One day, Rhadamanthus, the stern and wise judge of the dead, sat in
the shades, passing sentence on the crimes, follies, and virtues of
the human race, that flocked in myriads to his awful tribunal. On his
right hand extended a delicious region, fragrant with flowers of
unnumbered tints and odors, musical with the song of myriads of happy
birds, and glowing in glories brighter than sunbeams, for they were
reflected from the smiling face of an approving deity. On his left lay
the kingdom of darkness and despair, where though nothing could be
seen, the wretchedness of its tenants was sadly indicated by groans
and howlings of suffering and despair, which might aptly represent the
universal chorus of human misery. To the former, Rhadamanthus beckoned
the good with a benignant and approving smile—to the latter, he
condemned the wicked with a withering frown.
Few—alas! few and far between, were they who were beckoned to the land
of delight, while crowds of wicked beings expiated in the region of
howling darkness, the crimes of a guilty life. At length there
approached a proud stately woman, clad carelessly in attire not the
most cleanly, her cap on one side, her hands begrimed with ink, and a
hole in either stocking. Pride and conceit sat on her brow, and she
was passing to the right of the judge, towards the region of the
blest, before receiving judgment, when Rhadamanthus stopped her, and
demanded an account of her doings in the other world.
She seemed mightily indignant at this, and after muttering something
about “an old ignoramus,” proceeded as follows:
{540} “Your worship surely cannot be ignorant of the services I have
rendered the present age, as well as posterity, in writing six folio
volumes on political economy, the duties of kings, princes and
governors, the character of different nations, and the true principles
of government. That I might the more exclusively devote myself to
these great objects, I resolved never to marry, lest the care of my
household and children might interfere with the desire I had to be
useful.”
“Humph,” quoth Rhadamanthus—and the woman of six folios mistaking this
for an approving fiat, was about to pass into the happy region, when
he sternly bade her remain where she was. Whereupon she tossed her
head, cocked her chin, and took a pinch of snuff, half of which she
flourished in the face of the judge.
At this moment there approached a respectable matronly female, of an
open, contented, and happy countenance, which seemed the index of a
virtuous mind. She was dressed in plain attire of exquisite neatness,
and as she came before the judgment seat, made a low obeisance,
reverent, yet devoid of fear. The judge returned the salutation with a
bow, and asked in a voice of kind encouragement what she had been
doing in her past life.
With timid modesty, she told her tale of usefulness. She had married a
worthy man, whose house she tried to make a happy home, and whose
moderate means she exerted all the becoming arts of domestic economy
to render sufficient for the supply of all the rational wants of life.
She had borne him six children, four sons and two daughters; of the
former of whom, one was now fighting in defence of his country at the
head of its armies; another was a judge administering the laws to the
people with justice and mingled mercy; a third was cultivating his
father's land, and watching over his declining age; and a fourth
imitating the faith of his forefathers both by precept and example.
The daughters were all happily married, and living a life of virtue,
in the midst of their children.
The lady of the six folios listened to this detail of modest
usefulness with unutterable scorn, but far different were the feelings
of Rhadamanthus, who nodded and smiled approbation at every sentence.
“Approach,” cried he to the mother of six children, and the writer of
six folios. “Thou,” addressing himself to the former—“Thou that hast
made thy husband happy by thy cares and thy economy, and thy children
useful to their country by thy precepts and example, pass into the
region of the blest, and enjoy thy reward in an eternity of happiness.
But thou”—and he frowned majestically—“thou that has preferred the
quill to the spindle; to instruct mankind rather than teach thy
children the ways of virtue; and to be the mother of six musty books,
rather than of as many sons and daughters, to honor their parents,
serve their country, and worship their God, thou shalt return again to
the earth, where thy punishment shall be to give advice which none
will follow, and write books that nobody will read.”
The happy mother passed into the region of bliss, and the instructer
of nations returned to the earth, with a resolution to write another
folio, contesting the decision of Rhadamanthus, and pointing out the
abuses of his system of jurisprudence.