, yet a more worthy desire never
entered the mind of man. Virtue is the highest of all treasures, and
however rarely it may be seen, is neither beyond the reach of any nor
above his comprehension. The high and low, the prince and the peasant,
are alike possessed with the power of attaining it. All the greater
excellencies of nature are free and within universal reach. It is the
remark of an old philosopher, that “many people, without having their
reason improved by study, live nevertheless in a manner conformable to
the dictates of right reason;” and Montaigne observes that the life of
the peasant is frequently more agreeable to philosophy than that of
the philosopher himself. This wish is none the less ennobling because
its answer is within universal reach. It is even more rarely realized
than desires for wealth or power, and is infinitely preferable to
either when attained. There is nothing in nature more useful, for what
evils does it not avert? It renders us impregnable to the stealthy
encroachments of vice; relieves us of all selfishness, guile, and
hypocrisy; robs us of all malice, deceit, and treachery; frees us
from the gnawings of envy, the miseries of hate, and the slavery of
passion; delivers us from the bondage of avarice, ambition, and the
remorse which so frequently attends them; and fits us not only to think
of but to do “whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest,
whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever
things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report.” It is no less
permanent than it is useful. We scarcely know which most to admire, the
cool indifference of Phalereus, or the tribute which he pays to the
durable nature of virtue, in his reply, when told that the Athenian
people had thrown down and destroyed his statues: “Well, but they
cannot overturn that virtue for the sake of which they were erected.”
It is a noble companion for every sphere of life, teaching us how to
wear, with just humility, the honors we may acquire, and how to submit,
with becoming dignity, to the reverses of fortune, the treachery of
friends, and the persecution of enemies. Under its guidance, the world
is seen in its true character, and our duties towards it discharged
with forbearance and charity. Without it, none can be truly great nor
truly happy. With it, all may obtain a just share of human happiness
and contentment, and each secure for himself the noble tribute which
history has paid to Epaminondas, a higher eulogy than ever yet was
acquired through the realization of the grandest schemes for wealth
or glory: “HE WAS A MAN ADORNED WITH EVERY VIRTUE, AND STAINED BY NO
VICE.”
EXPLANATORY.
“Good men live twice: it doubleth every hour
To look with joy on that which passed before.”
The author of the following paper, having himself witnessed and heard
what he has attempted to detail, merely designed to attract attention
to a rich resource of pleasure inherent in every good man. To him who
has carefully kept himself free from dishonor, and whose life has never
been marred by the stains of vice, there is nothing so happily adapted
to beguile the hours of solitude as reflections upon the past. Seneca
calls the “unmoved tranquility of a happy mind, a great reward.” He
who has so lived as to obtain it, whatever his present condition, may
always find in his own thoughts the purest enjoyment, perhaps realizing
in this healthful exercise of the resources within him, that there is
much more of reality than fancy in what Iamblicus has said: “We must
take this as a certain truth, that nothing properly evil shall happen
to a good man, either in this life, or after it.”
M. S----G.
THE SICK MOTHER.
I have never sat by the sick-bed of a mother without finding gradually
stealing over me a deeply melancholy and impressive feeling. Nature
has so constituted the human mind as to render it susceptible of
an infinite variety of emotions, and made it so expansive in its
grasp as to enable it to contemplate everything within the boundless
universe. However finite it may be, there is nothing of which it
cannot think; and although there are many things which it fails to
understand, they all inspire some feeling or awaken some emotion
within the invisible recesses of our nature. The many truths of which
we know, and the countless beauties mirrored before our eyes by the
imagination dwelling upon uncertainties and doubtful probabilities,
often give rise to a variety of sensations so powerful as to hold
us spell-bound. The deep springs of the heart, frequently hidden to
our comprehension, are ever flowing for our enjoyment. Of this I was
recently reminded, in a very impressive manner, by being ushered
into the presence of a mother, who had, for three successive years,
been confined to a sick-bed. The information of her sore affliction
suggested a train of thought, and prompted a number of reflections,
the recollection of which will forever abide fresh in my memory.
She was yet young, and notwithstanding her many trials, exhibited a
vigor of mind and a freshness of heart seldom discovered in the most
healthy and buoyant. The knowledge of her prostration for years, in
the prime of her life, and when possessed of all the impulsive desires
and sanguine expectations common to those of her age, saddened me to
sickness as I first entered her apartment; but upon discovering her
genuine animation, her beauty of heart and sprightliness of mind, my
feelings alternately changed from sadness to surprise, from surprise
to veneration. How many pleasures, thought I, had I enjoyed during the
past three years! How had I, watching the changing seasons, relished
the many delightful things each of them had brought forth! In the
mellow sunlight of the morning, I had drank in the beauties of the
earth; and in the sweet twilight of the evening, I had reaped the
richest bounties it afforded. I had daily sported with my friends,
many of whom had never felt a wish unanswered, yet still remained
unsatisfied; I had played alike with the young and old with an
intensity of interest that touched every chord of the heart; and
I had felt the ecstacy of a variety of joys, whilst the vigor of
uninterrupted health but spread out before me all that heart could
wish, or soul desire. There were our glorious winter parties, where
kindness, friendship, and love, ministered to our wishes; gleeful rides
over the silvery snow, cozily muffled in furs, and almost buried in
robes, our exuberant hilarity rising high above the jingling music of
the bells; summer meetings beneath the shady branches of the willow,
in the downy meadow; and moonlight strolls with cherished companions
all around us, and loved ones leaning tenderly on our arms. We had
our social enjoyments in all their diversified characters; our many
exhibitions of the noblest intellect fraught with the golden treasures
of study; our seasonable round of vivifying concerts by the highest
talent in the wide world; our splendid and attractive operas, with
all the more and less refined amusements which the age required to
make up the sum total of this never satisfied and insatiable human
life. Whether in door or out, we found all that could be desired to
make existence pleasing, and attach us the more firmly to it; yet here
was one who had none, or few of these things. Chained down within
the narrow compass of her bed, her ill destiny had denied to her the
pleasures of the world without. How could she endure it? Would not
her heart wither for want of food, and her mind perish for lack of
stimulants? Nothing in the least approaching to this was perceptible.
She ever seemed the happy spirit that could rise above the afflictions
of fate, and over which no misfortune could cast a cloud of despair.
In conversation, she spoke of the world with a knowledge and a heart
that would have persuaded you she constantly moved with the busiest
portion of it. She was fully aware of the condition and employments of
her friends, enjoying their sports and amusements as much, apparently,
as though she was participating in them; and often, with her own
delicate hands, she had prepared some trifling and expressive thing,
which told how much she wished their happiness. There was no complaint
in her, nor could you force repining regrets upon her. Her answers to
your queries were always the same in sweetness and resignation, and
such as might almost have led you to think she preferred her condition
to one of health, and its attendant pleasures. It is true, she did
not conceal that, at first, her situation seemed indeed terrible to
herself, yet principally from one cause, which never ceased more or
less to trouble her. She had a young and devoted husband, and she
regretted more for his sake than her own, her incapacity to mingle
in the social spheres of life, and thus afford him enjoyments which
were denied him in her condition. Her selfishness, if she ever had
any, was changed from herself and directed towards him, upon whom she
would have conferred every merit or good quality she possessed, had
she had the power, and many more, if possible, and regarded the task
the most delightful she had ever performed. His very desires and aims
of life had become her’s, and I believe she would have suffered any
personal inconvenience or sacrifice to have gratified him in them all;
his troubles and vexations, by some strange and inexplicable influence
of sympathy, she had invariably succeeded in removing from his mind,
and placing in their stead a new and more exalted vigor: in truth, he
had never felt a regret, a pang, a trial, however trifling, in which
she had not participated, and which, by some mysterious balm distilled
by her own sympathetic heart, she had not contributed to remove or
obliterate. If, however, she shared so much in his sorrows, she partook
none the less of his joys. His happiness was her own; his successes and
his triumphs were her’s; and the just rewards of his ceaseless labors,
deservedly elevating him in public esteem, were even more gratifying
to her than to himself. In his honorable elevation, she beheld her
personal advancement, and in the brightness of his reputation, she felt
additions to her own. When his aspirations had been realized, she had
experienced a gratification superior to his, and when he had attained
a point through assiduous effort, the acquisition afforded mutual
pleasure. Thus entering into his very existence, she deplored her
affliction more from a desire to promote his happiness than from any
wish or anxiety for personal gratification and enjoyment.
The apartment occupied by her was neatly fitted up and arranged with a
view of making her situation as comfortable as possible, and evidences
were not wanting of the generous sympathies of her friends. Whatever
was supposed capable of affording her a moment’s cheerful amusement,
or of lessening the tedium of her constant confinement, was supplied;
and the innumerable attentions bestowed upon her bore ample testimony
of the esteem in which she was held. Her acquaintances seemed really
to be vieing with each other who could do most to attest the good
wishes entertained in her behalf, and the many expedients invented to
gratify her, well exhibited the magnanimous ingenuity and skill of
their authors. How highly did she appreciate this kindness, and how
enthusiastically did she speak of it! To hear her, was to forget her
afflictions, and partake of her grateful and joyous feelings. She had
often exclaimed, in the fullness of her heart, that she could wish
for no more; and indeed, turn where you would, you could see nothing
but tokens of sympathy and love, which the stricken soul alone can
fully know how to cherish. Then, too, she had a little bright-eyed,
prattling boy, the best and happiest in the world, she would say.
With him she would play for hours together, and pet him with tender
caresses, attesting the power of her motherly affections, and evincing
how much she treasured him. In his gleeful gambols, she would watch him
with ineffable fondness, and his infantile freaks elicited emotions
which she would not have bartered for the world. Next to her husband,
her boy was her greatest earthly idol, and a stay which, though tender,
made life, however afflicted, a boon that filled her heart with
gratitude.
Whilst seated in her apartment, in conversation with her, her husband,
with whom I had spent many of my youthful days, and once taken a long
excursion through several provinces, entered, without observing me,
and, walking to the bedside of his wife, he tenderly embraced her, and
then sat silently down before her. I fancied I saw a tear glistening
in his eye, and I never was more moved to pity. How much I had been
mistaken, and how misdirected had been my compassion, I was pleased to
ascertain soon after. As I was upon the point of addressing him, she
cast a look upon him so sweetly soft and gentle, that, once seen, it
could never be forgotten, and smilingly said,
“Come, Charles, be more cheerful and communicative. Let me know what
has been astir within the past few hours since your return. You
certainly do not appear to be displeased, and yet you are not disposed
to be talkative.”
“Nothing has in the least ruffled my temper, I assure you. I am as well
contented with myself and the world now as ever, and would not so belie
the home of my friend as to cause a supposition that my visit to him
had rendered me dull and gloomy.”
“What, then, makes you so silent? I have noticed your quiet moments, at
times, heretofore, without being able to divine their cause, and you
have never been pleased to make it known.”
“That was because I thought your own heart knew it, and felt it: but
as I am in the mood, I shall endeavor to tell you. You are well aware
that there are periods when the heart speaks more in silence than the
tongue could possibly express--when a momentary pause reveals more than
the talk of a day could unfold. I know you have sometimes found your
feelings too powerful for utterance, and in silent thought permitted
them partially to subside before you ventured to speak and break the
spell that enchained you. Nature has so constituted those capable
of genuine love, that, whilst feeling the influence of so sacred an
affection, their ecstacy should not be disturbed even by the pleasures
of conversation. The strength of this passion, at times, overpowers
every other impulse; and though it may then enforce silence, it only
does so to enable us to enjoy the more the rich treasures of our own
hearts. Depend upon it, such moments wear the touches of angels, and
furnish us with the sublimest idea of the enjoyments of heaven that
can be realized in the present life. Their recurrence cannot come too
often, nor can they be retained too long, when present, for they are
our choicest blessings.”