THE COMPOUND FLOWERED-PLANTS.

HARRY, can you blow off all theſe dandelion feathers at a blaſt?

I will try.

See—you have left almoſt half of them.

Can you do better?

Yes—look here.

There are ſtill ſeveral left.

A pretty child's play you have got there. Bring me one of the dan⯑delion heads, and let us ſee if we can make no other uſe of it.

Here is a very full one.

Do you know what theſe fea⯑thers, as you call them, are?

I believe they belong to the ſeeds.

They do, and they are worth ex⯑amining. Look at this ſingle one through my magnifying glaſs: you obſerve the ſeed at the bottom, like the point of a dart. From it ſprings a ſlender hairy ſhaft, crowned by a moſt elegant ſpreading plume. You ſee, it is a complete arrow of nature's manufacture.

How exact!

What a beautiful thing!

I am ſure you ſee the uſe of it at once.

It is to ſet the ſeeds a flying with the wind.

And I ſuppoſe they ſow them⯑ſelves where they light.

They do. This is one of na⯑ture's contrivances for diſſemination, or [3] that ſcattering of the ſeeds of plants which makes them reach all the places proper for their growth. I dare ſay you have obſerved other plants fur⯑niſhed with the ſame winged or fea⯑thered ſeeds.

O yes—there is groundſel, and ragwort, and thiſtles.

In a windy day I have ſeen the air all full of thiſtle down.

Very likely; and for that reaſon you never ſaw a new made bank of earth, or a heap of dung in the fields, but it was preſently covered with thiſ⯑tles. Theſe, and the other plants that have been named, belong to a very extenſive claſs, which it is worth while being acquainted with. They are call⯑ed the compound flowered plants.

Will you be ſo good as to give us a lecture about them.

With all my heart. Get me a dandelion in flower, and a thiſtle head, and a daiſy—if you cannot find a com⯑mon [4] daiſy, one of the great ox-eye daiſies in the corn will do as well.

Here they are.

Very well. All theſe are com⯑pound flowers; for if you will examine them narrowly, you will perceive that they conſiſt of a number of little flow⯑ers, or florets, encloſed in a common cup, which cup is made of a number of ſcales lying upon each other like the tiles of a houſe.

I ſee it.

The florets are not all alike in ſhape. In the dandelion you will ob⯑ſerve that they conſiſt of a tube, from which, at its upper end, proceeds a ſort of ſtrap-ſhaped tongue or fillet: in the thiſtle they are tubular or funnel-ſhaped throughout: in the daiſy, the center ones which form the diſk, as it is called, are tubular, while thoſe in the circumference have a broad ſtrap on one fide, which altogether compoſe the rays of the flowers; whence this [5] ſort are called radiated. Now take the glaſs and examine the florets ſingly. Can you diſcern their chives and pointals?

I can.

You may remark that there are five chives to each, the tips of which unite into a tube, through which the pointal paſſes, having its ſummit dou⯑ble and curled back.

I can juſt make it out with the glaſs, but hardly with the naked eye.

It is from this circumſtance of the tips of the chives growing together that Linnaeus has taken his diſtinction of the whole claſs; and he has named it Syngeneſia, from two Greek words hav⯑ing that ſignification. You will fur⯑ther obſerve that all theſe florets ſtand upon a ſtool or receptacle at the bot⯑tom of the flower, which is the cuſhion left on the dandelion ſtalk after the ſeeds are blown away. Into this the ſeeds are flightly ſtuck, which are one [6] a-piece to every perfect or fertile ſlo⯑ret. This is the general ſtructure of the compound flowers.

Are all their ſeeds feathered?

Not all. Theſe of the daiſy are not. But in a great many ſpecies they are.

I ſhould have thought theſe were a very uſeful claſs of plants, by the pains nature has taken to ſpread them, if you had not told me that thiſtles and ragwort, and groundſel, were ſome of them.

And if you do not confine your idea of uſefulneſs to what is ſerviceable to man, but extend it to the whole creation, you may ſafely conclude from their abundance that they muſt be highly uſeful in the general econo⯑my of nature. In fact, no plants feed a greater number of inſects, and none are more important to the ſmall birds, to whom they furniſh food by their ſeeds, and a fine warm down for lining [7] their neſts. On the approach of win⯑ter you may ſee whole ſlocks of linnets and gold-finches pecking among the thiſtles; and you know that groundſel is a favourite treat to birds in a cage. To man, however, they are for the moſt part troubleſome and unſightly weeds. Burdock, thiſtles, and yar⯑row, overrun his hedge banks; dande⯑lion, and hawkweeds, which much reſemble them, fill his meadows; the tall and branching ragwort, and blue ſuccory, cumber his paſtures; and wild camomile, ox eye, and corn mary-gold, choak up his corn fields. Theſe plants in general have a bitter nauſeous taſte, ſo that no cattle will touch them. Daiſies, I believe, are the chief excep⯑tion.

But ſome of them, I ſuppoſe, are uſeful to man.

Yes, ſeveral, and in various ways. Some that have milky bitter juices are employed in medicine for purifying [8] the blood and removing obſtructions. Of theſe are dandelion, ſuccory, and ſowthiſtle. Many others are bitter and ſtrongly aromatic; as camomile, wormwood, ſouthernwood, feverfew, and tanſy: theſe are good for ſtrength⯑ening the ſtomach, and expelling worms. That capital ingredient in ſallad, lettuce, is of this claſs, and ſo is endive. Artichoke forms a very ſingular article of diet, for the part chiefly eaten, called the bottom, is the receptacle of the flower, upon which the choke, or ſeeds with their feathers, is placed. It is ſaid that ſome of the larger ſpecies of thiſtles may be dreſt and eaten the ſame way. Then there is Jeruſalem artichoke, which is the root of a ſpecies of ſun-flower, and when boiled much reſembles in taſte an artichoke bottom. On the whole, however, a very ſmall proportion of this claſs of plants is uſed in food.

Are there no garden flowers be⯑longing to them?

Several; eſpecially of the au⯑tumnal ones. There are ſun-flowers of various kinds, which are the largeſt flowers the garden produces, though not the moſt ſightly; marygolds, both the common, and the French and African, aſters, china-aſters, golden⯑rod, and chryſanthemums. Very few flowers of this claſs have an agreeable ſcent, and their ſhape is not the moſt pleaſing; but they have often gay co⯑lours, and make a figure in the garden when other things are over. Well—this is moſt that I recollect worth no⯑ticing of the compound-flowered plants. They are a difficult claſs to make out botanically, though pretty eaſily known from each other by ſight! I will take care to point out to you the principal of them that we meet with in our walks, and you muſt get acquainted with them.

GREAT MEN.

I WILL ſhow you a great man, ſaid Mr. C. one day to his ſon, at the time the duke of Bridgewater's canal was making. He accordingly took him to a place where a number of workmen were employed in raiſing a prodigious mound, on the top of which the canal was to be carried acroſs a deep valley. In the midſt of them was a very plain dreſſed man, awkward in his geſtures, uncouth in his appearance, and rather heavy in his countenance—in ſhort, a mere countryman like the reſt. He had a plan in his hand, and was giv⯑ing directions to the people round him, and ſurveying the whole labour with profound attention. This, Arthur, ſaid Mr. C. is the great Mr. Brindley.

What, cried Arthur in ſurpriſe, is that a great man?

Yes, a very great man. Why are you ſurpriſed?

I don't know, but I ſhould have expected a great man to have looked very differently.

It matters little how a man looks, if he can perform great things. That perſon, without any advantages of education, has become, by the force of his own genius, the firſt en⯑gineer of the age. He is doing things that were never done or even thought of in this country before. He pierces hills, bridges over vallies, makes aque⯑ducts acroſs navigable rivers, and in ſhort, is likely to change the whole face of the country, and to introduce im⯑provements the value of which cannot be calculated. When at a loſs how to bring about any of his deſigns, he does not go to other people for aſſiſtance, but he conſults the wonderful facul⯑ties of his own mind, and finds a way to overcome his difficulties. He looks [12] like a ruſtic, it is true, but he has a ſoul of the firſt order, ſuch as is not granted to one out of millions of the human race.

But are all men of extraordinary abilities, properly great men?

The word has been variouſly uſed; but I would call every one a great man, who does great things by means of his own powers. Great abilities are often employed about trifles, or indo⯑lently waſted without any conſidera⯑ble exertion at all. To make a great man, the object purſued ſhould be large and important, and vigour and perſeverance ſhould be employed in the purſuit.

All the great men I remember to have read about, were kings, or ge⯑nerals, or prime-miniſters, or in ſome high ſtation or other.

It is natural they ſhould ſtand foremoſt in the liſt of great men, becauſe the ſphere in which they act [13] is an extenſive one, and what they do has a powerful influence over num⯑bers of mankind. Yet thoſe that in⯑vent uſeful arts, or diſcover important truths which may promote the comfort and happineſs of unborn generations in the moſt diſtant parts of the world, act a ſtill more important part; and their claim to merit is generally more undoubted than that of the former, becauſe what they do is more certainly their own.

In order to eſtimate the real ſhare a man in a high ſtation has had in the great events which have been attribut⯑ed to him, ſtrip him in your imagina⯑tion of all the external advantages of rank and power, and ſee what a figure he would have made without them—or fancy a common man put in his place, and judge whether affairs would have gone on in the ſame track. Au⯑guſtus Caeſar, and Louis the XIVth of France, have both been called great [14] princes; but deprive them of their crown, and they will both dwindle into obſcure and trivial characters. But no change of circumſtances could reduce Alfred the Great to the level of a common man. The two former could ſink into their graves, and yield their power to a ſucceſſor, and ſcarcely be miſſed; but Alfred's death changed the fate of his kingdom. Thus with Epaminondas fell all the glory and greatneſs of the Theban ſtate. He firſt raiſed it to conſequence, and it could not ſurvive him.

Was not Czar Peter a great man?

I am not ſure that he de⯑ſerves that title. Being a deſpotic prince, at the head of a vaſt empire, he could put in execution whatever plans he was led to adopt, and theſe plans in general were grand and bene⯑ficial to his country. But the means he uſed were ſuch as the maſter of the [15] lives and fortunes of millions could eaſily employ, and there was more of brutal force than of ſkill and judgment in the manner in which he purſued his deſigns. Still, he was an extraordinary man; and the reſolution of leaving his throne, in order to acquire in fo⯑reign countries the knowledge neceſ⯑ſary to reſcue his own from barba⯑riſm, was a feature of greatneſs. A truly great prince, however, would have employed himſelf better than in learning to build ſhips at Sardam.

What was Alexander the Great?

A great conqueror, but not a great man. It was eaſy for him, with the well-diſciplined army of Greeks which he received from his father Philip, to over-run the unwarlike kingdoms of Aſia, and defeat the Great King, as the king of Perſia was called; but though he ſhowed ſome marks of an elevated mind, he ſeems to have poſſeſſed few qualities which [16] could have raiſed him to diſtinction had he been born in an humble ſta⯑tion. Compare his fugitive grandeur, ſupported by able miniſters and gene⯑rals, to the power which his tutor, the great Ariſtotle, merely through the force of his own genius, exerciſed over men's minds throughout the moſt civil⯑ized part of the world for two thou⯑ſand years after his death. Compare alſo the part which has been acted in the world by the Spaniſh monarchs, the maſters of immenſe poſſeſſions in Eu⯑rope and America, to that by Chriſto⯑pher Columbus, the Genoeſe naviga⯑tor, who could have it inſcribed on his tomb-ſtone, that he gave a new world to the kingdoms of Caſtille and Arragon. Theſe compariſons will teach you to diſtinguiſh between great⯑neſs of character and greatneſs of ſta⯑tion, which are too often confounded. He who governs a great country may in one ſenſe be called a great king; [17] but this is no more than an appellation belonging to rank, like that of the Great Mogul or the Grand Seignior, and infers no more perſonal grandeur than the title of Mr. Such an one, the Great Grocer or Brewer.

Muſt not great men be good men, too?

If that man is great who does great things, it will not follow that goodneſs muſt neceſſarily be one of his qualities, ſince that chiefly refers to the end and intention of actions. Julius Caeſar, and Cromwell, for ex⯑ample, were men capable of the greateſt exploits; but directing them not to the public good, but to the purpoſes of their own ambition, in pur⯑ſuit of which they violated all the du⯑ties of morality, they have obtained the title of great bad men. A perſon, however, cannot be great at all with⯑out poſſeſſing many virtues. He muſt be firm, ſteady, and diligent, ſupe⯑rior [18] to difficulties and dangers, and equally ſuperior to the allurements of eaſe and pleaſure. For want of theſe moral qualities, many perſons of ex⯑alted minds and great talents have failed to deſerve the title of great men. It is in vain that the French poets and hiſtorians have decorated Henry the fourth with the name of Great; his facility of diſpoſition and uncontroul⯑able love of pleaſure have cauſed him to forfeit his claim to it in the eſti⯑mation of impartial judges. As power is eſſential to greatneſs, a man can⯑not be great without power over himſelf, which is the higheſt kind of power.

After all, is it not better to be a good man than a great one?

There is more merit in be⯑ing a good man, becauſe it is what we make ourſelves, whereas the talents that produce greatneſs are the gift of nature; though they may be improved by our own efforts, they cannot be [19] acquired. But if goodneſs is the pro⯑per object of our love and eſteem, greatneſs deſerves our high admiration and reſpect. This Mr. Brindley before us, is by all accounts a worthy man, but it is not for that reaſon I have brought you to ſee him. I wiſh you to look upon him as one of thoſe ſub⯑lime and uncommon objects of nature which fill the mind with a certain awe and aſtoniſhment. Next to being great oneſelf, it is deſirable to have a true reliſh for greatneſs.

ORDER AND DISORDER,
A FAIRY TALE.

JULIET was a clever well-diſpoſed girl, but apt to be heedleſs. She could do her leſſons very well, but commonly as much time was taken up in getting [20] her things together, as in doing what ſhe was ſet about. If ſhe was to work, there was generally the houſewife to ſeek in one place, and the threadpapers in another. The ſciſſars were left in her pockets up ſtairs, and the thimble was rolling about the floor. In writ⯑ing, the copy-book was generally miſſ⯑ing, the ink dried up, and the pens, new and old, all tumbled about the cupboard. The ſlate and ſlate-pencil were never found together. In mak⯑ing her exerciſes, the Engliſh dic⯑tionary always came to hand inſtead of the French grammar; and when ſhe was to read a chapter, ſhe uſually got hold of Robinſon Cruſoe, or the World Diſplayed, inſtead of the Teſ⯑tament.

Juliet's mamma was almoſt tired of teaching her, ſo ſhe ſent her to make a viſit to an old lady in the country, a very good woman, but rather ſtrict with young folks. Here ſhe was ſhut [21] up in a room above ſtairs by herſelf after breakfaſt every day, till ſhe had quite finiſhed the taſks ſet her. This houſe was one of the very few that are ſtill haunted with fairies. One of theſe, whoſe name was Diſorder, took a plea⯑ſure in plaguing poor Juliet. She was a frightful figure to look at; be⯑ing crooked and ſquint-eyed, with her hair hanging about her face, and her dreſs put on all awry, and full of rents and tatters. She prevailed on the old lady to let her ſet Juliet her taſks; ſo one morning ſhe came up with a work-bag full of threads of ſilk of all ſorts of colours, mixed and entangled together, and a flower very nicely worked to copy. It was a panſie, and the gra⯑dual melting of its hues into one ano⯑ther was imitated with great accuracy and beauty. ‘"Here, Miſs,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"my miſtreſs has ſent you a piece of work to do, and ſhe inſiſts upon hav⯑ing it done before you come down to [22] dinner. You will find all the materials in this bag."’

Juliet took the flower and the bag, and turned out all the ſilks upon the table. She ſlowly pulled out a red, and a purple, and a blue, and a yellow, and at length fixed upon one to begin working with. After taking two or three ſtitches, and looking at her model, ſhe found ano⯑ther ſhade was wanted. This was to be hunted out from the bunch, and a long while it took her to find it. It was ſoon neceſſary to change it for ano⯑ther. Juliet ſaw that in going on at this rate it would take days inſtead of hours to work the flower, ſo ſhe laid down the needle and fell a crying. Af⯑ter this had continued ſome time, ſhe was ſtartled at the ſound of ſomewhat ſtamp ſtamping on the floor; and tak⯑ing her handkerchief from her eyes, ſhe ſpied a neat diminutive female figure advancing towards her. She was as up⯑right as an arrow, and had not ſo [23] much as a hair out of its place, or the leaſt article of her dreſs rumpled or diſcompoſed. When ſhe came up to Juliet, ‘"My dear,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I heard your crying, and knowing you to be a good girl in the main, I am come to your aſſiſtance. My name is Order; your mamma is well acquaint⯑ed with me, though this is the firſt time you ever ſaw me. But I hope we ſhall know one another better for the future."’ She then jumped upon the table, and with a wand gave a tap upon the heap of entangled ſilk. Im⯑mediately the threads ſeparated, and arranged themſelves in a long row con⯑ſiſting of little ſkeins in which all of the ſame colour were collected toge⯑ther, thoſe approaching neareſt in ſhade being placed next each other. This done, ſhe diſappeared. Juliet, as ſoon as her ſurpriſe was over, re⯑ſumed her work, and found it go on with eaſe and pleaſure. She finiſhed [24] the flower by dinner-time, and obtain⯑ed great praiſe for the neatneſs of the execution.

The next day, the ill-natured fairy came up with a great book under her arm. ‘"This,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"is my miſ⯑treſs's houſe-book, and ſhe ſays you muſt draw out againſt dinner an exact account of what it has coſt her laſt year in all the articles of houſekeeping, including clothes, rent, taxes, wages, and the like. You muſt ſtate ſepa⯑rately the amount of every article un⯑der the heads of baker, butcher, mil⯑liner, ſhoemaker, and ſo forth, tak⯑ing ſpecial care not to miſs a ſingle thing entered down in the book. Here is a quire of paper and a parcel of pens."’ So ſaying, with a malicious grin ſhe left her.

Juliet turned pale at the very thought of the taſk ſhe had to perform. She opened the great book and ſaw all the pages cloſely written, but in [25] the moſt confuſed manner poſſible. Here was, ‘"Paid Mr. Cruſty for a week's bread and baking, ſo much."’ Then, ‘"Paid Mr. Pinchtoe for ſhoes ſo much."’ ‘—"Paid half a year's rent, ſo much."’ Then came a butcher's bill, ſucceeded by a milliner's, and that by a tallow-chandler's. ‘"What ſhall I do?"’ cried poor Juliet—‘"where am I to begin, and how can I poſſibly pick out all theſe things? Was ever ſuch a tedious perplexing taſk? O that my good little creature were here again with her wand!"’

She had but juſt uttered the words when the fairy Order ſtood before her. ‘"Don't be ſtartled, my dear,"’ ſaid ſhe; ‘"I knew your wiſh, and made haſte to comply with it. Let me ſee your book."’ She turned over a few leaves, and then cried, ‘"I ſee my croſs-grained ſiſter has played you a trick. She has brought you the day-book in⯑ſtead of the ledger; but I will ſet the [26] matter to rights inſtantly."’ She va⯑niſhed, and preſently returned with another book, in which ſhe ſhowed Juliet every one of the articles requir⯑ed ſtanding at the tops of the pages, and all the particulars entered under them from the day-book; ſo that there was nothing for her to do but caſt up the ſums and copy out the heads with their amount in ſingle lines. As Ju⯑liet was a ready accountant, ſhe was not long in finiſhing the buſineſs, and produced her account neatly writ⯑ten on one ſheet of paper, at dinner.

The next day, Juliet's tormentor brought her up a large box full of let⯑ters ſtamped upon ſmall bits of ivory, capitals and common letters of all ſorts, but jumbled together promiſcu⯑ouſly as if they had been ſhaken in a bag. ‘"Now, Miſs,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"be⯑fore you come down to dinner, you muſt exactly copy out this poem in theſe [27] ivory letters, placing them, line by line, on the floor of your room."’

Juliet thought at firſt that this taſk would be pretty ſport enough; but when ſhe ſet about it, ſhe found ſuch trouble in hunting out the letters ſhe wanted, every one ſeeming to come to hand before the right one, that ſhe proceeded very ſlowly; and the poem being a long one, it was plain that night would come before it was finiſh⯑ed. Sitting down, and crying for her kind friend, was therefore her only re⯑ſource.

Order was not far diſtant, for, in⯑deed, ſhe had been watching her pro⯑ceedings all the while. She made herſelf viſible, and giving a tap on the letters with her wand, they imme⯑diately arranged themſelves alphabeti⯑cally in little double heaps, the ſmall in one, and the great in the other. After this operation, Juliet's taſk went on with ſuch expedition, that ſhe called [28] up the old lady an hour before dinner, to be witneſs to its completion.

The good lady kiſſed her, and told her, that as ſhe hoped ſhe was now made fully ſenſible of the benefits of order, and the inconveniences of diſorder, ſhe would not confine her any longer to work by herſelf at ſet taſks, but ſhe ſhould come and ſit with her. Ju⯑liet took ſuch pains to pleaſe her by doing every thing with the greateſt neatneſs and regularity, and reforming all her careleſs habits, that when ſhe was ſent back to her mother, the fol⯑lowing preſents were made her, in order conſtantly to remind her of the beauty and advantage of order.

A cabinet of Engliſh coins, in which all the gold and ſilver money of our kings was arranged in the order of their reigns.

A ſet of plaſter caſts of the Roman emperors.

A cabinet of beautiful ſhells, diſ⯑played [29] according to the moſt approved ſyſtem.

A very complete box of water co⯑lours, and another of crayons, ſorted in all the ſhades of the primary co⯑lours.

And, a very nice houſewife, with all the implements belonging to a ſempſtreſs, and good ſtore of the beſt needles in ſizes.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I AM one of four Siſters; and hav⯑ing ſome reaſon to think myſelf not well uſed either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a ſketch of our hiſtory and characters. You will not wonder there ſhould be frequent bickerings amongſt us, when I tell you that in our infancy we were continually fighting; and ſo great was the noiſe, and din, and confuſion, in our continual ſtruggles to get upper-moſt, that it was impoſſible for any body to live amongſt us in ſuch a ſcene of tumult and diſorder—Theſe brawls, however, by a powerful inter⯑poſition, were put an end to; our proper place was aſſigned to each of us, and we had ſtrict orders not to [31] encroach on the limits of each others property, but to join our common of⯑fices for the good of the whole fa⯑mily.

My firſt ſiſter, (I call her the firſt, becauſe we have generally allowed her the precedence in rank,) is, I muſt acknowledge, of a very active ſprightly diſpoſition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than any of us: but ſhe is hot: every thing ſerves for fuel to her fury when it is once raiſed to a certain degree, and ſhe is ſo miſchie⯑vous whenever ſhe gets the upper hand, that, notwithſtanding her aſpir⯑ing diſpoſition, if I may freely ſpeak my mind, ſhe is calculated to make a good ſervant, but a very bad miſ⯑treſs.

I am almoſt aſhamed to mention, that notwithſtanding her ſeeming delicacy, ſhe has a moſt voracious appetite, and devours every thing that comes in her way; though, like other eager thin peo⯑ple, [32] ſhe does no credit to her keeping. Many a time has ſhe conſumed the product of my barns and ſtorehouſes, but it is all loſt upon her. She has even been known to get into an oil-ſhop or tallow-chandler's when every body was aſleep, and lick up with the utmoſt greedineſs whatever ſhe found there. Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though ſhe is admitted into the beſt families, they take care to watch her very narrowly. I ſhould not forget to mention, that my ſiſter was once in a country where ſhe was treated with uncommon re⯑ſpect; ſhe was lodged in a ſumptuous building, and had a number of young women of the beſt families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health: in ſhort, ſhe was looked upon as ſomething more than a com⯑mon mortal. But ſhe always behaved with great ſeverity to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of their [33] duty, or made a ſlip in their own con⯑duct, nothing would ſerve her but burying the poor girls alive. I have myſelf had ſome dark hints and inti⯑mations from the moſt reſpectable au⯑thority, that ſhe will ſome time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next ſiſter I ſhall mention to you, has ſo far the appearance of Mo⯑deſty and Humility, that ſhe generally ſeeks the loweſt place. She is indeed of a very yielding eaſy temper, gene⯑rally cool, and often wears a ſweet placid ſmile upon her countenance; but ſhe is eaſily ruffled, and when worked up, as ſhe often is, by another ſiſter, whom I ſhall mention to you by and by, ſhe becomes a perfect fury. Indeed ſhe is ſo apt to ſwell with ſud⯑den guſts of paſſion, that ſhe is ſuſ⯑pected at times to be a little lunatic. Between her and my firſt mentioned [34] ſiſter, there is a more ſettled antipathy than between the Theban pair; and they never meet without making ef⯑forts to deſtroy one another. With me ſhe is always ready to form the moſt intimate union, but it is not always to my advantage. There goes a ſtory in our family, that when we were all young, ſhe once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under a conſiderable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my conſtitution is generally thought to have been eſſentially injured by it ever ſince. From that time ſhe has made no ſuch atrocious attempt, but ſhe is continually making encroach⯑ments upon my property; and even when ſhe appears moſt gentle, ſhe is very inſidious, and has ſuch an under⯑mining way with her, that her inſinuat⯑ing arts are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonſtrate, but it is a known part of her charac⯑ter, [35] that nothing makes any laſting im⯑preſſion upon her.

As to my third ſiſter, I have al⯑ready mentioned the ill offices ſhe does me with my laſt mentioned one, who is entirely under her influence. She is beſides of a very uncertain va⯑riable temper, ſometimes hot, and ſometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightneſs is even proverbial, and ſhe has nothing to give thoſe who live with her more ſubſtantial than the ſmiles of courtiers. I muſt add, that ſhe keeps in her ſervice three or four rough bluſtering bullies with puffed cheeks, who, when they are let looſe, think they have no⯑thing to do but to drive the world before them. She ſometimes joins with my firſt ſiſter, and their violence occaſionally throws me into ſuch a trembling, that, though naturally of a firm conſtitution, I ſhake as if I was in an ague fit.

[36] As to myſelf, I am of a ſteady ſolid temper; not ſhining indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady Bountiful. Every one taſtes of my beneficence, and I am of ſo grateful a diſpoſition, that I have been known to return an hundred-fold for any preſent that has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other home. I bear with unrepining pa⯑tience all manner of ill uſage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wound⯑ed with the moſt cutting ſtrokes; I am pillaged of the treaſures hidden in my moſt ſecret chambers; notwithſtanding which, I am always ready to return good for evil, and am continually ſub⯑ſervient to the pleaſure or advantage of others; yet, ſo ungrateful is the world, that becauſe I do not poſſeſs all the airineſs and activity of my ſiſ⯑ters, I am ſtigmatiſed as dull and hea⯑vy. Every ſordid miſerly fellow is [37] called by way of deriſion one of my children; and if a perſon on entering a room does but turn his eyes upon me, he is thought ſtupid and mean, and not fit for good company. I have the ſatisfaction, however, of finding that people always incline towards me as they grow older; and that thoſe who ſeemed proudly to diſdain any affinity with me, are content to ſink at laſt into my boſom. You will proba⯑bly wiſh to have ſome account of my perſon. I am not a regular beauty; ſome of my features are rather harſh and prominent, when viewed ſeparately; but my countenance has ſo much va⯑riety of expreſſion, and ſo many dif⯑ferent attitudes of elegance, that thoſe who ſtudy my face with attention, find out continually new charms; and it may be truly ſaid of me, what Titus ſays of his miſtreſs, and for a much longer ſpace,

Though I have been ſo long a mo⯑ther, I have ſtill a ſurpriſing air of youth and freſhneſs, which is aſſiſted by all the advantages of well choſen ornament, for I dreſs well, and accord⯑ing to the ſeaſon.

This is what I have chiefly to ſay of myſelf and my ſiſters. To a perſon of your ſagacity it will be unneceſſary for me to ſign my name. Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a loſs to diſcover the reſt, notwithſtanding the difference in our features and cha⯑racters.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

WILLIAM was one day reading in a book of travels to his father, when he came to the following relation.

‘"The Andes in South America are the higheſt ridge of mountains in the known world. There is a road over them, on which, about half way be⯑tween the ſummit and the foot, is a houſe of entertainment, where it is common for travellers in their aſcent and deſcent to meet. The difference in their feelings upon the ſame ſpot is very remarkable. Thoſe who are deſcending the mountain are melting with heat, ſo that they can ſcarcely bear any clothes upon them; while thoſe who are aſcending, ſhiver with cold, and wrap themſelves up in the warmeſt garments they have."’

How ſtrange this is! (cried Wil⯑liam) What can be the reaſon of it?

[40] It is (replied his father) a ſtriking inſtance of the power of habit over the body. The cold is ſo intenſe on the tops of theſe mountains, that it is as much as travellers can do to keep themſelves from being frozen to death. Their bodies, therefore, become ſo habituated to the ſenſation of cold, that every diminution of it as they de⯑ſcend ſeems to them a degree of actual heat; and when they are got half way down, they feel as if they were quite in a ſultry climate. On the other hand, the vallies at the foot of the mountains are ſo exceſſively hot, that the body becomes relaxed, and ſenſible to the ſlighteſt degree of cold; ſo that when a traveller aſcends from them towards the hills, the middle re⯑gions appear quite inclement from their coldneſs.

And does the ſame thing (rejoined William) always happen in croſſing high mountains?

[41] It does (returned his father) in a degree proportioned to their height, and the time taken in croſſing them. Indeed a ſhort time is ſufficient to produce ſimilar effects. Let one boy have been playing at rolling ſnowballs, and another have been roaſting him⯑ſelf before a great fire, and let them meet in the porch of the houſe;—if you aſk them how they feel, I will anſwer for it you will find them as different in their accounts as the tra⯑vellers on the Andes. But this is only one example of the operation of an univerſal principle belonging to hu⯑man nature; for the power of habit is the ſame thing whatever be the circum⯑ſtance which calls it forth, whether relating to the mind or the body.

You may conſider the ſtory you have been reading as a ſort of ſimile or parable. The central ſtation on the mountain may be reſembled to middle life. With what different feelings is [42] this regarded by thoſe who baſk in the ſunſhine of opulence, and thoſe who ſhrink under the cold blaſts of penury!

Suppoſe the wealthy duke, our neighbour, were ſuddenly obliged to deſcend to our level, and live as we do—to part with all his carriages, ſell his coach-horſes and hunters, quit his noble ſeat with its fine park and gar⯑dens, diſmiſs all his train of ſervants except two or three, and take a houſe like ours. What a dreadful fall would it ſeem to him! how wretched would it probably make him, and how much would he be pitied by the world!

On the other hand, ſuppoſe the la⯑bourer who lives in the next cottage were unexpectedly to fall heir to an eſtate of a few hundreds a year, and in conſequence to get around him all the comforts and conveniences that we poſſeſs—a commodious houſe to inhabit, good clothes to wear, plenty [43] of wholeſome food and firing, ſervants to do all the drudgery of the family, and the like;—how all his acquaint⯑ance would congratulate him, and what a paradiſe would he ſeem to him⯑ſelf to be got into! Yet he, and the duke, and ourſelves, are equally men, made liable by nature to the ſame de⯑ſires and neceſſities, and perhaps all equally ſtrong in conſtitution, and ca⯑pable of ſupporting hardſhips. Is not this fully as wonderful a difference in feeling as that on croſſing the Andes?

Indeed it is (ſaid William).

And the cauſe of it muſt be exactly the ſame—the influence of habit.

I think ſo.

Of what importance then muſt it be towards a happy life, to regulate our habits ſo, that in the poſſible changes of this world we may be more likely to be gainers than loſers?

But how can this be done? Would [44] it be right for the duke to live like us, or us like the labourer?

Certainly not. But to apply the caſe to perſons of our middle condi⯑tion, I would have us uſe our advan⯑tages in ſuch a frugal manner, as to make them as little as poſſible eſſen⯑tial to our happineſs, ſhould fortune ſink us to a lower ſtation. For as to the chance of riſing to a higher, there is no need to prepare our habits for that—we ſhould readily enough accommodate our feelings to ſuch a change. To be pleaſed and ſatisfied with ſimple food, to accuſtom our⯑ſelves not to ſhrink from the inclemen⯑cies of the ſeaſons, to avoid indolence, and take delight in ſome uſeful em⯑ployment of the mind or body, to do as much as we can for ourſelves, and not expect to be waited upon on every ſmall occaſion—theſe are the habits which will make us in ſome [45] meaſure independent of fortune, and ſecure us a moderate degree of enjoy⯑ment under every change ſhort of ab⯑ſolute want. I will tell you a ſtory to this purpoſe.

A London merchant had two ſons, James and Richard. James from a boy accuſtomed himſelf to every indul⯑gence in his power, and when he grew up, was quite a fine gentleman. He dreſſed expenſively, frequented public diverſions, kept his hunter at a livery ſtable, and was a member of ſeveral convivial clubs. At home, it was al⯑moſt a footman's ſole buſineſs to wait on him. He would have thought it greatly beneath him to buckle his own ſhoes; and if he wanted anything at the other end of the room, he would ring the bell, and bring a ſervant up two pair of ſtairs, rather than riſe from his chair to fetch it. He did a little buſineſs in the counting-houſe on forenoons, but devoted all his [46] time after dinner to indolence and amuſement.

Richard was a very different cha⯑racter. He was plain in his appear⯑ance, and domeſtic in his way of life. He gave as little trouble as poſſible, and would have been aſhamed to aſk aſſiſtance in doing what he could eaſily do for himſelf. He was aſſiduous in buſineſs, and employed his leiſure hours chiefly in reading and acquiring uſeful knowledge.

Both were ſtill young and unſettled when their father died, leaving be⯑hind him a very trifling property. As the young men had not a capital ſufficient to follow the ſame line of mercantile buſineſs in which he had been engaged, they were obliged to look out for a new plan of mainte⯑nance; and a great reduction of ex⯑pence was the firſt thing requiſite. This was a ſevere ſtroke to James, who found himſelf at once cut off from all [47] the pleaſures and indulgencies to which he was ſo habituated, that he thought life of no value without them. He grew melancholy and dejected, ha⯑zarded all his little property in lottery tickets, and was quite beggared. Still unable to think of retrieving himſelf by induſtry and frugality, he accepted a commiſſion in a new raiſed regiment ordered for the Weſt Indies, where ſoon after his arrival he caught a fever and died.

Richard, in the mean time, whoſe comforts were little impaired by this change of ſituation, preſerved his cheerfulneſs, and found no difficulty in accommodating himſelf to his for⯑tune. He engaged himſelf as clerk in a houſe his father had been con⯑nected with, and lived as frugally as poſſible upon his ſalary. It furniſhed him with decent board, lodging, and cloathing, which was all he required, and his hours of leiſure were nearly [48] as many as before. A book or a ſober friend always ſufficed to pro⯑cure him an agreeable evening. He gradually roſe in the confidence of his employers, who increaſed from time to time his ſalary and emolu⯑ments. Every increaſe was a ſource of gratification to him, becauſe he was able to enjoy pleaſures which how⯑ever habit had not made neceſſary to his comfort. In proceſs of time he was enabled to ſettle for himſelf, and paſſed through life in the enjoyment of that modeſt competence which beſt ſuited his diſpoſition.

WISE MEN.

YOU may remember, Arthur, (ſaid Mr. C. to his ſon) that ſome time ago, I endeavoured to give you a notion what a great man was. Suppoſe we now talk a little about wiſe men?

[49] With all my heart, Sir (replied Arthur).

A wiſe man, then, is he who purſues the beſt ends by the propereſt means. But as this definition may be rather too abſtract to give you a clear com⯑prehenſion of the thing, I ſhall open it to you by examples. What do you think is the beſt end a man can purſue in life?

I ſuppoſe, to make himſelf happy.

True. And as we are ſo conſtituted that we cannot be happy ourſelves without making others happy, the beſt end of living is to produce as much general happineſs as lies in our power.

But that is goodneſs, is it not?

It is; and therefore wiſdom includes goodneſs. The wiſe man always intends what is good, and em⯑ploys ſkill or judgment in attaining it. If he were to purſue the beſt things [50] weakly, he could not be wiſe; any more than if he were to purſue bad or indifferent things judiciouſly. One of the wiſeſt men I know is our neigh⯑bour, Mr. Freeland.

What, the Juſtice?

Yes. Few men have ſucceed⯑ed more perfectly in ſecuring their own happineſs, and promoting that of thoſe around them. Born to a competent eſtate, he early ſettled upon it, and began to improve it. He reduced all his expences within his income, and indulged no taſtes that could lead him into exceſſes of any kind. At the ſame time, he did not refuſe any proper and innocent pleaſures that came in his way; and his houſe has al⯑ways been diſtinguiſhed for decent cheerfulneſs and hoſpitality. He ap⯑plied himſelf with diligence to mend⯑ing the morals and improving the condition of his dependents. He ſtu⯑died attentively the laws of his coun⯑try, [51] and qualified himſelf for adminiſ⯑tering juſtice with ſkill and fidelity. No one ſooner diſcovers where the right lies, or takes ſurer means to enforce it. He is the perſon to whom the neighbours of all degrees apply for counſel in their difficulties. His conduct is always conſiſtent and uni⯑form—never violent, never raſh, ne⯑ver in extremes, but always deliberat⯑ing before he acts, and then acting with firmneſs and vigour. The peace and good order of the whole neigh⯑bourhood materially depend upon him; and upon every emergency his opinion is the firſt thing enquired after. He enjoys the reſpect of the rich, the confidence of the poor, and the good will of both.

But I have heard ſome people reckon old Harpy as wiſe a man as he.

It is a great abuſe of words to call Harpy a wiſe man. He is of [52] another ſpecies—a cunning man—who is to a wiſe man, what an ape is to a human creature—a bad and contempti⯑ble reſemblance.

He is very clever, though; is he not?

Harpy has a good natural underſtanding, a clear head, and a cool temper; but his only end in life has been to raiſe a fortune by baſe and diſhoneſt means. Being tho⯑roughly acquainted with all the tricks and artifices of the law, he employed his knowledge to take undue advan⯑tages of all who entruſted him with the management of their affairs; and un⯑der colour of aſſiſting them, he con⯑trived to get poſſeſſion of all their property. Thus he has become ex⯑tremely rich, lives in a great houſe with a number of ſervants, is even viſited by perſons of rank, yet is uni⯑verſally deteſted and deſpiſed, and has not a friend in the world. He is con⯑ſcious [53] of this, and is wretched. Suſ⯑picion and remorſe continually prey upon his mind. Of all whom he has cheated, he has deceived himſelf the moſt; and has proved himſelf as much a fool in the end he has purſued, as a knave in the means.

Are not men of great learning and knowledge, wiſe men?

They are ſo, if that know⯑ledge and learning are employed to make them happier and more uſeful. But it too often happens that their ſpeculations are of a kind neither be⯑neficial to themſelves nor to others; and they often neglect to regulate their tempers while they improve their un⯑ſtandings. Some men of great learn⯑ing have been the moſt arrogant and quarrelſome of mortals, and as fooliſh and abſurd in their conduct, as the moſt untaught of their ſpecies.

But is not a philoſopher and a wiſe man the ſame thing?

A philoſopher is properly a lover of wiſdom; and if he ſearches after it with a right diſpoſition, he will probably find it oftener than other men. But he muſt practiſe as well as know, in order to be truly wiſe.

I have read of the ſeven wiſe men of Greece. What were they?

They were men diſtinguiſh⯑ed for their knowledge and talents, and ſome of them for their virtue too. But a wiſer than them all was Socrates, whoſe chief praiſe it was that he turned philoſophy from vain and fruitleſs diſ⯑putation, to the regulation of life and manners, and that he was himſelf a great example of the wiſdom he taught.

Have we had any perſon lately very remarkable for wiſdom?

In my opinion, few wiſer men have ever exiſted than the late Dr. Franklin, the American. From [55] the low ſtation of a journey man printer, to the elevated one of ambaſſador ple⯑nipotentiary from his country to the court of France, he always diſtin⯑guiſhed himſelf by ſagacity in diſco⯑very, and good ſenſe in practiſing, what was moſt beneficial to himſelf and others. He was a great natural philo⯑ſopher, and made ſome very brilliant diſcoveries, but it was ever his favou⯑rite purpoſe to turn every thing to uſe, and to extract ſome practical ad⯑vantage from his ſpeculations. He thoroughly underſtood common life, and all that conduces to its comfort; and he has left behind him treaſures of domeſtic wiſdom, ſuperior, perhaps, to any of the boaſted maxims of anti⯑quity. He never let ſlip any oppor⯑tunity of improving his knowledge whether of great things or of ſmall; and was equally ready to converſe with a day-labourer and a prime-miniſter upon topics from which he might de⯑rive [56] inſtruction. He roſe to wealth, but obtained by honourable means. He prolonged his life by temperance to a great age, and enjoyed it to the laſt. Few men knew more than he, and none employed knowledge to bet⯑ter purpoſes.

A man, then, I ſuppoſe cannot be wiſe without knowing a great deal.

If he knows every thing be⯑longing to his ſtation, it is wiſdom enough; and a peaſant may be as truly wiſe in his place as a ſtateſman or legiſ⯑lator. You remember that fable of Gay in which a ſhepherd gives leſſons of wiſdom to a philoſopher.

O yes—it begins‘Remote from cities liv'd a ſwain.’

True. He is repreſented as drawing all his maxims of conduct from obſervation of brute animals. And they, indeed, have univerſally that character [57] of wiſdom, of purſuing the ends beſt ſuited to them by the propereſt means. But this is owing to the impulſe of unerring inſtinct. Man has reaſon for his guide, and his wiſdom can only be the conſequence of the right uſe of his reaſon. This will lead him to virtue. Thus the fable we have been mentioning rightly concludes with

THE BULLIES.

As young Francis was walking through a village with his tutor, they were annoyed by two or three cur dogs, that came running after them with looks of the utmoſt fury, ſnarling and barking as if they would tear their throats, and ſeeming every mo⯑ment [58] ready to fly upon them. Fran⯑cis every now and then ſtopped, and ſhook his ſtick at them, or ſtooped down to pick up a ſtone; upon which the curs retreated as faſt as they came; but as ſoon as he turned about, they were after his heels again. This laſted till they came to a farm-yard through which their road lay. A large maſtiff was lying down in it at his eaſe in the ſun. Francis was al⯑moſt afraid to paſs him, and kept as cloſe to his tutor as poſſible. How⯑ever, the dog took not the leaſt notice of them.

Preſently they came upon a com⯑mon, where going near a flock of geeſe, they were aſſailed with hiſſings, and purſued ſome way by theſe fooliſh birds, which ſtretching out their long necks made a very ridiculous figure. Francis only laughed at them, though he was tempted to give the foremoſt a ſwitch acroſs his neck. A little fur⯑ther [59] was a herd of cows with a bull among them, upon which Francis looked with ſome degree of apprehen⯑ſion; but they kept quietly grazing, and did not take their heads from the ground as he paſſed.

It is a lucky thing, ſaid Francis to his tutor, that maſtiffs and bulls are not ſo quarrelſome as curs and geeſe; but what can be the reaſon of it?

The reaſon (replied his tutor) is, that paltry and contemptible animals, poſſeſſing no confidence in their own ſtrength and courage, and knowing themſelves liable to injury from moſt of thoſe that come in their way, think it ſafeſt to act the part of bullies, and to make a ſhow of attacking thoſe of whom in reality they are afraid. Whereas animals which are conſcious of force ſufficient for their own pro⯑tection, ſuſpecting no evil deſigns from others, entertain none them⯑ſelves, [60] but maintain a dignified com⯑poſure.

Thus you will find it among man⯑kind. Weak, mean, petty characters are ſuſpicious, ſnarling, and petulant. They raiſe an outcry againſt their ſu⯑periors in talents and reputation, of whom they ſtand in awe, and put on airs of defiance and inſolence through mere cowardice. But the truly great are calm and inoffenſive. They fear no injury, and offer none. They even ſuffer ſlight attacks to go unnoticed, conſcious of their power to right them⯑ſelves whenever the occaſion ſhall ſeem to require it.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

GEORGE CORNISH, a native of London, was brought up to the ſea. After making ſeveral voyages to the Eaſt Indies in the capacity of mate, he obtained the command of a ſhip in the country trade there, and paſſed many years of his life in ſailing from one port to another of the Company's different ſettlements, and reſiding at intervals on ſhore with the ſuperin⯑tendance of their commercial con⯑cerns. Having by theſe means raiſed a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he felt a ſtrong deſire of returning to his native country, and ſeeing his family and [62] friends, concerning whom he had re⯑ceived no tidings for a long time. He realized his property, ſettled his af⯑fairs, and taking his paſſage for Eng⯑land, arrived in the Downs after an abſence of ſixteen years.

He immediately repaired to London, and went to the houſe of an only bro⯑ther whom he had left poſſeſſed of a genteel place in a public office. He found that his brother was dead and the family broken up; and he was directed to the houſe of one of his nieces, who was married and ſettled at a ſmall diſtance from town. On making himſelf known, he was re⯑ceived with great reſpect and affection by the married niece, and a ſingle ſiſ⯑ter who reſided with her: to which good reception, the idea of his bring⯑ing back with him a large fortune, did not a little contribute. They preſſed him in the moſt urgent manner to take up his abode there, and omitted no⯑thing [63] that could teſtify their dutiful regard to ſo near a relation. On his part, he was ſincerely glad to ſee them, and preſented them with ſome valuable Indian commodities which he had brought with him. They ſoon fell into converſation concerning the family events that had taken place during his long abſence. Mutual condolences paſſed on the death of the father; the mother had been dead long before. The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of be⯑friending the ſurvivors of the family, and his wiſhes of ſeeing the ſecond ſiſter as comfortably ſettled in the world as the firſt ſeemed to be.

‘"But (ſaid he) are you two the only ones left? What is become of my little ſmiling playfellow Amelia? I remember her as if it were yeſterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a ſly pull, and then running away that I might follow her for a kiſs. I [64] ſhould be ſorry if any thing had hap⯑pened to her."’ ‘"Alas, Sir, (ſaid the eldeſt niece) ſhe has been the cauſe of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends! She was always a giddy girl, and her miſconduct has proved her ruin. It would be happy if we could all forget her!"’ ‘"What then (ſaid the uncle) has ſhe diſhonoured herſelf? Poor creature!"’ ‘"I can⯑not ſay (replied the niece) that ſhe has done ſo in the worſt ſenſe of the word; but ſhe has diſgraced herſelf and her family by a haſty fooliſh match with one beneath her, and it has ended, as might have been expected, in poverty and wretchedneſs."’ ‘"I am glad (returned the captain) that it is no worſe; for though I much diſapprove of impro⯑per matches, yet young girls may fall into ſtill greater evils, and where there is no crime, there can be no irrepa⯑rable diſgrace. But who was the man, and what did my brother ſay to it?"’ [65] ‘"Why, Sir, I cannot ſay, but it was partly my father's own fault; for he took a ſort of liking to the young man, who was a drawing-maſter employed in the family, and would not forbid him the houſe after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment between Amelia and him. So when it was too late, he fell into a violent paſ⯑ſion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl directly into her lover's arms. They married, and ſoon fell into difficulties. My father, of courſe, would do nothing for them; and when he died, he not only diſ⯑inherited her, but made us promiſe no longer to look upon her as a ſiſter."’ ‘"And you did make that promiſe?"’ ſaid the captain in a tone of ſurpriſe and diſpleaſure. ‘"We could not diſobey our parent (replied the other ſiſter); but we have ſeveral times ſent her relief in her neceſſities, though it was improper for us to ſee her."’ [66] ‘"And pray what is become of her at laſt—where is ſhe now?"’ ‘"Really, ſhe and her huſband have ſhifted their lodgings ſo often, that it is ſome time ſince we heard any thing about them."’ ‘"Some time? how long?"’ ‘"Per⯑haps half a year, or more."’ ‘"Poor outcaſt! (cried the captain, in a ſort of muttered half-voice) I have made no promiſe, however, to renounce thee. Be pleaſed, madam, (he con⯑tinued, addreſſing himſelf gravely to the married niece) to favour me with the laſt direction you had to this un⯑fortunate ſiſter."’ She bluſhed, and looked confuſed; and at length, after a good deal of ſearching, preſented it to her uncle. ‘"But, my dear Sir, (ſaid ſhe) you will not think of leav⯑ing us to day. My ſervant ſhall make all the enquiries you chooſe, and ſave you the trouble; and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think proper."’ ‘"My good niece, (ſaid the [67] captain) I am but an indifferent ſleeper, and I am afraid things would run in my head and keep me awake. Beſides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my buſineſs myſelf. You will excuſe me."’ So ſaying, he took up his hat, and without much ceremony went out of the houſe, and took the road to town on foot, leaving his two nieces ſomewhat diſconcerted.

When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was a bye ſtreet near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings inform⯑ed him, that the perſons he enquired after had left them ſeveral months, and they did not know what was be⯑come of them. This threw the cap⯑tain into great perplexity; but while he was conſidering what he ſhould do next, the woman of the houſe recol⯑lected that Mr. Bland (that was the drawing maſter's name) had been em⯑ployed at a certain ſchool, where in⯑formation [68] about him might poſſibly be obtained. Captain Corniſh haſtened away to the place, and was informed by the maſter of the ſchool that ſuch a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceaſed to attend for ſome time paſt. ‘"He was a very well-behaved induſtrious young man (added the maſter), but in diſtreſſed circumſtances, which prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all who attend our ſchool; ſo I was obliged to diſmiſs him. It was a great force upon my feelings, I aſſure you, Sir, to do ſo, but you know the thing could not be helped."’ The captain eyed him with indignant contempt, and ſaid, ‘"I ſuppoſe then, Sir, your feelings never ſuffered you to enquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became of him afterwards!"’ ‘"As to that, (replied the maſter) every man knows his own buſineſs beſt, and my time [69] is fully taken up with my own con⯑cerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then occupied—here it is."’ The captain took it, and turn⯑ing on his heel, withdrew in ſilence.

He poſted away to the place, but there too had the mortification of learning that he was too late. The people however told him that they be⯑lieved he might find the family he was ſeeking in a neighbouring alley, at a lodging up three pair of ſtairs. The captain's heart ſunk within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately to the ſpot. On going up the narrow creaking ſtair⯑caſe, he met a man coming down with a bed on his ſhoulders. At the top of the landing ſtood another with a bundle of blankets and ſheets. A woman with a child in her arms was expoſtulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, ‘"Cruel! not to leave me one bed for myſelf and my poor [70] children!"’ ‘"Stop (ſaid the captain to the man) ſet down thoſe things."’ The man heſitated. The captain re⯑newed his command in a peremtory tone; and then advanced towards the woman. They looked earneſtly at each other. Through her pale and emaciated features he ſaw ſomething of his little ſmiler; and at length, in a faint voice, he addreſſed her, ‘"Are you Amelia Corniſh?"’ ‘"That was my name,"’ ſhe replied. ‘"I am your uncle,"’ he cried, claſping her in his arms, and ſobbing as if his heart would break. ‘"My uncle!"’ ſaid ſhe, and fainted. He was juſt able to ſet her down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other young children came running up, and began to ſcream with terror. Amelia recovered herſelf. ‘"Oh, Sir, what a ſituation you ſee me in!"’ ‘"A ſituation, indeed! (ſaid he) Poor for⯑ſaken [71] creature! but you have one friend left!"’

He then aſked what was become of her huſband. She told him, that hav⯑ing fatigued himſelf with walking every day to a great diſtance for a little employment, that ſcarcely af⯑forded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was now in an hoſpital, and that after having been obliged to ſell moſt of their little furniture and clothes for preſent ſubſiſtence, their landlord had juſt ſeized their only remaining bed for ſome arrears of rent. The cap⯑tain immediately diſcharged the debt, and cauſing the bed to be brought up again, diſmiſſed the man. He then entered into a converſation with his niece about the events that had be⯑fallen her. ‘"Alas! Sir, (ſaid ſhe) I am ſenſible I was greatly to blame in diſobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps ſome⯑thing might be alledged in my ex⯑cuſe—at [72] leaſt, years of calamity and diſtreſs may be an expiation. As to my huſband, however, he has never given me the leaſt cauſe of complaint—he has ever been kind and good, and what we have ſuffered has been through misfortune and not fault. To be ſure, when we married, we did not conſider how a family was to be maintained. His was a poor employ⯑ment, and ſickneſs and other acci⯑dents ſoon brought us to a ſtate of poverty, from which we could never retrieve ourſelves. He, poor man! was never idle when he could help it, and denied himſelf every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of me and the children. I did my part, too, as well as I was able. But my father's unrelenting ſeverity made me quite heart-broken; and though my ſiſters two or three times gave us a little relief in our preſſing neceſſities—for nothing elſe could have made me [73] aſk it in the manner I did—yet they would never permit me to ſee them, and for ſome time paſt have entirely abandoned us. I thought heaven had abandoned us too. The hour of ex⯑tremeſt diſtreſs was come; but you have been ſent for our comfort."’ ‘"And your comfort, pleaſe God! I will be,"’ cried the captain with energy. ‘"You are my own dear child, and your little ones ſhall be mine too. Dry up your tears—better days, I hope, are approaching."’

Evening was now coming on, and it was too late to think of changing lodgings. The captain procured a neighbour to go out for ſome provi⯑ſions and other neceſſaries, and then took his leave, with a promiſe of be⯑ing with his niece early the next morn⯑ing. Indeed, as he propoſed going to pay a viſit to her huſband, ſhe was far from wiſhing to detain him longer. He went directly from thence to the [74] hoſpital, and having got acceſs to the apothecary, begged to be informed of the real ſtate of his patient Bland. The apothecary told him that he labour⯑ed under a ſlow fever, attended with ex⯑treme dejection of ſpirits, but that there were no ſigns of urgent danger. ‘"If you will allow me to ſee him (ſaid the captain) I believe I ſhall be able to adminiſter a cordial more effectual, perhaps, than all your medicines."’ He was ſhewn up to the ward where the poor man lay, and ſeated by his bedſide. ‘"Mr. Bland (ſaid he) I am a ſtranger to you, but I come to bring you ſome news of your family."’ The ſick man rouſed himſelf, as it were, from a ſtupor, and fixed his eyes in ſilence on the captain. He proceeded—‘"Perhaps you may have heard of an uncle that your wife had in the Eaſt Indies—he is come home, and—and—I am he."’ Upon this he eagerly ſtretched out his hand, [75] and taking that of Bland, which was thruſt out of the bedclothes to meet it, gave it a cordial ſhake. The ſick man's eyes gliſtened—he graſped the captain's hand with all his remaining ſtrength, and drawing it to his mouth, kiſſed it with fervour. All he could ſay, was, ‘"God bleſs you!—be kind to poor Amelia!"’ ‘"I will—I will—(cried the captain) I will be a father to you all—Cheer up—keep up your ſpirits—all will be well!"’ He then, with a kind look and another ſhake of the hand, wiſhed him a good night, and left the poor man lightened at once of half his diſeaſe.

The captain went home to the cof⯑fee-houſe where he lodged, got a light ſupper, and went early to bed. After meditating ſome time with heart⯑felt ſatisfaction on the work of the day, he fell into a ſweet ſleep which laſted till day break. The next morn⯑ing early he roſe and ſallied forth in [76] ſearch of furniſhed lodgings. After ſome enquiry, he met with a commo⯑dious ſet, in a pleaſant airy ſituation, for which he agreed. He then drove to Amelia, and found her and her children neat and clean, and as well dreſt as their poor wardrobe would ad⯑mit. He embraced them with the utmoſt affection, and rejoiced Amelia's heart with a favourable account of her huſband. He then told them to pre⯑pare for a ride with him. The chil⯑dren were overjoyed at the propoſal, and they accompanied him down to the coach in high ſpirits. Amelia ſcarcely knew what to think or ex⯑pect. They drove firſt to a warehouſe for ready-made linen, where the cap⯑tain made Amelia furniſh herſelf with a complete ſet of every thing neceſſary for preſent uſe for the children and herſelf, not forgetting ſome ſhirts for her huſband. Thence they went to a clothes ſhop, where the little boy [77] was ſupplied with a jacket and trow⯑ſers, a hat and great coat, and the girl with another great coat and a bon⯑net—both were made as happy as happy could be. They were next all furniſhed with new ſhoes. In ſhort, they had not proceeded far, before the mother and three children were all in complete new habiliments, de⯑cent but not fine; while the old ones were all tied up in a great bundle, and deſtined for ſome family ſtill poorer then they had been.

The captain then drove to the lodg⯑ings he had taken, and which he had directed to be put in thorough order. He led Amelia up ſtairs, who knew not whither ſhe was going. He brought her into a handſome parlour, and ſeated her in a chair. This, my dear, ſaid he, is your houſe. I hope you will let me now and then come and ſee you in it. Amelia turned pale and could not ſpeak. At length [78] a flood of tears came to her relief, and the ſuddenly threw herſelf at her un⯑cle's feet, and poured out thanks and bleſſings in a broken voice. He raiſed her, and kindly kiſſing her and her children, ſlipt a purſe of gold into her hand, and hurried down ſtairs.

He next went to the hoſpital, and found Mr. Bland ſitting up in bed, and taking ſome food with apparent plea⯑ſure. He ſat down by him. ‘"God bleſs you! Sir, (ſaid Bland) I ſee now it is all a reality, and not a dream. Your figure has been haunting me all night, and I have ſcarcely been able to ſatisfy myſelf whether I had really ſeen and ſpoke to you, or whether it was a fit of delirium. Yet my ſpirits have been lightened, and I have now been eating with a reliſh I have not experienced for many days paſt. But may I aſk how is my poor Amelia and my little ones!"’ ‘"They are well and happy, my good friend, (ſaid the cap⯑tain) [79] and I hope you will ſoon be ſo along with them."’ The apothecary came up, and felt his patient's pulſe. ‘"You are a lucky doctor, indeed; Sir, (ſaid he to captain Corniſh) you have cured the poor man of his fever. His pulſe is as calm as my own."’ The captain conſulted him about the ſafety of removing him; and the apo⯑thecary thought that there would be no hazard in doing it that very day. The captain waited the arrival of the phy⯑ſician, who confirmed the ſame opi⯑nion. A ſedan chair was procured, and full directions being obtained for the future treatment, with the phyſi⯑cian's promiſe to look after him, the captain walked before the chair, to the new lodgings. On the knock at the door, Amelia looked out of win⯑dow, and ſeeing the chair, ran down, and met her uncle and huſband in the paſſage. The poor man, not knowing [80] where he was, and gazing wildly around him, was carried up ſtairs and placed upon a good bed, while his wife and children aſſembled round it. A glaſs of wine brought by the people of the houſe reſtored him to his re⯑collection, when a moſt tender ſcene enſued, which the uncle cloſed as ſoon as he could, for fear of too much agi⯑tating the yet feeble organs of the ſick man.

By Amelia's conſtant attention, aſ⯑ſiſted by proper help, Mr. Bland ſhortly recovered; and the whole fa⯑mily loſt their ſickly emaciated appear⯑ance, and became healthy and happy. The kind uncle was never long abſent from them, and was always received with looks of pleaſure and gratitude that penetrated his very ſoul. He obtained for Mr. Bland a good ſitua⯑tion in the exerciſe of his profeſſion, and took Amelia and her children into his ſpecial care. As to his other [81] nieces, though he did not entirely break off his connexion with them, but on the contrary, ſhewed them occaſional marks of the kindneſs of a relation, yet he could never look upon them with true cordiality. And as they had ſo well kept their promiſe to their fa⯑ther of never treating Amelia as a ſiſter, while in her afflicted ſtate, he took care not to tempt them to break it, now ſhe was in a favoured and proſperous condition.

MASTER AND SLAVE.

Now, villain! what have you to ſay for this ſecond attempt to run away? Is there any puniſhment that you do not deſerve?

I well know that nothing I can ſay will avail. I ſubmit to my fate.

But are you not a baſe fellow, a hardened and ungrateful raſcal?

I am a ſlave. That is anſwer enough.

I am not content with that an⯑ſwer. I thought I diſcerned in you ſome tokens of a mind ſuperior to your condition. I treated you accordingly. You have been comfortably fed and lodged, not overworked, and attend⯑ed with the moſt humane care when you were ſick. And is this the re⯑turn?

Since you condeſcend to talk with me as man to man, I will reply. What have you done—what can you do for me, that will compenſate for the liberty which you have taken away?

I did not take it away. You were a ſlave when I fairly purchaſed you.

Did I give my conſent to the purchaſe?

You had no conſent to give. You had already loſt the right of diſ⯑poſing of yourſelf.

I had loſt the power, but how the right? I was treacherouſly kid⯑napped in my own country when fol⯑lowing an honeſt occupation. I was put in chains, ſold to one of your countrymen, carried by force on board his ſhip, brought hither, and expoſed to ſale like a beaſt in the market, where you bought me. What ſtep in all this progreſs of violence and injuſtice can give a right? Was it in the vil⯑lain who ſtole me, in the ſlave-mer⯑chant who tempted him to do ſo, or in you who encouraged the ſlave-mer⯑chant to bring his cargo of human cattle to cultivate your lands?

It is in the order of providence that one man ſhould become ſubſer⯑vient to another. It ever has been ſo, and ever will be. I found the cuſtom, and did not make it.

You cannot but be ſenſible that the robber who puts a piſtol to your breaſt may make juſt the ſame plea. Providence gives him a power over your life and property; it gave my enemies a power over my liberty. But it has alſo given me legs to eſcape with; and what ſhould prevent me from uſing them? Nay, what ſhould reſtrain me from retailating the wrongs I have ſuffered, if a favourable occa⯑ſion ſhould offer?

Gratitude, I repeat,—gratitude! Have I not endeavoured ever ſince I poſſeſſed you to alleviate your miſ⯑fortunes by kind treatment, and does that confer no obligation? Conſider how much worſe your condition might have been under another maſter.

You have done nothing for me more than for your working cattle. Are they not well fed and tended? do you work them harder than your ſlaves? is not the rule of treating both, [85] only your own advantage? You treat both your men and beaſt ſlaves better than ſome of your neighbours, becauſe you are more prudent and wealthy than they.

You might add, more humane too.

Humane! Does it deſerve that appellation to keep your fellow-men in forced ſubjection, deprived of all exerciſe of their free-will, liable to all the injuries that your own caprice, or the brutality of your overſeers, may heap on them, and devoted, ſoul and body, only to your pleaſure and emo⯑lument? Can gratitude take place between creatures in ſuch a ſtate, and the tyrant who holds them in it? Look at theſe limbs—are they not thoſe of a man? think that I have the ſpirit of a man, too.

But it was my intention not only to make your life tolerably comfortable [86] at preſent, but to provide for you in your old age.

Alas! is a life like mine, torn from country, friends, and all I held dear, and compelled to toil under the burning ſun for a maſter, worth think⯑ing about for old age? No—the ſooner it ends, the ſooner I ſhall ob⯑tain that relief for which my ſoul pants.

Is it impoſſible, then, to hold you by any ties but thoſe of con⯑ſtraint and ſeverity?

It is impoſſible to make one who has felt the value of freedom, ac⯑quieſce in being a ſlave.

Suppoſe I were to reſtore you to your liberty—would you reckon that a favour?

The greateſt: for although it would only be undoing a wrong, I know too well how few among man⯑kind are capable of ſacrificing intereſt [87] to juſtice, not to prize the exertion when it is made.

I do it, then;—be free.

Now I am indeed your ſervant, though not your ſlave. And as the firſt return I can make for your kind⯑neſs, I will tell you freely the condi⯑tion in which you live. You are ſur⯑rounded with implacable foes, who long for a ſafe opportunity to revenge upon you and the other planters all the miſeries they have endured. The more generous their natures, the more indignant they feel againſt that cruel injuſtice which has dragged them hi⯑ther, and doomed them to perpetual ſervitude. You can rely on no kind⯑neſs on your parts to ſoften the obdu⯑racy of their reſentment. You have reduced them to the ſtate of brute beaſts, and if they have not the ſtu⯑pidity of beaſts of burden, they muſt have the ferocity of beaſts of prey. Superior force alone can give you ſe⯑curity. [88] As ſoon as that fails, you are at the mercy of the mercileſs. Such is the ſocial bond between maſter and ſlave!

EARTH AND HER CHILDREN.

IN a certain diſtrict of the globe, things one year went on ſo ill, that al⯑moſt the whole race of living beings, animals and vegetables, carried their lamentations and complaints to their common mother, the Earth.

Firſt came Man. ‘"O Earth, (ſaid he) how can you behold unmoved the intolerable calamities of your favourite offspring! Heaven ſhuts up all the ſources of its benignity to us, and ſhowers plagues and peſtilence on our heads—ſtorms tear to pieces all the works of human labour—the elements of fire and water ſeem let looſe to [89] devour us—and in the midſt of all theſe evils, ſome demon poſſeſſes us with a rage of worrying and deſtroy⯑ing one another; ſo that the whole ſpecies ſeems doomed to periſh. O, intercede in our behalf, or elſe receive us again into your maternal womb, and hide us from the ſight of theſe accumulated diſtreſſes!"’

The other animals then ſpoke by their deputies, the horſe, the OX, and the ſheep. ‘"O pity, mother Earth, thoſe of your children that repoſe on your breaſt, and derive their ſubſiſtence from your foodful boſom! We are parched with drought, we are ſcorched by lightning, we are beaten by pitileſs tempeſts, ſalubrious vegetables refuſe to nouriſh us, we languiſh under diſeaſe, and the race of men treat us with un⯑uſual rigour. Never, without ſpeedy ſuccour, can we ſurvive to another year."’

The vegetables next, thoſe that form [90] the verdant carpet of the earth, that cover the waving fields of harveſt, and that ſpread their lofty branches in the air, ſent forth their complaint. ‘"O, our general mother, to whoſe breaſt we cleave, and whoſe vital juices we drain, have compaſſion upon us! See how we wither and droop under the baleful gales that ſweep over us—how we thirſt in vain for the gentle dew of heaven—how immenſe tribes of noxi⯑ous inſects pierce and devour us—how the famiſhing flocks and herds tear us up by the roots—and how men, through mutual ſpite, lay waſte and deſtroy us while yet immature. Al⯑ready whole nations of us are deſolat⯑ed, and unleſs you ſave us, another year will witneſs our total deſtruc⯑tion."’

‘"My children (ſaid Earth), I have now exiſted ſome thouſand years; and ſcarcely one of them has paſt in which ſimilar complaints have not riſen from [91] one quarter or another. Nevertheleſs, every thing has remained in nearly the ſame ſtate, and no ſpecies of creat⯑ed beings has been finally loſt. The injuries of one year are repaired by the ſucceeding. The growing vegetables may be blaſted, but the ſeeds of others lie ſecure in my boſom, ready to re⯑ceive the vital influence of more favour⯑able ſeaſons. Animals may be thinned by want and diſeaſe, but a remnant is always left, in whom ſurvive the principle of future increaſe. As to man, who ſuffers not only from natu⯑ral cauſes, but from the effects of his own follies and vices, his miſeries rouſe within him the latent powers of reme⯑dy, and bring him to his reaſon again; while experience continually goes along with him to improve his means of hap⯑pineſs, if he will but liſten to its dic⯑tates. Have patience, then, my chil⯑dren! You were born to ſuffer, as well as to enjoy, and you muſt ſubmit to your lot. But conſole yourſelves [92] with the thought, that you have a kind maſter above, who created you for be⯑nevolent purpoſes, and will not with⯑hold his protection when you ſtand moſt in need of it."’

PROVIDENCE; OR, THE SHIPWRECK.

IT was a dreadful ſtorm. The wind blowing full on the ſea-ſhore, rolled tremendous waves on the beach, while the half-ſunk rocks at the entrance of the bay were enveloped in a miſt of white foam. A ſhip appeared in the offing, driving impetuouſly under her bare poles to land; now tilting aloft on the ſurging waves, now plunging into the intervening hollows. Pre⯑ſently ſhe ruſhed among the rocks and there ſtuck, the billows beating over her deck, and climbing up her ſhatter⯑ed rigging. ‘"Mercy! mercy!"’ ex⯑claimed [94] an ancient Solitary as he view⯑ed from a cliff the diſmal ſcene. It was in vain. The ſhip fell on her ſide, and was ſeen no more.

Soon, however, a ſmall dark object appeared coming from the rocks to⯑wards the ſhore; at firſt dimly deſcri⯑ed through the foam, then quite plain as it rode on the ſummit of a wave, then for a time totally loſt. It ap⯑proached, and ſhowed itſelf to be a boat with men in it rowing for their lives. The Solitary haſtened down to the beach, and in all the agonizing viciſſitudes of hope and fear watched its advance. At length, after the moſt imminent hazards, the boat was thrown violently on the ſhore, and the dripping half-dead mariners crawled out to the dry land.

‘"Heaven be praiſed!"’ cried the Solitary; ‘"what a providential eſcape!"’ And he led the poor men to his cell, where, kindling a good fire, and bring⯑ing [95] out his little ſtore of proviſion, he reſtored them to health and ſpirits. ‘"And are you ſix men the only ones ſaved?"’ ſaid he. ‘"That we are,"’ anſwered one of them. ‘"Threeſcore and fifteen men, women, and children, were in the ſhip when ſhe ſtruck. You may think what a clamour and confu⯑ſion there was: women clinging to their huſbands' necks, and children hanging about their clothes, all ſhriek⯑ing, crying, and praying! There was no time to be loſt. We got out the ſmall boat in a twinkling; jumped in, without ſtaying for our captain, who was fool enough to be minding the paſſengers; cut the rope, and puſhed away juſt time enough to be clear of the ſhip as ſhe went down: and here we are, all alive and merry!"’ An oath concluded his ſpeech. The Solitary was ſhocked, and could not help ſecretly wiſhing that it had pleaſed providence to have ſaved ſome of the [96] innocent paſſengers, rather than theſe reprobates.

The ſailors, having got what they could, departed, ſcarcely thanking their benefactor, and marched up the country. Night came on. They de⯑ſcried a light at ſome diſtance, and made up to it. It proceeded from the window of a good-looking houſe, ſur⯑rounded with a farm-yard and garden. They knocked at the door, and in a ſupplicating tone made known their diſtreſs, and begged relief. They were admitted, and treated with com⯑paſſion and hoſpitality. In the houſe were the miſtreſs, her children and women-ſervants, an old man and a boy: the maſter was abroad. The ſailors, ſitting round the kitchen fire, whiſpered to each other that here was an opportunity of making a booty that would amply compenſate for the loſs of clothes and wages. They ſettled their plan; and on the old man's com⯑ing [97] with logs to the fire, one of them broke his ſkull with the poker, and laid him dead. Another took up a knife which had been brought with the loaf and cheeſe, and running after the boy, who was making his eſcape out of the houſe, ſtabbed him to the heart. The reſt locked the doors, and after tying all the women and children, be⯑gan to ranſack the houſe. One of the children continuing to make loud ex⯑clamations, a fellow went and ſtran⯑gled it. They had nearly finiſhed pack⯑ing up ſuch of the moſt valuable things as they could carry off, when the maſter of the houſe came home. He was a ſmuggler as well as a farmer, and had juſt returned from an expedition, leaving his companions with their goods at a neighbouring public-houſe. Surpriſed at finding the doors locked, and at ſeeing lights moving about in the chambers, he ſuſpected ſomewhat amiſs; and, upon liſtening, he heard [98] ſtrange voices, and ſaw ſome of the ſailors through the windows. He haſtened back to his companions, and brought them with him juſt as the rob⯑bers opened the door and were coming out with their pillage, having firſt ſet fire to the houſe in order to conceal what they had done. The ſmuggler and his friends let fly their blunder-buſſes in the midſt of them, and then ruſhing forwards, ſeized the ſurvivors and ſecured them. Perceiving flames in the houſe, they ran and extinguiſh⯑ed them. The villains were next day led to priſon amidſt the curſes of the neighbourhood.

The good Solitary, on hearing of the event, at firſt exclaimed, ‘"What a wonderful interference of providence to puniſh guilt and protect innocence!"’ Pauſing a while, he added, ‘"Yet had providence thought fit to have drown⯑ed theſe ſailors in their paſſage from the ſhip, where they left ſo many bet⯑ter [99] people to periſh, the lives of three innocent perſons would have been ſaved, and theſe wretches would have died without ſuch accumulated guilt and ignominy. On the other hand, had the maſter of the houſe been at home, inſtead of following a lawleſs and deſperate trade, he would perhaps have periſhed with all his family, and the villains have eſcaped with their booty. What am I to think of all this?"’ Thus penſive and perplexed he laid him down to reſt, and, after ſome time ſpent in gloomy reflections, fell aſleep.

In his dream he fancied himſelf ſeated on the top of a high mountain, where he was accoſted by a venerable figure in long white garments, who aſked him the cauſe of the melancholy expreſſed on his countenance. ‘"It is,"’ ſaid he, ‘"becauſe I am unable to reconcile the decrees of providence with my ideas of wiſdom and juſtice."’ ‘"That,"’ replied the ſtranger, ‘"is pro⯑bably [100] becauſe thy notions of provi⯑dence are narrow and erroneous. Thou ſeekeſt it in particular events, and doſt not raiſe thy ſurvey to the great whole. Every occurrence in the univerſe is providential, becauſe it is the conſe⯑quence of thoſe laws which divine wiſ⯑dom has eſtabliſhed as moſt produc⯑tive of the general good. But to ſe⯑lect individual facts as more directed by the hand of providence than others, becauſe we think we ſee a particular good purpoſe anſwered by them, is an infallible inlet to error and ſuperſti⯑tion. Follow me to the edge of this cliff."’ He ſeemed to follow.

‘"Now look down,"’ ſaid the ſtran⯑ger, ‘"and tell me what thou ſeeſt."’ ‘"I ſee,"’ replied the Solitary, ‘"a hawk darting amidſt a flock of ſmall birds, one of which he has caught, while the others eſcape."’ ‘"And canſt thou think,"’ rejoined the ſtranger, ‘"that the ſingle bird, made a prey of [101] by the hawk, lies under any particular doom of providence, or that thoſe which fly away are more the objects of divine favour than it? Hawks by na⯑ture were made to feed upon living prey, and were endowed with ſtrength and ſwiftneſs to enable them to over⯑take and maſter it. Thus life is ſa⯑crificed to the ſupport of life. But to this deſtruction limits are ſet. The ſmall birds are much more numerous and prolific than the birds of prey; and though they cannot reſiſt his force, they have dexterity and nimbleneſs of flight ſufficient in general to elude his purſuit. It is in this balance that the wiſ⯑dom of providence is ſeen; and what can be a greater proof of it, than that both ſpecies, the deſtroyer and his prey, have ſubſiſted together from their firſt creation. Now look again, and tell me what thou ſeeſt."’

‘"I ſee,"’ ſaid the Solitary, a thick black cloud gathering in the ſky. ‘I [102] hear the thunder rolling from ſide to ſide of the vault of heaven. I behold the red lightning darting from the bo⯑ſom of darkneſs. Now it has fallen on a ſtately tree and ſhattered it to pieces, ſtriking to the ground an ox ſheltered at its foot. Now it falls again in the midſt of a flock of timorous ſheep, and ſeveral of them are left on the plain;—and ſee! the ſhepherd himſelf lies extended by their ſide. Now it ſtrikes a lofty ſpire, and at the ſame time ſets in a blaze an humble cottage beneath. It is an awful and terrible ſight!"’

‘"It is ſo,"’ returned the ſtranger, ‘"but what doſt thou conclude from it? Doſt thou not know, that from the genial heat, which gives life to plants and animals, and ripens the fruits of the earth, proceeds this elec⯑trical fire, which aſcending to the clouds, and charging them beyond what they are able to contain, is [103] launched again in burning bolts to the earth? Muſt it leave its direct courſe to ſtrike the tree rather than the dome of worſhip, or to ſpend its fury on the herd rather than the herdſ⯑man? Millions of millions of liv⯑ing creatures have owed their birth to this active element; and ſhall we think it ſtrange if a few meet their deaths from it? Thus the mountain torrent that ruſhes down to fertilize the plain, in its courſe may ſweep away the works of human induſtry, and man himſelf with them; but could its benefits be purchaſed at ano⯑ther price?"’

‘"All this,"’ ſaid the Solitary, ‘I to⯑lerably comprehend; but may I pre⯑ſume to aſk whence have proceeded the moral evils of the painful ſcenes of yeſterday? What good end is anſwer⯑ed by making man the ſcourge of man, and preſerving the guilty at the coſt of the innocent?"’

[104] ‘"That, too,"’ replied the venera⯑ble ſtranger, ‘"is a conſequence of the ſame wiſe laws of providence. If it was right to make man a creature of habit, and render thoſe things eaſy to him with which he is moſt familiar, the ſailor muſt of courſe be better able to ſhift for himſelf in a ſhipwreck than the paſſenger; while that ſelf-love which is eſſential to the preſervation of life, muſt, in general, cauſe him to conſult his own ſafety preferably to that of others. The ſame force of habit, in a way of life full of peril and hardſhip, muſt conduce to form a rough, bold, and unfeeling character. This, under the direction of principle, will make a brave man; without it, a robber and a murderer. In the lat⯑ter caſe, human laws ſtep in to re⯑move the evil which they have not been able to prevent. Wickedneſs meets with the fate which ſooner or later always awaits it; and innocence, [105] though occaſionally a ſufferer, is prov⯑ed in the end to be the ſureſt path to happineſs."’

‘"But,"’ reſumed the Solitary, ‘"can it be ſaid that the lot of innocence is al⯑ways preferable to that of guilt in this world?"’

‘"If it cannot,"’ replied the other, ‘"thinkeſt thou that the Almighty is unable to make retribution in a future world? Diſmiſs then from thy mind the care of ſingle events, ſecure that the great whole is ordered for the beſt. Ex⯑pect not a particular interpoſition of heaven, becauſe ſuch an interpoſition would ſeem to thee ſeaſonable. Thou, perhaps, wouldeſt ſtop the vaſt ma⯑chine of the univerſe to ſave a fly from being cruſhed under its wheels. But innumerable flies and men are cruſhed every day, yet the grand mo⯑tion goes on, and will go on, to fulfil the benevolent intentions of its au⯑thor.’

[106] He ceaſed, and ſleep on a ſudden left the eyelids of the Solitary. He looked abroad from his cell, and be⯑held all nature ſmiling around him. The riſing ſun ſhone on a clear ſky. Birds were ſporting in the air, and fiſh glancing on the ſurface of the waters. Fleets were purſuing their ſteady courſe, gently wafted by the pleaſant breeze. Light fleecy clouds were ſailing over the blue expanſe of hea⯑ven. His ſoul ſympathiſed with the ſcene, and peace and joy filled his boſom.

ENVY AND EMULATION.

AT one of the celebrated ſchools of painting in Italy, a young man named Guidotto produced a piece ſo excellent, that it was the admiration of the maſters in the art, who all de⯑clared [107] it to be their opinion that he could not fail of riſing to the ſummit of his profeſſion, ſhould he proceed as he had begun.

This performance was looked upon with very different eyes by two of his fellow-ſcholars. Brunello, the elder of them, who had himſelf acquired ſome reputation in his ſtudies, was mortifi⯑ed in the higheſt degree at this ſupe⯑riority of Guidotto; and regarding all the honour his rival had acquired as ſo much taken from himſelf, he con⯑ceived the moſt rancorous diſlike of him, and longed for nothing ſo much as to ſee him loſe the credit he had gained. Afraid openly to decry the merit of a work which had obtained the approbation of the beſt judges, he threw out ſecret inſinuations that Gui⯑dotto had been aſſiſted in it by one or other of his maſters; and he affected to repreſent it as a ſort of lucky hit, [108] which the reputed author would pro⯑bably never equal.

Not ſo Lorenzo. Though a very young proficient in the art, he com⯑prehended in its full extent the excel⯑lence of Guidotto's performance, and became one of the ſincereſt of his ad⯑mirers. Fired with the praiſes he ſaw him receive on all ſides, he ardently longed one day to deſerve the like. He placed him before his eyes as a fair model which it was his higheſt ambition to arrive at equalling—for as to excelling him, he could not as yet conceive the poſſibility of it. He never ſpoke of him but with rap⯑ture, and could not bear to hear the detractions of Brunello.

But Lorenzo did not content him⯑ſelf with words. He entered with his whole ſoul into the career of improve⯑ment—was firſt and laſt of all the ſcho⯑lars in the deſigning room—and de⯑voted to practice at home thoſe hours [109] which the other youths paſſed in amuſement. It was long before he could pleaſe himſelf with any of his attempts, and he was continually re⯑peating over them, ‘"Alas! how far diſtant is this from Guidotto's!"’ At length, however, he had the ſatisfac⯑tion of becoming ſenſible of progreſs; and having received conſiderable ap⯑plauſe on account of one of his per⯑formances, he ventured to ſay to him⯑ſelf, ‘"And why may not I too become a Guidotto?"’

Meanwhile, Guidotto continued to bear away the palm from all competi⯑tors. Brunello ſtruggled a while to conteſt with him, but at length gave up the point, and conſoled himſelf under his inferiority by ill-natured ſar⯑caſm and petulant criticiſm. Lo⯑renzo worked away in ſilence, and it was long before his modeſty would ſuffer him to place any piece of his in [110] view at the ſame time with one of Guidotto's.

There was a certain day in the year in which it was cuſtomary for all the ſcholars to exhibit their beſt perform⯑ance in a public hall, where their me⯑rit was ſolemnly judged by a number of ſelect examiners, and a prize of va⯑lue was awarded to the moſt excellent. Guidotto had prepared for this anni⯑verſary with a piece which was to ex⯑cel all he had before executed. He had juſt finiſhed it on the evening be⯑fore the exhibition, and nothing re⯑mained but to heighten the colouring by means of a tranſparent varniſh. The malignant Brunello contrived art⯑fully to convey into the phial contain⯑ing this varniſh, ſome drops of a cauſtic preparation, the effect of which would be entirely to deſtroy the beauty and ſplendour of the piece. Guidotto laid it on by candle-light, and then with great ſatisfaction hung up his picture [111] in the public room againſt the mor⯑row.

Lorenzo, too, with beating heart, had prepared himſelf for the day. With vaſt application he had finiſhed a piece which he humbly hoped might appear not greatly inferior to ſome of Guidotto's earlier performances.

The important day was now arriv⯑ed. The company aſſembled, and were introduced into the great room, where the light had juſt been fully ad⯑mitted by drawing up a curtain. All went up with raiſed expectations to Guidotto's picture, when, behold! in⯑ſtead of the brilliant beauty they had conceived, there was nothing but a dead ſurface of confuſed and blotched colours. ‘"Surely (they cried) this cannot be Guidotto's!"’ The unfor⯑tunate youth himſelf came up, and on beholding the diſmal change of his favourite piece, burſt out into an ago⯑ny of grief, and exclaimed that he was [112] betrayed and undone. The vile Bru⯑nello in a corner was enjoying his diſ⯑treſs. But Lorenzo was little leſs af⯑fected than Guidotto himſelf. ‘"Trick! knavery! (he cried.) Indeed, gen⯑tlemen, this is not Guidotto's work. I ſaw it when only half finiſhed, and it was a moſt charming performance. Look at the outline, and judge what it muſt have been before it was ſo baſe⯑ly injured."’

The ſpectators were all ſtruck with Lorenzo's generous warmth, and ſym⯑pathiſed in the diſgrace of Guidotto; but it was impoſſible to adjudge the prize to his picture in the ſtate in which they beheld it. They examin⯑ed all the others attentively, and that of Lorenzo, till then an unknown ar⯑tiſt to them, gained a great majority of ſuffrages. The prize was therefore awarded to him; but Lorenzo, on re⯑ceiving it, went up to Guidotto, and preſenting it to him, ſaid, ‘"Take [113] what merit would undoubtedly have acquired for you, had not the baſeſt malice and envy defrauded you of it. To me it is honour enough to be ac⯑counted your ſecond. If hereafter I may aſpire to equal you, it ſhall be by means of fair competition, not by the aid of treachery."’

Lorenzo's nobleneſs of conduct ex⯑cited the warmeſt encomiums among the judges, who at length determined, that for this time there ſhould be two equal prizes diſtributed; for that if Guidotto had deſerved the prize of painting, Lorenzo was entitled to that of virtue.

THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.

A DEBATE once aroſe among the animals in a farm-yard, which of them was moſt valued by their common maſter. After the horſe, the ox, the [114] cow, the ſheep, and the dog, had ſtated their ſeveral pretenſions, the hog took up the diſcourſe.

‘"It is plain (ſaid he) that the greateſt value muſt be ſet upon that animal which is kept moſt for his own ſake, without expecting from him any return of uſe and ſervice. Now which of you can boaſt ſo much in that re⯑ſpect as I can?’

‘"As for you, Horſe, though you are very well fed and lodged, and have ſervants to attend upon you and make you ſleek and clean, yet all this is for the ſake of your labour. Do not I ſee you taken out early every morn⯑ing, put in chains, or faſtened to the ſhafts of a heavy cart, and not brought back till noon; when, after a ſhort reſpite, you are taken to work again till late in the evening? I may ſay juſt the ſame to the Ox, except that he works for poorer fare.’

‘"For you, Mrs. Cow, who are ſo [115] dainty over your chopped ſtraw and grains, you are thought worth keep⯑ing only for your milk, which is drain⯑ed from you twice a day to the laſt drop, while your poor young ones are taken from you, and ſent I know not whither.’

‘"You, poor innocent Sheep, who are turned out to ſhift for yourſelves upon the bare hills, or penned upon the fallows with now and then a wi⯑thered turnep or ſome muſty hay, you pay dearly enough for your keep by reſigning your warm coat every year, for want of which you are liable to be ſtarved to death on ſome of the cold nights before ſummer.’

‘"As for the Dog, who prides him⯑ſelf ſo much on being admitted to our maſter's table, and made his compa⯑nion, that he will ſcarce condeſcend to reckon himſelf one of us, he is oblig⯑ed to do all the offices of a domeſtic ſervant by day, and to keep watch [116] during the night, while we are quietly aſleep.’

‘"In ſhort, you are all of you crea⯑tures maintained for uſe—poor ſub-ſervient things, made to be enſlaved or pillaged. I, on the contrary, have a warm ſtye and plenty of proviſions all at free coſt. I have nothing to do but grow fat and follow my amuſement; and my maſter is beſt pleaſed when he ſees me lying at eaſe in the ſun, or filling my belly."’

Thus argued the Hog, and put the reſt to ſilence by ſo much logic and rhetoric. This was not long before winter ſet in. It proved a very ſcarce ſeaſon for fodder of all kinds; ſo that the farmer began to conſider how he was to maintain all his live ſtock till ſpring. ‘"It will be impoſſible for me (thought he) to keep them all; I muſt therefore part with thoſe I can beſt ſpare. As for my horſes and working oxen, I ſhall have buſineſs [117] enough to employ them; they muſt be kept, coſt what it will. My cows will not give me much milk in the winter, but they will calve in the ſpring, and be ready for the new graſs. I muſt not loſe the profit of my dairy. The ſheep, poor things, will take care of themſelves as long as there is a bite upon the hills: and if deep ſnow comes, we muſt do with them as well as we can by the help of a few turneps and ſome hay, for I muſt have their wool at ſhear⯑ing time to make out my rent with. But my hogs will eat me out of houſe and home, without doing me any good. They muſt go to pot, that's certain; and the ſooner I get rid of the ſat ones, the better."’

So ſaying, he ſingled out the orator as one of the prime among them, and ſent him to the butcher the very next day.

THE BIRTH-DAY GIFT.

THE populous kingdom of Ava, in India beyond the Ganges, was once inherited by a minor prince, who was brought up in the luxurious indolence of an Eaſtern palace. When he had reached the age of ſeventeen, which, by the laws of that country, was the period of majority for the crown, all the great men of his court, and the governors of the provinces, according to eſtabliſhed cuſtom, laid at his feet preſents conſiſting of the moſt coſtly products of art and nature that they had been able to procure. One offered a caſket of the moſt precious jewels of Golconda; another, a curious piece of clock work made by an European artiſt; another, a piece of the richeſt ſilk from the looms of China; ano⯑ther, a Bezoar ſtone, ſaid to be a ſo⯑vereign [119] antidote againſt all poiſons and infectious diſeaſes; another, a choice piece of the moſt fragrant roſe-wood in a box of ebony inlayed with pearls; another, a golden cruſe full of genuine balſam of Mecca; ano⯑ther, a courſer of the pureſt breed of Arabia; and another, a female ſlave of exquiſite beauty. The whole court of the palace was overſpread with rarities; and long rows of ſlaves were continually paſſing loaded with veſſels and utenſils of gold and ſilver, and other articles of high price.

At length an aged magiſtrate from a diſtant province made his appear⯑ance. He was ſimply clad in a long cotton robe, and his hoary beard waved on his breaſt. He made his obeiſance before the young monarch, and holding forth an embroidered ſilken bag, he thus addreſſed him.

‘"Deign, great king, to accept the [120] faithful homage and fervent good wiſhes of thy ſervant on this important day, and with them, the ſmall pre⯑ſent I hold in my hand. Small, in⯑deed, it is in ſhow, but not ſo, I truſt, in value. Others have offered what may decorate thy perſon—here is what will impart perpetual grace and luſtre to thy features. Others have preſented thee with rich perfumes—here is what will make thy name ſweet and fragrant to the lateſt ages. Others have given what may afford pleaſure to thine eyes—here is what will nouriſh a ſource of never-failing pleaſure within thy breaſt. Others have furniſhed thee with preſervatives againſt bodily con⯑tagion—here is what will preſerve thy better part uncontaminated. Others have heaped round thee the riches of a temporal kingdom—this will ſe⯑cure thee the treaſures of an eternal one."’

[121] He ſaid, and drew from the purſe a book containing the Moral Precepts of the ſage Zendar, the wiſeſt and moſt virtuous man the Eaſt had ever be⯑held. ‘"If (he proceeded) my gra⯑cious ſovereign will condeſcend to make this his conſtant companion, not an hour can paſs in which its peruſal may not be a comfort and a bleſſing. In the arduous duties of thy ſtation it will prove a faithful guide and coun⯑ſellor. Amidſt the allurements of pleaſure, and the incitements of paſ⯑ſion, it will be an incorruptible mo⯑nitor, that will never ſuffer thee to err without warning thee of thy error. It will render thee a bleſſing to thy people, and bleſſed in thyſelf; for what ſovereign can be the one without the other?"’

He then returned the book to its place, and kneeling gave it into the hands of the king. He received [122] it with reſpect and benignity, and hiſtory affirms that the uſe he made of it correſponded with the wiſhes of the donor.

A GLOBE-LECTURE

YOU may remember, Lucy, that I talked to you ſome time ago about the earth's motion round the ſun.

Yes, papa; and you ſaid you would tell me another time ſomewhat about the other planets.

I mean ſome day to take you to the lecture of an ingenious philoſopher who has contrived a machine that will give you a better notion of theſe things in an hour, than I could by mere talking in a week. But it is now my intention to make you better acquainted with this globe [124] which we inhabit, and which, indeed, is the moſt important to us. Caſt your eyes upon this little ball. You ſee it is a repreſentation of the earth, being covered with a painted map of the world. This map is croſſed with lines in various directions; but all you have to obſerve relative to what I am going to talk about, is the great line acroſs the middle, called the equator, or equinoctial line, and the two points at top and bottom, called the poles, of which the uppermoſt is the northern, the lowermoſt the ſouthern.

I ſee them.

Now, the ſun, which illuminates all the parts of this globe by turns as they roll round before it, ſhines di⯑rectly upon the equator, but darts its rays aſlant towards the poles; and this is the cauſe of the great heat per⯑ceived in the middle regions of the earth, and of its gradual diminution as you proceed from them on either [125] ſide towards the extremities. To uſe a vulgar illuſtration, it is like a piece of meat roaſting before a fire, the mid⯑dle part of which is liable to be over⯑done, while the two ends are raw.

I can comprehend that.

From this ſimple circumſtance ſome of the greateſt differences on the ſurface of the earth, with reſpect to man, other animals, and vegetables, proceed; for heat is the great princi⯑ple of life and vegetation; and where it moſt prevails, provided it be ac⯑companied with due moiſture, nature is moſt repleniſhed with all ſorts of liv⯑ing and growing things. In general, then, the countries lying on each ſide about the equator, and forming a broad belt round the globe, called the tropics or torrid zone, are rich and ex⯑uberant in their products to a degree much ſuperior to what we ſee in our climates. Trees and other plants ſhoot to a vaſt ſize, and are clothed in per⯑petual [126] verdure, and loaded with flow⯑ers of the gayeſt colours and ſweeteſt fragrance, ſucceeded by fruits of high flavour or abundant nutriment. The inſect tribe is multiplied ſo as to fill all the air, and many of them aſtoniſh by their ſize and extraordinary forms, and the ſplendour of their hues. The ground is all alive with reptiles, ſome harmleſs, ſome armed with deadly poiſons.

O, but I ſhould not like that at all.

The birds, however, decked in the gayeſt plumage conceivable, muſt give unmixed delight; and a tropical foreſt, filled with parrots, mackaws, and peacocks, and enlivened with the gambols of monkies and other nim⯑ble quadrupeds, muſt be a very amuſ⯑ing ſpectacle. The largeſt of qua⯑drupeds, too, the elephant, the rhi⯑noceros, and the hippopotamus, are natives of theſe regions; and not only [127] thoſe ſublime and harmleſs animals, but the terrible lion, the cruel tiger, and all the moſt ravenous beaſts of prey, are here found in their greateſt bulk and fierceneſs.

That would be worſe than the inſects and reptiles.

The ſea likewiſe is filled with inhabitants of an immenſe variety of ſize and figure; not only fiſhes, but tortoiſes, and all the ſhelly tribes. The ſhores are ſpread with ſhells of a beauty unknown to our coaſts; for it would ſeem as if the influence of the ſolar heat penetrated into the fartheſt receſſes of nature.

How I ſhould like to ramble on the ſea-ſide there!

But the elements, too, are there upon a grand and terrific ſcale. The ſky either blazes with intolerable beams, or pours down rain in irreſiſt⯑ible torrents. The winds ſwell to furious hurricanes, which often deſo⯑late [128] the whole face of nature in a day. Earthquakes rock the ground, and ſometimes open it in chaſms, which ſwallow up entire cities. Storms raiſe the waves of the ocean into mountains, and drive them in a deluge to the land.

Ah! that would ſpoil my ſhell-gathering. Theſe countries may be very fine, but I don't like them.

Well then—we will turn from them to the temperate regions. You will obſerve, on looking at the map, that theſe chiefly lie on the northern ſide of the tropics; for on the ſouthern ſide, the ſpace is almoſt wholly occu⯑pied by ſea. Though geographers have drawn a boundary line between the torrid and temperate zones, yet nature has made none; and for a con⯑ſiderable ſpace on the borders, the di⯑minution of heat is ſo gradual as to produce little difference in the appear⯑ance of nature. But, in general, the [129] temperate zones or belts form the moſt deſirable diſtricts on the face of the earth. Their products are extremely various, and abound in beauty and utility. Corn, wine, and oil, are among their vegetable ſtores: the horſe, the ox, and the ſheep, graze their verdant paſtures. Their ſeaſons have the pleaſ⯑ing viciſſitudes of ſummer and winter, ſpring and autumn. Though in ſome parts they are ſubject to exceſs of heat, and in others of cold, yet they deſerve the general praiſe of a mild tempera⯑ture, compared to the reſt of the globe.

They are the countries for me, then.

You do live in one of them, though our iſland is ſituated ſo far to the north, that it ranks rather among the cold countries than the warm ones. However, we have the good fortune to be a long way removed from thoſe dreary and comfortleſs [130] tracts of the globe which lie about the poles, and are called the frigid zones. In theſe, the cheering influence of the ſun gradually becomes extinct, and perpetual froſt and ſnow take poſſeſ⯑ſion of the earth. Trees and plants diminiſh in number and ſize, till at length no vegetables are found but ſome moſſes and a few ſtunted herbs. Land animals are reduced to three or four ſpecies; rein-deer, white-bears, arctic foxes, and ſnow-birds. The ſea, however, as far as it remains free from ice, is all alive with the finny tribe. Enormous whales ſpout and gambol among the floating ice-iſlands, and herds of ſeals purſue the ſhoals of ſmaller fiſh, and harbour in the ca⯑verns of the rocky coaſts.

Then I ſuppoſe theſe creatures have not much to do with the ſun.

Nature has given them powers of enduring cold beyond thoſe of many other animals; and then the water [131] is always warmer than the land in cold climates; nay, at a certain depth, it is equally warm in all parts of the globe.

Well, but as I cannot go to the bottom of the ſea, I deſire to have no⯑thing to do with theſe diſmal coun⯑tries. But do any men live there?

It is one of the wonderful things belonging to man that he is capable of living in all parts of the globe where any other animals live. And as no⯑thing relative to this earth is ſo im⯑portant to us as the condition of hu⯑man creatures in it, ſuppoſe we take a general ſurvey of the different races of men who inhabit all the tracts we have been ſpeaking of?

Blacks, and whites, and all colours?

Surely. If a black dog is as much a dog as a white one, why ſhould not a black man be as much a man? I know nothing that colour [132] has to do with mind. Well then—to go back to the equator. The middle or tropical girdle of the earth, which by the antients was concluded to be unihabitable from its extreme heat, has been found by modern diſcove⯑ries to be as well filled with men as it is with other living creatures. And no wonder; for life is maintained here at leſs coſt than elſewhere. Clothes and fuel are ſcarcely at all neceſſary. A ſhed of bamboo covered with palm leaves ſerves for a houſe; and food is almoſt the ſpontaneous product of na⯑ture. The bread-fruit, the cocoa, the ba⯑nana, and the plantain, offer their ſtores freely to the gatherer; and if he takes the additional pains to plant a few yams, or ſow a little Indian corn, he is furniſhed with never failing plenty. Hence the inhabitants of many tropi⯑cal countries live nearly in what is call⯑ed a ſtate of nature, without care or labour, uſing the gifts of providence [133] like the animals around them. The naked Indian, ſtretched at eaſe under the ſhade of a lofty tree, paſſes his hours in indolent repoſe, unleſs rouz⯑ed to temporary exertion by the paſ⯑ſion of the chace, or the love of danc⯑ing and other ſocial ſports.

Well—that would be a charm⯑ing life!

So the poet Thomſon ſeemed to think, when he burſt out into a rap⯑turous deſcription of the beauties and pleaſures afforded by theſe favoured regions. Perhaps you can remember ſome of his lines.

I will try.

Delightful! Think, however, [134] at what price they purchaſe this indo⯑dolent enjoyment of life. In the firſt place, all the work that is done is thrown upon the women, who are al⯑ways moſt tyrannized over, the nearer a people approach to a ſtate of na⯑ture.

Oh horrible! I am glad I do not live there.

Then, the mind not having that ſpur to exertion which neceſſity alone can give, moulders in inaction, and becomes incapable of thoſe advances in knowledge and vigour which raiſe and dignify the human character.

But that is the ſame with lazy people every where.

True. The exceſſive heat, how⯑ever, of theſe countries ſeems of itſelf to relax the mind, and unfit it for its nobleſt exertions. And I queſtion if a ſingle inſtance could be produced of an original inhabitant of the tropics, who has attained to eminence in the [135] higher walks of ſcience. It is their general character to be gay, volatile, and thoughtleſs, ſubject to violent paſſions, but commonly mild and gentle, fond of ſociety and amuſe⯑ments, ingenious in little arts, but incapable of great or long-continued efforts. They form a large portion of the human race, and probably not the leaſt happy. You ſee what vaſt tracts of land lie within this diviſion; moſt of Africa and South America; all the great iſlands of Aſia, and two of its large peninſulas. Of theſe, the Aſiatic part is the moſt populous and civilized; indeed, many of its nations are as far removed from a ſtate of na⯑ture as we are, and their conſtitutional indolence has been completely over⯑come by neceſſity. The clothing of thoſe who are in a civilized ſtate is moſtly made of cotton, which is a na⯑tural product of theſe climates. Their food is chiefly of the vegetable kind; [136] and beſides the articles already men⯑tioned, conſiſts much of rice.

Are the people all black?

Yes; entirely or nearly ſo.

I ſuppoſe that is owing to the heat of the ſun.

Undoubtedly; for we find all the ſhades from jet black to tawny, and at length white, as we proceed from the equator towards the poles. The African negroes, however, from their curled wooly hair, and their flat features, have been ſuppoſed an ori⯑ginally diſtinct race of mankind. The Eaſt Indian blacks, though under an equally hot climate, have long flowing hair, and features not different from their fairer neighbours. Almoſt all of theſe nations are ſubject to deſpotic governments. In religion they are moſtly pagans, with a mixture of ma⯑hometans.

I think we have had enough about theſe people.

Well then—look again on the globe to the northern fide of the tropics, and ſee what a tour we ſhall take you among the inhabitants of the north temperate zone. Here are all the moſt famous places on the earth; rich populous countries, renowned at different periods for arts and arms. Here is the greateſt part of Aſia, a little of Africa, all Europe, and North America.

I ſuppoſe, however, there muſt be great differences both in the cli⯑mate and the way of life, in ſo many countries.

Extremely great. The ſouthern parts partake a good deal of the cha⯑racter of the tropical regions. The heat is ſtill exceſſive, and renders ex⯑ertions painful; whence the people have in general been reckoned ſoft, effeminate, and voluptuous. Let us, however, look at them a little cloſer. Here is the mighty empire of China, [138] ſwarming with people to ſuch a de⯑gree, that notwithſtanding its ſize and fertility, the inhabitants are obliged to exert the greateſt induſtry to procure the neceſſaries of life. Nearly in a line with it are the Mogul's empire, the kingdom of Perſia, and the Turkiſh dominions in Aſia; all warm climates, a bounding in products of uſe and beauty, and inhabited by numerous and civilized people. Here ſtretches out the great peninſula of Arabia, for the moſt part a dry and deſart land, overſpread with burning ſands, only to be croſſed by the patient camel. Wild and ferocious tribes of men wander over it, chiefly ſubſiſted by their herds and flocks, and by the trade of robbery, which they exerciſe on all travellers that fall in their way. A tract ſomewhat ſimilar, though in a colder climate, is the vaſt country of Tartary, ſtretching like a belt from eaſt to weſt acroſs the middle of [139] Aſia; over the immenſe plains and deſarts of which, a number of inde⯑pendent tribes continually roam, fixing their moveable habitations in one part or another, according as they afford paſturage to their herds of cattle and horſes. Theſe men have for many ages lived in the ſame ſimple ſtate, un⯑acquainted as well with the arts, as the vices, of civilized nations.

Well, I think it muſt be a very pleaſant life to ramble about from place to place, and change one's abode according to the ſeaſon.

The Tartars think ſo; for the worſt wiſh they can find for a man, is that he may live in a houſe and work like a Ruſſian. Now look at Europe. See what a ſmall figure it makes on the ſurface of the globe as to ſize; and yet it has for many ages held the firſt place in knowledge, activity, ci⯑vilization, and all the qualities that elevate man among his fellows. For [140] this it is much indebted to that tem⯑perature of climate which calls forth all the faculties of man in order to render life comfortable, yet affords enough of the beauties of nature to warm the heart and exalt the imagi⯑nation. Men here earn their bread with the ſweat of their brow. Na⯑ture does not drop her fruits into their mouths, but offers them as the price of labour. Human wants are many. Clothes, food, lodging, are all ob⯑jects of much care and contrivance, but the human powers fully exerted are equal to the demand; and no⯑where are enjoyments ſo various and multiplied. What the land does not yield itſelf, its inhabitants by their active induſtry procure from the re⯑moteſt parts of the globe. When we drink tea, we ſweeten the infuſion of a Chineſe herb with the juice of a Weſt Indian cane; and your common dreſs is compoſed of materials collected from [141] the equator to the frigid zone. Eu⯑ropeans render all countries and cli⯑mates familiar to them; and every where they aſſume a ſuperiority over the leſs enlightened or leſs induſtrious natives.

Then Europe for me, after all. But is not America as good?

That part of North America which has been ſettled by Europeans, is only another Europe in manners and civilization. But the original in⯑habitants of that extenſive country were bold and hardy barbarians, and many of them continue ſo to this day. So much for the temperate zone, which contains the prime of mankind. They differ extremely, however, in govern⯑ments, laws, cuſtoms, and religions. The chriſtian religion has the credit of reckoning among its votaries all the civilized people of Europe and America. The mahometan poſſeſſes all the nearer parts of Aſia and the [142] north of Africa; but China, Japan, and moſt of the circumjacent coun⯑tries, profeſs different forms of pagan⯑iſm. The eaſt, in general, is en⯑flaved to deſpotiſm; but the nobler weſt enjoys in moſt of its ſtates more or leſs of freedom.

As to the frigid zone, its few in⯑habitants can but juſt ſuſtain a life little better than that of the brutes. Their faculties are benumbed by the climate. Their chief employment is the fiſhery or the chace, by which they procure their food. The tend⯑ing of herds of rein-deer in ſome parts varies their occupations and diet. They paſs their long win⯑ters in holes dug under ground, where they doze out moſt of their time in ſtupid repoſe.

I wonder any people ſhould ſtay in ſuch miſerable places.

Yet none of the inhabitants of the globe ſeem more attached to their [143] country and way of life. Nor do they, indeed, want powers to render their ſituation tolerably comfortable. Their canoes, and fiſhing and hunting tackle, are made with great inge⯑nuity; and their clothing is admira⯑bly adapted to ſence againſt the ri⯑gours of cold. They are not without ſome amuſements to cheer the gloom of their condition; but they are ab⯑jectly ſuperſtitious, and given to fear and melancholy.

If I had my choice, I would ra⯑ther go to a warmer than a colder country.

Perhaps the warmer countries are pleaſanter; but there are few ad⯑vantages which are not balanced by ſome inconveniences; and it is the trueſt wiſdom to be contented with out lot, and endeavour to make the beſt of it. One great leſſon, how⯑ever, I wiſh you to derive from this globe-lecture. You ſee that no part of [144] the world is void of our human bre⯑thren, who, amidſt all the diverſities of character and condition, are yet all men, filling the ſtation in which their Creator has placed them. We are too apt to look at the differences of mankind, and to undervalue all thoſe who do not agree with us in matters that we think of high importance. But who are we—and what cauſe have we to think ourſelves right, and all others wrong? Can we imagine that hundreds of millions of our ſpecies in other parts of the world are left deſtitute of what is eſſential to their well-being, while a favoured few like ourſelves are the only ones who poſ⯑ſeſs it? Having all a common na⯑ture, we muſt neceſſarily agree in more things than we differ. The road to virtue and happineſs is alike open to all. The mode of purſuit is various; the end is the ſame.

THE GAIN OF A LOSS.

PHILANDER poſſeſſed a conſider⯑able place about the court, which obliged him to live in a ſtyle of ſhow and expence. He kept high compa⯑ny, made frequent entertainments, and brought up a family of ſeveral daugh⯑ters in all the luxurious elegance which his ſituation and proſpects ſeemed to juſtify. His wife had balls and routs at ther own houſe, and frequented all the places of faſhionable amuſement. After ſome years paſſed in this man⯑ner, a ſudden change of parties threw Philander out of his employment, and at once ruined all his plans of future advancement. Though his place had been lucrative, the expence it led him into more than compenſated the profits, ſo that inſtead of ſaving any thing, he had involved himſelf con⯑ſiderably in debt. His creditors, on [146] hearing of the change in his affairs, be⯑came ſo importunate, that in order to ſatisfy them, he was compelled to ſell a moderate paternal eſtate in a remote county, reſerving nothing out of it but one ſmall farm. Philander had ſtrength of mind ſufficient to enable him at once to decide on the beſt plan to be followed in his preſent cir⯑cumſtances; inſtead, therefore, of waſting his time and remaining pro⯑perty in fruitleſs attempts to intereſt his town friends in his favour, he ſold off his fine furniture, and without de⯑lay carried down his whole family to the little ſpot he could ſtill call his own, where he commenced a life of induſtry and ſtrict frugality in the ca⯑pacity of a ſmall farmer. It was long before the female part of his houſe⯑hold could accommodate themſelves to a mode of living ſo new to them, and ſo deſtitute of all that they had been accuſtomed to regard as eſſential to [147] their very exiſtence. At length, how⯑ever, mutual affection and natural good ſenſe, and above all, neceſſity, brought them to acquieſce tolerably in their ſituation, and to engage in earneſt in its duties. Occaſional regrets, how⯑ever, could not but remain; and the ſilent ſigh would tell whither their thoughts were fled.

Philander perceived it, but took care never to embitter their feelings by harſh chidings or untimely admo⯑nitions. But on the firſt anniverſary of their taking poſſeſſion of the farm⯑houſe, he aſſembled them under a ſpreading tree that grew before their little garden, and while the ſummer's ſun gilded all the objects around, he thus addreſſed them.

‘"My dear partners in every fortune, if the revolution of a year has had the effect on your mind that it has on mine, I may congratulate you on our condition. I am now able with a firm [148] tone to aſk myſelf, What have I loſt? and I feel ſo much more to be pleaſed with than to regret, that the queſtion gives me rather comfort than ſorrow. Look at you ſplendid luminary, and tell me if its gradual appearance above the horizon on a fine morning, ſhed⯑ding light and joy over the wide crea⯑tion, be not a grander as well as a more heart-chearing ſpectacle than that of the moſt magnificent ſaloon, illumi⯑nated with dazzling luſtres. Is not the ſpirit of the wholeſome breeze, freſh from the mountain, and perfum⯑ed with wild flowers, infinitely more invigorating to the ſenſes than the air of the crowded drawing-room, loaded with ſcented powder and eſſences? Did we reliſh ſo well the diſguiſed diſhes with which a French cook ſtrove to when our ſickly appetites, as we do our draught of new milk, our home⯑made loaf, and the other articles of our ſimple fare? Was our ſleep ſo [149] ſweet after midnight ſuppers and the long vigils of cards, as it is now, that early riſing and the exerciſes of the day prepare us for cloſing our eyes as ſoon as night has covered every thing with her friendly veil? Shall we com⯑plain that our clothes at preſent only anſwer the purpoſe of keeping us warm, when we recollect all the care and pains it coſt us to keep pace with the faſhion, and the mortification we underwent at being outſhone by our ſuperiors in fortune. Did not the vexation of inſolent and unfaithful ſervants over-balance the trouble we now find in waiting on ourſelves? We may regret the loſs of ſociety; but, alas! what was the ſociety of a crowd of viſitors who regarded us merely as the keepers of a place of public re⯑ſort, and whom we viſited with ſimilar ſenſations? If we formerly could command leiſure to cultivate our minds, and acquire polite accompliſh⯑ments; [150] did we, in reality, apply much leiſure to theſe purpoſes, and is not our time now filled more to our ſatiſ⯑faction by employments of which we cannot doubt the uſefulneſs?—not to ſay, that the moral virtues we are now called upon to exerciſe, afford the tru⯑eſt cultivation to our minds. What, then, have we loſt? In improved health, the charms of a beautiful coun⯑try, a decent ſupply of all real wants, and the love and kind offices of each other, do not we ſtill poſſeſs enough for worldly happineſs? We have loſt, indeed, a certain rank and ſtation in life; but have we not ac⯑quired another as truly reſpectable? We are debarred the proſpects of fu⯑ture advancement; but if our pre⯑ſent condition is a good one, why need we lament that it is likely to be laſt⯑ing? The next anniverſary will find us more in harmony with our ſituation than even the preſent. Look for⯑ward, [151] then, cheerily. The ſtorm is paſt. We have been ſhipwrecked, but we have only exchanged a cumbrous veſſel for a light pinnace, and we are again on our courſe. Much of our cargo has been thrown overboard, but no one loſes what he does not miſs."’

Thus ſaying, Philander tenderly embraced his wife and daughters. The tear ſtood in their eyes, but conſola⯑tion beamed on their hearts.