Among all the fine things Mrs. Barbauld wrote, she never wrote
anything better than her essay on the Inconsistency of Human
Expectations. 'Everything,' says she, 'is marked at a settled price.
Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which
we are to lay out to the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose,
reject; but stand to your own judgment; and do not, like children,
when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess
another, which you would not purchase. Would you be rich? Do you think
_that_ the single point worth sacrificing everything else to? You may
then be rich. Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings by
toil, and diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of expense
and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of an
unembarrassed mind, and of a free, unsuspicious temper. You must learn
to do hard, if not unjust things; and as for the embarrassment of a
delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of
it as fast as possible. You must not stop to enlarge your mind, polish
your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten
track, without turning aside to the right hand or the left. "But,"
you say, "I cannot submit to drudgery like this; I feel a spirit above
it." 'Tis well; be above it then; only do not repine because you are
not rich. Is knowledge the pearl of price in your estimation? That too
may be purchased by steady application, and long, solitary hours of
study and reflection. "But," says the man of letters, "what a hardship
is it that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto on
his coach, shall raise a fortune, and make a figure, while I possess
merely the common conveniences of life." Was it for fortune, then,
that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and gave the sprightly
years of youth to study and reflection? You then have mistaken your
path, and ill employed your industry. "What reward have I then for all
my labor?" What reward! A large comprehensive soul, purged from vulgar
fears and prejudices, able to interpret the works of man and God. A
perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior
intelligence. Good Heaven! what other reward can you ask! "But is it
not a reproach upon the economy of Providence that such a one, who is
a mean, dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a
nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean, dirty fellow, for
that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, and his liberty
for it. Do you envy him his bargain? Will you hang your head in his
presence, because he outshines you in equipage and show? Lift up your
brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, "I have not these
things, it is true; but it is because I have not desired, or sought
them; it is because I possess something better. I have chosen my lot!
I am content, and satisfied." The most characteristic mark of a great
mind is to choose some one object, which it considers important, and
pursue that object through life. If we expect the purchase, we must
pay the price.'
'There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues, where Jupiter
complains to Cupid, that, though he has had so many intrigues, he was
never sincerely beloved. "In order to be loved," says Cupid, "you must
lay aside your aegis and your thunder-bolts; you must curl and perfume
your hair, and place a garland on your head, and walk with a soft
step, and assume a winning, obsequious deportment." "But," replied
Jupiter, "I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity." "Then,"
returned Cupid, "leave off desiring to be loved."'
These remarks by Mrs. Barbauld are full of sound philosophy. Who has
not observed, in his circle of acquaintance, and in the recesses
of his own heart, the same inconsistency of expectation, the same
peevishness of discontent.
Says Germanicus, 'There is my dunce of a classmate has found his
way into Congress, and is living amid the perpetual excitement of
intellectual minds, while I am cooped up in an ignorant country
parish, obliged to be at the beck and call of every old woman, who
happens to feel uneasy in her mind.'
'Well, Germanicus, the road to political distinction was as open to
you as to him; why did you not choose it?' 'Oh, I could not consent to
be the tool of a party; to shake hands with the vicious, and flatter
fools. It would gall me to the quick to hear my opponents accuse me of
actions I never committed, and of motives which worlds would not tempt
me to indulge.' Since Germanicus is wise enough to know the whistle
costs more than it is worth, is he not unreasonable to murmur because
he has not bought it?
Matrona always wears a discontented look when she hears the praises of
Clio. 'I used to write her composition for her, when we were at school
together,' says she; 'and now she is quite the idol of the literary
world; while I am never heard of beyond my own family, unless some one
happens to introduce me as the friend of Clio.' 'Why not write, then;
and see if the world will not learn to introduce Clio as the friend of
Matrona?' 'I write! not for the world! I could not endure to pour my
soul out to an undiscerning multitude; I could not see my cherished
thoughts caricatured by some soulless reviewer, and my favorite
fancies expounded by the matter-of-fact editor of some stupid paper.'
Why does Matrona envy what she knows costs so much, and is of so
little value?
Yet so it is, through all classes of society. All of us covet some
neighbor's possession, and think our lot would have been happier, had
it been different from what it is. Yet most of us could obtain worldly
distinctions, if our habits and inclinations allowed us to pay the
immense price at which they must be purchased. True wisdom lies
in finding out all the advantages of a situation in which we _are_
placed, instead of imagining the enjoyments of one in which we are
_not_ placed.
Such philosophy is rarely found. The most perfect sample I ever met
was an old woman, who was apparently the poorest and most forlorn of
the human species--so true is the maxim which all profess to believe,
and which none act upon invariably, viz. that happiness does not
depend on outward circumstances. The wise woman, to whom I have
alluded, _walks_ to Boston, from a distance of twenty-five or thirty
miles, to sell a bag of brown thread and stockings; and then patiently
foots it back again with her little gains. Her dress, though tidy, is
a grotesque collection of 'shreds and patches,' coarse in the extreme.
'Why don't you come down in a wagon?' said I, when I observed that she
was soon to become a mother, and was evidently wearied with her long
journey. 'We h'an't got any horse,' replied she; 'the neighbors are
very kind to me, but they can't spare their'n; and it would cost
as much to hire one, as all my thread will come to.' 'You have a
husband--don't he do anything for you.' 'He is a good man; he does
all he can; but he's a cripple and an invalid. He reels my yarn, and
_specks_ the children's shoes. He's as kind a husband as a woman need
to have.' 'But his being a cripple is a heavy misfortune to you,'
said I. 'Why, ma'am, I don't look upon it in that light,' replied
the thread-woman; 'I consider that I've great reason to be thankful
he never took to any bad habits.' 'How many children have you?' 'Six
sons, and five _darters_, ma'am.' 'Six sons and five daughters! What
a family for a poor woman to support!' 'It's a family, surely, ma'am;
but there an't one of 'em I'd be willing to lose. They are as good
children as need to be--all willing to work, and all clever to me.
Even the littlest boy, when he gets a cent now and then for doing a
_chore_, will be sure and bring it to ma'am.' 'Do your daughters spin
your thread?' 'No, ma'am; as soon as they are old enough, they go out
to _sarvice_. I don't want to keep them always delving for me; they
are always willing to give me what they can; but it is right and fair
they should do a little for themselves. I do all my spinning after the
folks are abed.' 'Don't you think you should be better off, if you
had no one but yourself to provide for?' 'Why, no, ma'am, I don't. If
I hadn't been married, I should always have had to work as hard as
I could; and now I can't do more than that. My children are a great
comfort to me; and I look forward to the time when they'll do as much
for me as I have done for them.'
Here was true philosophy! I learned a lesson from that poor woman
which I shall not soon forget. If I wanted true, hearty, well
principled service, I would employ children brought up by such a
mother.
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