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THE FAMILY PICTURE. IN TWO VOLUMES.

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A ſe ſuiſque orſus, primum domum ſuam coercuit, quod plerique haud minus arduum eſt, quam provinciam regere. Tac. in Vit. Agric.
La Magnanimité eſt un noble effort de l' orgueil par laquel il rend l' homme maitre de lui-meme, pour le rendre maitre de toutes choſes. Rochefoucault.
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THE FAMILY PICTURE; OR, DOMESTIC DIALOGUES ON AMIABLE AND INTERESTING SUBJECTS; ILLUSTRATED BY HISTORIES, ALLEGORIES, TALES, FABLES, ANECDOTES, &c. INTENDED TO STRENGTHEN AND INFORM THE MIND. BY THOMAS HOLCROFT, AUTHOR OF DUPLICITY, A COMEDY.

VOLUME II.

LONDON: Printed for LOCKYER DAVIS, in Holborn; Printer to the Royal Society. M DCC LXXXIII.

CONTENTS. VOL. II.

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  • DIALOGUE XI. LOVE of Fame in Alexander the Great Page 1
    • —In an Indian 3
    • AMBITION: a Tartarian Tale 4
    • MERCY: Anecdotes of Ottoman and Aliverdi 16
    • LOVE: or Idris and Mahmut 20
  • DIALOGUE XII. 28
    • An Account of Mahomet and Mahometaniſm 29
    • Mahomet's Inducements to eſtabliſh a new Religion 30
    • His art in contraſting the Pleaſures of Paradiſe and the Pains of Hell 31, 32
    • His tendency to miracles 33
    • Farther particulars of his Paradiſe 35
    • — of his Hell 37
    • The Mahometan Hiſtory of the Laſt Day 38
    • Story of the White Elephant 41
    • Terrible relation of a Turkiſh Faſt 43
    • SUPERSTITION: or the Satirical Traveller 47
  • DIALOGUE XIII. 57
    • CREDULITY: or the Miraculous Cheſt 58
    • Dexterous trick of a Thief 85
    • INCREDULITY: or the ſtory of the Sultan of Egypt 86
    • Reſpect paid by the Athenians to Xenocrates 100
    • Anecdote of the Duke of Oſſura and a Galley-Slave ibid.
    • TRUTH: or the ſtory of Saddyq 101
    • Anecdote of Colonel Edmonds—of Pyrrhus 111
    • EQUIVOCATION: a tragical hiſtory of its effects 112
  • DIALOGUE XV. 129
    • Anecdote of Papyrius 130
    • SECRESY: or the Enraged Lover 131
    • Fable of the Herdſman 140
    • DETRACTION: or the ſtory of Dorantes 143
  • [] DIALOGUE XVI. 150
    • Anecdote of the Emperor Trajan ibid.
    • Remarkable Legacy of Eudamidas 151
    • FRIENDSHIP: An Arabian Anecdote 154
    • — The Schoolfellows. A Tale 159
  • DIALOGUE XVII. 171
    • The Peaſant and Watch-Dog. A Fable ibid.
    • Anecdote of King Philip and the Ungrateful Courtier 173
    • INGRATITUDE: or the Magical Candleſtick 175
    • GRATITUDE: or the Good Italian and the Grateful Turk 184
  • DIALOGUE XVIII. 192
    • INDULGENCE: or the Two Siſters ibid.
    • Anecdote of Xenocrates and an Athenian Youth 203
    • Fable of Induſtry, Curioſity, and Idleneſs 204
    • Eſſay on Induſtry 208
  • DIALOGUE XIX. 214
    • Anecdote of a Gentleman and his Tenant ibid.
    • —of a Generous Man 215
    • Gallantry of Sir Walter Raleigh to Q. Elizabeth 216
    • Anecdote of Archias the Spartan 217
    • SOCIAL DUTY: or Mirza 218
    • Mahmoud and the Vizier. A Fable. 225
    • PERSEVERANCE: The Hiſtory of a German Philoſopher 227
    • HEALTH: or the Vicar. A humourous character. 232
  • DIALOGUE XX. 239
    • The Loquacious Barber 240
    • YOUTHFUL LEVITY: or the Neceſſity of knowing your Company 243
    • LEVITY OF CONDUCT: The ſtory of Flavilla 251
    • AMIABLE LEVITY: Letter to a new-born child 273
    • PATERNAL FEELINGS: or the Indian 277

BOOKS printed for LOCKYER DAVIS, Printer to the ROYAL SOCIETY.

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  • I. DR. Hooper's RATIONAL RECREATIONS. In which the Principles of Numbers and Natural Philoſophy are clearly and copiouſly elucidated, by a Series of eaſy, entertaining, intereſting Experiments Arithmetical, Mechanical, Electrical, Magnetical, Optic, Chromatic, and Acouſtic: in Pneumatics, Hydrology, and Pyrotechnics. With an Appendix of Miſcellaneous Recreations; and all thoſe commonly performed on the Cards. Four Volumes, 8vo, illuſtrated with 67 Copper Plates: Price 1 l. 1 s. ſewed in boards.
  • II. Dr. Goldſmith's ROMAN HISTORY: from the Foundation of the City of Rome to the Deſtruction of the Weſtern Empire; in Two Volumes, 8vo, 12s. bound, 4th Edition.
  • III. Dr. Goldſmith's ROMAN HISTORY abridged by Himſelf, for the Uſe of Schools, and adorned with Copper-Plates, 3d Edition, 3s. 6d. bound.
  • IV. Comenii Orbis Senſualium Pictus: or a World of Things obvious to the Senſes, drawn in 150 Pictures, with a Nomenclature in Latin and Engliſh. By the Rev. Charles Hoole, A.M. 12th Edition, 3s. bound.
  • []V. A KEY to the NEW TESTAMENT: giving an Account of the ſeveral Books, their Contents, their Authors, and of the Times, Places, and Occaſions on which they were reſpectively written. By THOMAS PERCY, D. D. Now Lord Biſhop of Dromore. 2s. 6d. bound.
  • VI. The NEW PEERAGE: or ancient and preſent State of the Nobility of England, Scotland, and Ireland; with their Coats of Arms, Creſts, Supporters, and Mottoes engraved, 3 vol. 3d Edition, 15s. in boards.
  • VII. The Abbe Raynal's HISTORY OF THE REVOLUTION OF AMERICA. French or Engliſh Edition, 2s. 6d. ſewed.

THE FAMILY PICTURE.

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DIALOGUE XI.

MR. EGERTON.

IN our laſt converſation we had the hiſtory of an ambitious woman. Let us reſume the ſubject; let us curſorily examine the paſſion of ambition.

The word Ambition, like the word pride, may be taken both in an ill and a good meaning. It is uſually applied to thoſe deſtructive actions which are inſpired by a love of fame, regardleſs of the means; which root out the nations, and deſolate the earth, that the people who remain may tremble and admire. When it takes this courſe, ambition is the moſt pernicious of all the paſſions; becauſe the miſeries with which it teems are ſuppoſed glorious and beneficial to the conquerors; who, therefore, never neglect to praiſe, and almoſt idolize him who leads them to victory. The leader fails not to return [2] this falſe praiſe—he is the firſt of heroes, and they are the braveſt of troops. Thus each is dilated with imaginary virtues, for actions the moſt oppreſſive, the moſt intolerable, and the moſt wicked that man can commit.

If you wiſh for a lively picture of the effects of this paſſion, and the horrors I have juſt hinted at, turn to the hiſtory of Sylla and Caius Marius, or, indeed, to the hiſtory of any great and powerful people, and you will ſoon be ſatiated.

Ambition is the moſt active principle in the mind, and its effects are frequently prodigious: Many perſons have wilfully devoted their lives to it, by committing crimes for which they knew they ſhould ſuffer; chuſing rather to endure tortures, and have their names recorded in infamy, than to die and be forgotten. Such were Eroſtratus, who fired the Temple of Diana, at Epheſus; Hermoxles, who killed Philip, King of Macedon; and many others.

Numerous are the examples too of thoſe who, inſpired by this paſſion, have been inclined to obtain it by virtuous means, but who could not reſiſt vicious opportunities of gaining their purpoſes. Julius Caeſar, Pompey, Alexander, Piſiſtratus, &c. &c. gave, at different times, evident proofs of their ſenſe of, and reſpect for, virtue. They committed likewiſe the moſt horrible crimes and devaſtations in purſuit of glory.

The love of fame ſeems never to have been more predominant in any perſon than in Alexander the [3] Great. He took Caliſthenes, a man famous for his eloquent writings, with him to his wars, that he might be a witneſs of his actions, and record them for poſterity. When he came to the tomb of Achilles, at Sigaeum, he exclaimed, "Oh fortunate hero, thou hadſt a Homer to make thy praiſe immortal!" So lively was his own ſenſe of this paſſion, that he could not forbear eſteeming it in others. He had heard of a certain Indian, whoſe ſkill in archery was ſo great, that he could ſhoot his arrows through a ring at a great diſtance. This man was taken priſoner, and brought to Alexander, who deſired him to exhibit ſome proofs of his dexterity; this the Indian peremptorily refuſed: at which Alexander was ſo enraged, that he commanded him to be taken away and ſlain. Being queſtioned by the ſoldiers, as they were leading him to death, concerning the reaſon of his obſtinacy, the Indian told them, he had been long out of practice, and was afraid he ſhould not be able to equal his former exploits. Alexander immediately ordered him to be releaſed, gave him his liberty, and loaded him with preſents: admiring the greatneſs of that ſpirit that would ſuffer death rather than loſe renown.

The word ambition, when applied to a good intention, we uſually call emulation; a word too cold to expreſs actions eminently virtuous. The following tale will fully explain what I would have you underſtand by Ambition in each ſenſe of the word.

[4]

AMBITION. KOREM and ZENDAR: A Tartarian Tale.

CORDUBA, King of Teran, in Great Tartary, was a Prince adored by his ſubjects, whoſe felicity he conſtantly laboured to promote, during a very long reign. Covered with glory, and bending under the infirmities of old age, his care was to fix upon a ſucceſſor, who ſhould cauſe him to be the leſs regretted by his people. It was his prerogative to elect one: and, having no ſon, he was obliged, according to the law of Tartary, to commit the ſceptre to him whom he ſhould chuſe to marry his daughter, provided he were of the blood of Tamerlane.

Akebar, King of Balk, and Mameluke, Sultan of Cariſm, pretended, with equal ardor, to a match that would double their reſpective powers; and, preſuming that Corduba would declare in favour of him whoſe enmity was moſt to be dreaded, each of them threatened to appear at the head of an army, to make good, at Teran, his demand for Almanzaris and her rich dowry. The old King, having conſidered what was the fitteſt courſe to be taken, determined for war, and convoked the States of his kingdom, in order to acquaint them with his reſolution.

There were now, at the court of Teran, two younger brothers, Princes of the blood of Tamerlane, whoſe perſonal merit ſeemed to render them worthy of the higheſt fortune. They entertained [5] the moſt violent paſſion for Almanzaris; but, having nothing but their birth and qualifications to recommend them, they had not yet dared to declare their intention. The King had obſerved what reſtraint they put upon themſelves, in order to conceal their ſentiments, and generouſly attributed this reſpectful deportment to the account of their other merits.

The grandees having poſted up to the capital from all parts, and the deputies of the people repaired to the palace, the wiſe Corduba addreſſed them in theſe terms:

"I have not yet lived too long, my people: for, each day of my life, by being employed in promoting the advantage of my ſubjects, has been without reproach. But, as my infirmities no longer allow me to live for your ſakes, it is time for me to depart; or, at leaſt, until it pleaſes God to cut me off from the number of the living, I ought to employ the few days he grants me, in endeavouring to prevent your being injured by my death."

The good King was interrupted by the ſighs and tears of the aſſembly.

"Akebar and Mameluke wiſh to reign over you, continued the aged Monarch. They are deſtitute of all right to my throne, as well as my daughter; yet they threaten to acquire both by force of arms. I am a King, I am a father, O Teranites! and I know what ſort of huſband is proper for my daughter; and what Sovereign my ſubjects ought to wiſh for. Akebar and Mameluke are alike unworthy of [6] my choice; and, whatever may be their force, it is better to have them for enemies than for maſters. Illuſtrious deſcendants of the great Timur! brave Korem! intrepid Zendar! to you I commit the care of preſerving the Teranites from oppreſſion. Divide between you the forces of my kingdom, and march againſt my enemies. The head of my people and the huſband of my daughter muſt be an hero: Contend both of you for this title with a noble emulation: He that ſhall have deſerved it, at the end of this war, ſhall be King of the Teranites and the huſband of Almanzaris."

Corduba diſſolved the aſſembly. They anſwered him with ſhouts of applauſe. He diſpatched orders for Korem and Zendar to be obeyed throughout Teran, as if he himſelf were preſent.

Zendar laboured with extraordinary diligence in augmenting the army he was to command: He won the hearts of the ſoldiers by liberalities, and animated the officers by marks of diſtinction and the moſt flattering hopes: He collected vaſt quantities of proviſions and ammunition, erected magazines, exerciſed his levies, and took the field, as ſoon as the ſeaſon was favourable. It was his lot to march againſt Mameluke. As the petty republics, that lay between the kingdoms of Teran and Cariſm, might ſuffer themſelves to be wrought upon by the promiſes, or intimidated by the menaces of the Sultan, Zendar made ſure of them by ſurpriſing their towns, putting garriſons in their fortreſſes, and [7] ſeizing their arms; and, having nothing more to fear from theſe petty ſtates, which he had rendered incapable of moleſting him, he poured like a torrent into the kingdom of Cariſm.

Mameluke was too well acquainted with the pacific temper of Corduba to expect ſuch vigorous proceedings. He had not even aſſembled his army, when Zendar, maſter of the field, had made ſeveral great towns open their gates to him. The General of the Teranites, equally ſkilful and active, attacked ſuch places as ſhut their gates againſt him: He continued his approaches ſo artfully, carried them on ſo vigorouſly, and ſtormed the breaches with ſo much bravery, that, in a few days, the moſt reſolute garriſons ſurrendered at diſcretion.

Already Zendar was in ſight of Cariſm, when the Sultan, at the head of an army much more numerous, advanced to oppoſe his rapid progreſs. For ſeveral days ſucceſſively, there were ſkirmiſhes between large parties, in which the Teranites had always the advantage. The Sultan, conſidering thoſe loſſes as ſo many preſages of a general defeat, in caſe he ventured a battle, made propoſals for a peace: The principal conditions were, That he would renounce his pretenſions to Almanzaris; that he would be the ally of him that ſhould marry her; that he would render homage to the King of Teran for the territories of Cariſm, which Zendar had put under contribution.

[8]The Teranite Prince rejected theſe propoſals as ridiculous; Mameluke, ſaid he, relinquiſhed what he could not any longer hope to obtain, and deſired to become a vaſſal, when he could not avoid becoming a ſubject. The battle was fought under the walls of Cariſm, and laſted the whole day. The Sultan behaved like a Prince whoſe only reſource lay in a victory, and performed prodigies of valour. Zendar acted the part of a great Captain and a brave ſoldier; more than once, by his perſonal bravery, he animated his diſordered broken troops to return to the charge; and, by his profound capacity, he obviated the ill conſequences of other unlucky incidents. In fine, he fixed fortune to his ſtandard; his victory was complete. The Sultan, leaving half of his army dead on the field of battle, brought off the flower of the reſt into his capital, and there ſhut himſelf up, reſolving to be buried in its ruins, if the enemy refuſed to liſten to peace.

Zendar was deaf to the intreaties of the Sultan's deputies. After letting his army reſt a few days, he formed his lines of contravallation round the city. He amuſed the Sultan with all the preparations and works requiſite for a regular ſiege, and, taking the advantage of a dark night, ordered a general ſcalade. The Sultan ran to that ſide where the greateſt efforts were made, judging that Zendar muſt be there in perſon: He beheld this implacable enemy, who, bearing down all that oppoſed him, had already got footing on the counterſcarp, and was preparing to [9] force his way to the rampart. Urged by deſpair, or hoping to retrieve all by ſingle combat, he cut his way up to the Prince, and challenged him. Zendar's fortune did not forſake him; his firſt blow laid Mameluke dead at his feet. The rumour of his death once ſpread, the Cariſmites laid down their arms, and implored the clemency of the conqueror, who, with great difficulty, drew off his furious ſoldiers from the carnage.

At break of day, Zendar ſecured the poſts of the city, cauſed Corduba to be proclaimed Sultan of Cariſm, and made the inhabitants ſwear allegiance to him; and, as it took up no more time to ſubdue the reſt of the kingdom, than was neceſſary to march through it, he returned to Teran towards the end of autumn, and laid at the feet of Almanzaris one of the moſt conſiderable crowns of Tartary.

While Zendar filled Teran with the fame of his exploits, the Teranites ſcarce remembered that his rival, Korem, had an army under his command; and yet he had laboured indefatigably towards the acquiſition of a title on which his happineſs depended; but he took a courſe different from Zendar's. His firſt care was to diſpel the fears and jealouſies of the petty republics ſituated between the kingdoms of Balk and Teran. As pledges of his fidelity in keeping his word with them, he gave them hoſtages, and thereby acquired a right to demand hoſtages of them. He ſent manifeſtoes into the provinces of Balk, ſetting forth the motives of [10] the war, and making Akebar the cauſe of all the calamities it might bring upon the people: Beſides which, he ordered truſty emiſſaries to lie concealed in the enemy's towns, to mix in company with the citizens, to extol the conduct he propoſed to obſerve, and to exaggerate every loſs the King might ſuſtain. Thus aſſured of the affections of the neutral republics, he made no other proviſion for his expedition, but arms and money; and, followed by twenty thouſand Teranites, picked out of the moſt robuſt and docible in that part of the kingdom which had been aſſigned him for making levies, he began his march. The punctuality with which he paid for what he required, ſoon made his camp abound with all kinds of proviſions; the peaſants flocked to him with every thing they could ſpare; and, thinking themſelves happy in a war, that inriched without expoſing them to any danger; love and gratitude attached them to the General, to whom they were indebted for this ſurpriſing ſcene.

So much caution and moderation gave Akebar leiſure to aſſemble his forces: He was already on the frontiers, with a prodigious army, not doubting in the leaſt that he ſhould cruſh Korem; but he little knew what ſort of an enemy he had to deal with. This Prince, being charged to preſerve the Teranites from oppreſſion, contented himſelf with protecting them. Ever upon the wing with his little army, which he even frequently divided into flying parties, he applied himſelf to keeping Akebar in continual [11] alarm. He made choice of poſts where he might fight only when he pleaſed: He charged his officers to decline every ſkirmiſh that might bring on a general engagement, but not to avoid any other action. By this conduct he ſucceeded in ſtopping, fatiguing, and conſuming that numerous army, which could not move, without being expoſed to the ſword of the vigilant Teranites.

Akebar, having ſeen all his foragers cut off, and one of his quarters beat up and plundered, reſolved to bring the war to a ſhort iſſue, by penetrating into the kingdom of Teran. He entered the territories of the neutral petty republics; but, as he was not diſpoſed to pay for what he thought he had a right to exact, and as his enemy had the hearts of the people, he ſoon found himſelf in want of proviſions.

Korem, who had foreſeen all this, depended on the troops he had left on the frontier, for making head againſt the King. As for his part, having cauſed part of his cavalry to take an extenſive circuit, in order to lay under contribution the provinces of Balk, which were quite bare of troops, he followed Akebar in the rear with the reſt of his army, inceſſantly and harraſſing him, retarding the arrival of thoſe convoys which he could not cut off, and daily reducing his army to greater ſtraits.

The peaſants, finding that the ſoldiers of Akebar uſed them ill, annoyed them in every reſpect, and began a kind of war that was more cruelly managed than open hoſtilities. The contributions levied by [12] the Teranite cavalry, filled the kingdom of Balk with conſternation, and made all the people murmur. The ſupplies, which Akebar drew from his dominions, ſtopped all on a ſudden; a ſickneſs broke out in his army; and, to complete his misfortunes, Korem managed ſo artfully, that he cut off his retreat home. Thus all hearts fainted in his camp.

In ſo terrible a ſituation Akebar ſued for peace, leaving Korem intirely maſter of the conditions, and reſolving to die, ſhould they prove intolerable: The Teranite Prince ſent him this anſwer:

"Kings ſhould make war to eſtabliſh peace. Promiſe, Sir, to obſerve faithfully the alliance with Corduba and the ſucceſſor he ſhall pleaſe to appoint, and repair the damage you have occaſioned to the neutral republics and the Teranites. Would to God we could bring the ſlain to life! Then might all be forgotten."

Akebar, ſtruck with admiration, ſwore to obſerve the peace; he gave ſecurity for the performance of articles; and, in his march back to his capital, he proclaimed every-where, that Korem's virtue was equal to his talents. The Prince, after diſbanding his army, repaired to Teran, to give an account of his expedition. Corduba, too well informed to be ignorant of any part of Korem's conduct, had already paſſed ſentence between the two rivals.—He called together, however, the States of Teran, who being aſſembled, and the Deputies of Cariſm having been called to ſit with them, Corduba thus ſpoke:

[13]"Intrepid Zendar, your courage and conduct have acquired me a new kingdom; but the ſubjects, which your conqueſt procures me, are only enemies in diſguiſe, whom you add to the number of my children. I will not, by adopting them, introduce diſcord into my family. Let the Cariſmites have a King, whoſe love cannot be divided between them and another people."

"Go, brave Zendar, go and reign in Cariſm. The terrible effects of your valour have made you dreaded and admired in that fine empire. Let your great talents reſt, and add to them virtues of a higher value. The loſſes the Cariſmites have ſuffered by your means, ought to be repaired; they will not allow you to indulge your genius, and to exhibit to them a mere conqueror on the throne of their Kings: ſhew yourſelf to them as a father, and conſtrain them, by continual benefactions, to bleſs the hand that ſhed their blood."

"As for you, generous Korem, who know how to vanquiſh the enemies of the Teranites, and to procure them friends; you, who love peace, underſtand the art of war, and excel in the practice of uſeful and amiable virtues, be my daughter's Conſort; receive my Scepter together with her Hand. Under ſuch a King as you, my people have nothing to fear either from inteſtine vices and diſorders, or neighbouring nations. Be their maſter, and be my ſon. You are a Hero, Zendar may become one."

EUSTACE.
[14]

Korem was indeed, Sir, an illuſtrious Hero. If ever I ſhould arrive at the command of an army, I hope to be like him.

NANCY.

I hope you would; for, indeed, it makes one's heart chill with horror when we read of ſo many dreadful relations of men murdering each other, of the ſacking of towns, of killing poor helpleſs women and children, and all the reſt of their horrible cruelties.

HARRY.

Pray, papa, can you tell me why Frenchmen and Engliſhmen don't love one another? I am always hearing of their going to fight: and then we ring the bells, and make bonfires, when the Engliſh have killed a good many of the poor Frenchmen; and, I am ſure, I can't gueſs why; for all the Frenchmen I have ever ſeen are ſo good-natured, and ſo civil, that I can't believe they would quarrel with any body in the world by their own good-will.

MR. EGERTON.

The ſubject we have been diſcourſing upon— Ambition, my dear, is the cauſe. Neither Frenchmen nor Engliſhmen have, of themſelves, any natural propenſity to hate each other, but it is the deſtructive views of a few, who inſpire that [15] paſſion, and encourage nations to butcher each other, to ſerve their own ſelfiſh and ambitious purpoſes.

MISS FORRESTER.

I have always, Sir, been a great admirer of ſuch Kings as were rather diſpoſed to forgive than to puniſh criminals. I have heard people ſay that no man ought to put another to death.

MR. FORRESTER.

That is a very ridiculous doctrine. I could wiſh thoſe who broach it might firſt be robbed of their property: if that will not convert them, let their lives be attacked; and ſee what effect this would produce.

MR. EGERTON.

It is part of the novel and paradoxical philoſophy of the preſent day, in which I am ſorry to ſay, it does not appear to be to much the endeavour of our reaſoners to enforce truth as to incite ſurprize; and in which thoſe who are incapable of attracting the public notice by the ſtrength of their genius, do yet obtain a temporary admiration by the ſtrangeneſs of their aſſertions. Mercy is undoubtedly a moſt heavenly virtue; "It droppeth like the gentle rain from Heaven on the place beneath;" but even this divine attribute, even Mercy, may be miſapplied, may become a vice, may become CRUELTY. To let criminals of a certain complexion eſcape, is to [16] multiply crimes. Nerva, the ſucceſſor of the cruel Domitian, carried this virtue to ſuch exceſs, as even during his ſhort reign to become, in ſome degree, contemptible. The following anecdotes will help to point out the diſtinction I mean to inculcate.

MERCY. Anecdotes of OTTOMAN and ALIVERDI.

OTTOMAN, the firſt Sultan of the Turks, was of ſo mild a temper, that to this day, at the ceremony of proclaiming the Emperors his ſucceſſors, they wiſh them his meekneſs. One day his officers brought to him a man that had been found concealed in the Imperial tent with a dagger under his garment. The criminal confeſſed that he intended to murder the Sultan; and the officers waited impatiently for orders to execute the villain: But Ottoman, whom nothing could warp from his good-nature, ſaid to the officers, let the wretch go, I cannot reſolve to ſhed blood.

This inſtance of unbounded clemency has its value, though it is the effect of temper: But let us ſee whether clemency produced by ſentiment and reflection is not ſuperior to it.

Aliverdi, generaliſſimo of the armies of Abbas the Great, King of Perſia, and his prime miniſter, was as good a general and as able a politician, as he was amiable in the capacity of a courtier. From the conſtant ſerenity of his countenance it was [17] judged that nothing could ruffle the calmneſs of his heart; and virtue diſplayed itſelf in him ſo gracefully and ſo naturally, that it was ſuppoſed to be the effect of his happy temper. An extraordinary incident made the world do him juſtice, and placed him in the rank he deſerved.

One day as he was ſhut up in his cloſet, beſtowing on affairs of ſtate the hours which other men devote to ſleep, a courier quite out of breath came in and told him, that an Armenian, followed by a poſſe of friends, had in the night ſurprized his palace at Amandabat, deſtroyed all the moſt valuable furniture in it, and would have carried off his wife and children, doubtleſs to make ſlaves of them, had not the domeſtics, when the firſt fright was over, made head againſt him. The courier added, that a bloody ſkirmiſh enſued, in which his ſervants had the advantage at laſt; that the Armenian's friends were all killed upon the ſpot, but that their leader was taken alive.

I thank thee, Offali*, cried Aliverdi, for affording me the means to revenge ſo enormous an attempt. What! whilſt I make a ſacrifice of my days and my repoſe to the good of Perſia; while, through my cares and toils, the meaneſt Perſian lives ſecure from injuſtice and violence, ſhall an audacious ſtranger come to injure me in what is moſt dear to me! Let him be thrown into a dungeon, [18] and give him a quantity of wretched food ſufficient to preſerve him for the torments to which I deſtine him. The courier withdrew, charged with theſe orders to thoſe who had the Armenian in cuſtody.

But Aliverdi ſoon growing cool again, cried out, What is it, O God, that I have done! Is it thus that I maintain the glory of ſo many years? Shall one ſingle moment eclipſe all my virtue! That ſtranger has cruelly provoked me: But what impelled him to it? No man commits evil merely for the pleaſure of doing it: There is always a motive, which paſſion or prejudice preſents to us under the maſk of equity; and it muſt needs be ſomething of this kind that blinded the Armenian to the dreadful attempt. Doubtleſs, I muſt have injured the wretch!

He diſpatched immediately an expreſs to Amandabat, with an order under his own hand, not to make the priſoner feel any other hardſhip than the privation of liberty. Still tranquil, after this act of moderation, he applied himſelf again to public buſineſs, till he ſhould have leiſure to ſift this buſineſs to the bottom. From the ſtrict inquiries he ordered to be made, he learned, that one of his inferior officers had done very conſiderable damage to the Armenian, conſidering the mediocrity of his fortune; and that he himſelf had ſlighted the complaints brought againſt him. Eaſed by this diſcovery, he called for the Armenian, whoſe countenance [19] expreſſed more confuſion than terror, and paſſed this ſentence upon him.

"Vindictive ſtranger, there was ſome ground for thy reſentment; thou didſt think I had juſtly incurred thy hatred; I forgive thee the injury thou haſt done me. But thou haſt carried thy vengeance to exceſs; thou haſt attacked a man whom thou oughteſt to reſpect; nay, thou haſt attempted to make thy vengeance fall upon innocent heads: therefore I ought to puniſh thee. Go, and reflect in ſolitude on the wretchedneſs of a man that gives full ſwing to his paſſions. Thy puniſhment, which juſtice requires of me, will be ſufficiently tempered by my clemency; and thy repentance may permit me to ſhorten the term."

*
The Prophet moſt revered by the Perſians next to Mahomet.
HARRY.

That Aliverdi was a very good man, papa, becauſe he loved his wife and children.

MR. EGERTON.

Yes, my dear; but, obſerve, though he loved them very much, he would not ſuffer either love or pity to ſubvert juſtice.

HARRY.

And yet, papa, I have heard that love makes people do ſtrange things.

MR. EGERTON.

Very true, my dear; love is a powerful paſſion, the effects of which cannot be too cautiouſly attended [20] to and guarded againſt by young people. It is a paſſion which ought not to be mentioned in a careleſs and ſlight manner, nor without the utmoſt purity of ſentiment. The novels which undertake the difficult taſk of pourtraying love, generally paint it as weak, cunning, and contemptible; but in perſons in whom virtue and real dignity of mind are conſpicuous, it is ſimple, chaſte, and noble. The ſtory of Mahmut and Idris will ſhew you what it ought to be; I muſt only caution you all to remember, that in Perſia, where the ſcene is laid, the manners are very different from ours, and that though the refuſal of Idris to become the wife of Mahmut, and acting, as ſhe afterwards did, would have been wrong here, there it was not only proper but heroic.

LOVE. IDRIS and MAHMUT.

AMONG the dancers of the palace, in the reign of Abbas the Great, King of Perſia, there was a young maid, named Idris, whom the maſter of the revels, on the report of her charms, had ſent for from Caſbin to Iſpahan. Her mother being of the ſame profeſſion, ſhe had followed that way of life: But as ſhe honourably diſtinguiſhed herſelf from her female companions, ſhe demonſtrated that virtue is practicable in every ſituation, however ſlippery or dangerous it may be.

[21]Scarcely had Idris appeared on the theatre of the capital, but ſhe found herſelf beſet by the grandees, who ſtrove to pleaſe her by the ſame means that had won others in that ſtation. Every one exerted his faculties and addreſs, in order to gain the preference over his rivals. But Idris was not to be caught with ſuch baits. At the palace, at aſſemblies, in the public walks, and in all places, the diſcourſe turned upon the new dancer: Every one talked of her beauty, her wit, and her engaging behaviour; and, which was more than they had ever ſaid of any other of her profeſſion, they agreed in acknowledging her to be virtuous. It is the property only of the moſt exalted virtue to gain the reſpect and admiration of young courtiers. Mahmut conceived a high opinion of Idris's virtue, from the extraordinary effect it produced.

Mahmut bore among the young Lords of the Court the ſame character which Idris maintained among the dancers of her ſex; proof againſt the defects of his equals and the vices of his ſtation. As ſoon as he began to appear in the world, he became ſenſible of the ridiculouſneſs of that noiſy, obſtreperous giddineſs, which moſt young people of quality affect; and being happily prejudiced againſt the idle life he ſaw them lead, he took care not to follow their example, yet without ſeeming to condemn them. While their days were divided between the toilet, the table, viſits, ladies' bed-chambers, and gaming, he ſpent the morning in his cloſet among [22] his books, or with thoſe whoſe converſation could inſtruct him better. In the afternoon he frequented the manufactories, and working places about the palace; talked with the ableſt hands in the ſeveral arts; and obſerved with the utmoſt attention how they proceeded in their works. In the evening he went to the Play or other public entertainments, which he enjoyed with the moderation that is ever inſeparable from taſte and diſcernment: After which he repaired to ſome of the moſt brilliant aſſemblies of Iſpahan, as well to avoid a ſingularity that would have rendered him odious, as to acquire a greater ſhare of the complaiſance and politeneſs which reigned in them. Mahmut's wit, and the uſe he made of it, rendered him ſuperior to thoſe who were his equals in birth; and beſides the advantage of a good figure and graceful air, he diſtinguiſhed himſelf no leſs among them by his natural and acquired talents. Idris could not behold this amiable Perſian without emotion: She immediately ſhunned all her importunate ſuitors; and complacently fancying him free from all their faults, ſhe ſecretly wiſhed that the beauty, which they had ſo highly extolled, might make an impreſſion on him. Her wiſhes were met more than half-way: Mahmut ſoon let her know that he loved her moſt paſſionately; and her anſwer to his declaration, on account of its ſingularity, deſerves to be given entire.

"Doubtleſs you give the name of love (ſaid ſhe with an enchanting ſmile) to that which is only an [23] effect of your taſte for novelty. I will not, my Lord, go farther at preſent on this head: 'Tis your buſineſs to fix my judgment. I will ingenuouſly confeſs, though it will give you an unfavourable opinion of me, if you are not the man I take you to be, that I am not diſpleaſed at your liking me: yet if ever I ſee occaſion to alter the idea I have conceived of you, hope not that I ſhall in the leaſt indulge my inclination. I ſhall not take it ill, if you give your heart to a more virtuous woman; therefore do not complain of your lot, if I diſpoſe of mine in favour of any man whom I may find ſuperior to you in virtue."

Mahmut, ſtruck with admiration and overflowing with joy, laboured to riſe to ſuch a pitch as might oblige Idris to be conſtant to him. He applied himſelf with freſh vigour to acquire the arts and ſciences neceſſary for a man in his ſtation. He made it his buſineſs to relieve indigent merit and unfortunate virtue. His humanity, generoſity, capacity and modeſty, were equally conſpicuous; and Idris abundantly rewarded him for all the pains he took to pleaſe her. Praiſe grounded on truth, and coming from the mouth of ſo charming a perſon, filled the tender Mahmut's heart with joy and ſatisfaction. He read in the eyes of his beauteous miſtreſs how dear he was to her: He talked of his attachment, and deſcribed its ſincerity; Idris liſtened to him with pleaſure, vowed ſhe would make him a juſt return, and thus animated him to give her no occaſion to [24] repent her engagement. In theſe overflowings of their hearts, which none but true lovers can know and feel the ſweetneſs of, they laid open to each other the moſt ſecret receſſes of their ſouls. Mahmut was grieved whenever he took leave of Idris; nor could ſhe bear his abſence without a viſible concern: They always parted under the greateſt impatience to meet again.

Between two neighbours ſo powerful as the Grand Signior and the King of Perſia, there can be no long peace: A war ſoon broke out, and Mahmut was obliged to ſet out for the army. He waited upon Idris, to deplore with her the dire neceſſity that forced them aſunder: But while he lay at her feet, he durſt not diſcloſe to her all his grief: The fortitude of the fair one daunted him; he was afraid of leſſening himſelf in her eſteem, by diſcovering any weakneſs. Idris perceived the ſore conflict in his breaſt, and loved him for it the more intenſely.

Mahmut had not been gone a month, when he gave way to his deſire of an interview with Idris. He ſlipped away privately from the army, and with the help of relays which he had got ready on the road, he was at the gates of Iſpahan before they miſſed him in the camp. Alighting at the houſe of one of his old ſervants, he diſguiſed himſelf in the apparel of a peaſant, that he might not be known in the city; and, impatient of an interview with his Idris, he flew to her houſe.

[25]The charming maid was ſitting at her balcony as Mahmut was advancing, and knew him, notwithſtanding his diſguiſe. Grieved to ſee him thus neglect his glory and his duty, ſhe ran directly to her cloſet, charging her ſlave to admit no viſitor whatever. She melted into fears at the weakneſs of her lover; but ſoon recovering herſelf, ſhe wrote him the following billet.

IDRIS to the PEASANT.

"Friend, I know that thou art to be forthwith at the army. Call upon Mahmut, and tell him from me, that I deſire him to remember the conditions on which the heart of Idris is to be ſecured."

Mahmut was too much confounded with theſe few words, to aſk any queſtions of the ſlave that delivered him the billet. He went back to his domeſtick's houſe, to put off his diſguiſe; and fluctuating between admiration, grief, and fear, he repaired again to the army with as much haſte as he had travelled up to Iſpahan. His chief ſtudy being to make amends for the fault he had committed, he behaved the reſt of the campaign with ſo much ardor, bravery and conduct, that he was deſervedly promoted to a higher poſt, which the King conferred on him, with the moſt honourable eulogies, at the head of the army. Idris wrote him a congratulatory letter on his promotion, in which, without mentioning his weakneſs, ſhe gave him to underſtand that ſhe had forgiven him.

[26]Mahmut, tranſported with joy, haſtened back to Iſpahan as ſoon as the army was ordered into winter quarters; and liſtening to no other conſiderations but his eſteem for the virtuous girl, he entreated her to complete his happineſs in becoming his wife. Your wife, my Lord! anſwered Idris, with a kind of ſurprize mixed with indignation: What! would Mahmut forget himſelf ſo far? In diſpoſing of your heart, you may indeed conſult nothing but your inclination: But when the queſtion is to chooſe a partner in your dignity and fortune, you are accountable to thoſe of whom you hold both. I that am ready to ſacrifice my life, were it neceſſary, to preſerve your glory, ſhall not be inſtrumental myſelf in ſullying it.

Sentiments like theſe made the paſſionate Mahmut only more preſſing. What are thoſe things, ſaid he, which, create ſo great a diſparity between us? An inſtant may deprive me of them: But the dowry which you will bring me, charming Idris, is a bleſſing that depends not on men nor fortune. In uttering theſe words, his countenance began to be clouded with grief: Freſh denials drove him to deſpair; he drew his poniard, and was going to plunge it into his breaſt. The tender Idris could hold out no longer: Ah! Mahmut, cried ſhe, ſtop your hand, and live: To-morrow I ſhall be your's; grant me this ſhort reſpite. She could not utter more; tears put an end to her ſurprize, and ſtopt her ſpeech. Aſhamed of her weakneſs, ſhe broke looſe [27] from her lover's arms, withdrew to her cloſet, and ſoon repented the promiſe ſhe had made.

In the mean while Mahmut was deſperate enough to reſolve upon death, if ſhe denied his requeſt. The maid, wavering between tender paſſion, and concern for the glory of her lover, ſoon hit upon a device that would reconcile them. While ſhe was free, notwithſtanding the meanneſs of her condition, ſhe could not in honour give herſelf to him, upon any other terms than marriage; and conſidering the diſtance which fortune had put between them, ſhe was ſenſible ſhe could not receive the title of wife without diſgracing her admirer. She reſolved then to remove thoſe obſtacles to her Mahmut's happineſs, at the expence of what was moſt dear to her. Wrapping herſelf up therefore in a long mantle, ſhe left her houſe in the duſk of the evening, and ſold herſelf to a dealer in ſlaves. After this ſhe wrote the following letter to Mahmut.

MY LORD,

"You have not judged me unworthy to be your wife, and I have the deepeſt ſenſe of gratitude for this ſignal teſtimony of your eſteem. I think my heart and my ſentiments would not have diſgraced that honourable quality: But what would your relations ſay? What would all Perſia ſay, whoſe eyes are upon you, and who ſee nothing in me but the mean profeſſion I was bred to? I allow that in one moment you may be deprived of every thing that [28] makes the great diſparity between us: But if ever you ſhould be borne down by adverſe fortune, the whole world would be forced to acknowledge the injuſtice, and to pity and admire you. You love Idris: You are reſolved to die, if ſhe does not make herſelf your's: Come then and take her out of the houſe of the maſter, to whom ſhe has ſold herſelf, in order that you yourſelf may become her maſter. She is not qualified to be your wife: Take her then as your ſlave."

DIALOGUE XII.

MR. EGERTON.

IN our converſations, children, we have had frequent occaſion to mention the Eaſtern nations, from the tales which have lately multiplied among us; ſome of which I have introduced here, for the ſake of their moral intent, as well as for variety. The doctrines of Mahomet being now almoſt univerſally received in the Eaſt, I thought an account of the man, and his opinions, would tend not only to inform your minds, but to make you tolerant in your principles. I have, therefore, drawn up the narrative, which I am going to read for your uſe and information. [29] Afterwards, I mean to give you ſome advice relative to ſuperſtition, and its pernicious effects.

MR. EGERTON.

No perſon, my children, can read the above account of the Day of Judgment without admiring the ſublimity and grandeur of the images that are there collected. It is taken from a dialogue between Mahomet and Abdàllah Ebn Salam, a Jew, who was ſuppoſed to have aſſiſted him in compoſing the Alcoran. Many particulars contained in this abſtract, are taken from the accounts given by Commentators, and many from the Alcoran itſelf.

CHARLES.

It is very wonderful indeed, Sir; but ſurely Mahomet muſt have been exceedingly wicked to make the people believe ſuch lies, and perſuade them that he was a Prophet.

MR. EGERTON.

Yes, Charles, he was exceedingly wicked. I know no wickedneſs equal to that of diſſeminating lies under the maſk of religion: that is, of propagating incoherent and contradictory opinions, of infuſing mental terrors into the minds of the ſimple [41] and the ignorant, and of cauſing them to diſpute, hate, and exterminate each other for ages to come, in ſupport of doctrines which are ſo involved in myſtery, abſurdity and falſehood, that no two men, even among thoſe who imagine they comprehend them, were ever of one belief.

EUSTACE.

Certainly, Sir, we have no right to either diſturb or deſpiſe perſons who think differently from ourſelves.

MR. EGERTON.

By no means. The Ruſſians believe St. Nicholas ſwam down the river Volga on a mill-ſtone; the Gentoos worſhip a cow; the Egyptians a cat; the Papiſts a wafer. Theſe things are ridiculous, but not pernicious, till they are rendered ſo by the arts of ambition, or the zeal of enthuſiaſm. Superſtition ſhould be pitied, not perſecuted. A King of Siam had a white elephant, which he ſuppoſed was poſſeſſed of ſupernatural powers, and he, therefore, made it the object of his adoration. The King of Pegu was a cunning and ambitious Prince, that wanted a pretext to make war upon the King of Siam. For this purpoſe he likewiſe pretended to believe in the white elephant; ordained it ſacrifices, paid it divine honours, and, at laſt, ſent to demand it of the King of Siam, that it might be ſeen and worſhipped by all the people of Pegu. The demand [42] was peremptorily refuſed by the King of Siam. This was foreſeen by the King of Pegu, who had previouſly taken his meaſures, and having a vaſt army in readineſs, immediately invaded Siam, which he conquered; added it to his own kingdom, and took the white elephant, which, that he might ſeem to be conſiſtent, he cauſed all his ſubjects to adore. The religious wars of Chriſtians, Jews, and Turks, are not unlike the war of the white elephant; religion is the pretence, but ambition is the motive. Men go to battle, and afterwards, with miraculous effrontery, to the temples of the God of Benevolence, to render thanks for having obtained the power to murder and deſtroy their own ſpecies; nay more, they pretend to faſt, and to pray that they may induce the God of Mercy to be of their party.

Proteſtants themſelves are ſufficiently weak, ſufficiently abſurd, and have far, far too much of the perſecuting ſpirit remaining among them. Let us, however, do them the juſtice to acknowledge, they are more rational, and more tolerant, than other ſectaries. We are but too well acquainted with the perſecutions of the Catholics, their inquiſitions, and their maſſacres; yet do not let us cheriſh ourſelves, or endeavour to inſpire others with hatred towards them: their leaders, their rulers, and their inſtructors only are guilty.

The following account of a Turkiſh faſt forcibly and lamentably deſcribes the power of that ſuperſtition of which Mahomet was the founder. The [43] Sultan Selim having been conſtantly defeated in his wars with the Germans, who were commanded by the great Eugene, and being afraid of loſing his crown and his life by popular inſurrections, endeavoured to amuſe the people, and divert them from rebellious thoughts by proclaiming a Faſt, which exhibits a melancholy picture of abject folly, and incoherent cruelty.

PROCLAMATION.

ASHMED Selim, Sultan, Emperor of the Eaſt and of the Weſt, Lord of Lords, true imitator of the prophet Mahomet, &c. The Grand Sultan being apprehenſive, that the hand of the great God is ſtretched out againſt his government, his ſubjects, and his empire, ſince he permits them to be oppreſſed and tormented by their enemies the chriſtians, who have vanquiſhed them ſeveral times, both by ſea and land, and taken from them a large extent of country; and all this, as it appears to him, becauſe the muſſulmans have corrupted themſelves, and become too confident of their power: To appeaſe the wrath of God, therefore, and of his prophet Mahomet, he expreſsly orders, That on Friday, after new moon, in the fifth, ſixth, and ſeventh months, all and ſingular his ſubjects ſhall keep a rigorous faſt all that day, and abſtain from meat and drink, from the riſing of the ſun, till that of the ſtars. On that day, the Mufti, and other eccleſiaſtical ſervants, cloathed [44] with penitential garments of hair-cloth, with down-caſt eyes, beards uncombed, and all in tears, ſhall repair firſt to the public places, and afterwards to the moſques, crying with all their ſtrength, "Ya mofateth ilabwab," [i. e. Open the gates of thy favour.] In the iſland of Mecca, the prophet's coffin ſhall be laid open, and expoſed to public view upon ſilver treſſels, perfumed with incenſe, and filled with the bones of ſervants and ſpahi's killed in the battle; that the prophet, moved by ſo great and ſo ſenſible a loſs, may be induced to appeaſe the wrath of Heaven. This to be performed three Fridays, the coffin carried through the ſtreets and in the fields; and all the pilgrims and inhabitants of the moſques, with the Chiefs of the trades, ſhall make the round ſeven times, ſinging, with a doleful voice, the Canticle of Lamentation, on account of this terrible deſtruction. No inſtrument of muſic ſhall be heard, but cries of ſorrow and univerſal mourning; and, on the laſt day of faſting, a ſolemn and general proceſſion ſhall be made, ten miles round, in the following order:

Firſt, The proceſſion ſhall begin with a coffin filled with dead men's bones, broken ſcimiters, flatted cuiraſſes, broken bows, and blunt arrows. All theſe ſhall be carried by ſix-hundred Turks cloathed in penitential habits, bare-footed and bare-headed, without turbans.

2. Three hundred muſſulmans ſhall follow, with habits dyed in blood and ſtrewed with aſhes, ſtriking [45] their breaſts, with lamentable outcries and doleful howlings.

3. Six thouſa [...]d, n [...]k [...]d from their h [...]ads to their girdles, ſhall laſh their breaſts and ſhoulders with thorns, till the blood droppeth on the ground, without their wiping it off.

4. The coffin of the prophet, ſupported by thirty Spahis without turbans, ſurrounded by four hundred Baſhaws, with drawn ſcimiters, to deſtroy all who ſhall look on the coffin without reſpect, and whoſe bodies ſhall be caſt to the dogs.

5. At every quarter of a mile, an aſs and a Jew ſhall be killed, and left on the ground weltering in their blood.

6. Thirty land Baſhaws ſhall be without purple, and with pitiful turbans of a black ſtuff dipped in the blood of the aſs and the Jew, having one hand tied behind to the ſhoulder; without ſcimiters, but with tails of black horſes dragging on the ground to raiſe the duſt.

7. Three thouſand Janizaries, without arms, having ſticks in their hands trailing on the ground, ſhall cry, "Alla haſbi fagavuri!" [i. e. God is my protector! let him pardon me!]

8. A cheſt filled with ſilver to be thrown to the people, but not to be gathered, till the proceſſion be over, under pain of being impaled alive.

9. In fine, this proceſſion ſhall be cloſed by an innumerable multitude of people, in the midſt of whom there ſhall be an hundred Turkiſh penitents, who [46] with knives ſhall cut off the fleſh of their arms, their breaſts, and their faces, the better to appeaſe the wrath of the great God and his prophet Mahomet; and, at every quarter of a mile, they ſhall lift up the right-hand, and cry, with all their ſtrength, "Alla ſifai ſededni Ahday." [i. e. I invoke God with my mouth, that he may fortify me againſt my enemies.]

NANCY.

This is a moſt barbarous and cruel ceremony, Sir.

MR. EGERTON.

Ay, my dear, ſo much ſo, that I would not have ſhocked your ears with ſo black a relation of human depravity, but that I wiſh to inſpire a univerſal deteſtation of the perſecuting ſpirit of ſuperſtition. We will cloſe this ſubject with the fictitious travels of Scarmentado, which, though done in the form of a novel, contain a true and melancholy collection of facts.

SUPERSTITION: Or SCARMENTADO.

MY name is Scarmentado; my father was governor of the city of Candia, where I came into the world in the year 1600, and I remember that one Jro, a ſtupid and ſcurrilous poet, wrote a copy [47] of doggrel verſes in my praiſe, by which he proved me deſcended from Minos in a direct line; but my father being diſgraced ſome time after, he wrote another poem, by which it appeared I was no longer a-kin to Minos, but the deſcendant of Paſiphae and her lover.

When I was fifteen years old, my father ſent me to Rome, to finiſh my ſtudies. Monſignor Profonde, to whom I was recommended, was a ſtrange kind of man, and one of the moſt terrible ſcholars breathing; he took it into his head to teach me the categories of Ariſtotle, and I narrowly eſcaped his throwing me into the category of his minions. I ſaw many proceſſions and exorciſms, and much oppreſſion. Signora Fatelo, a lady of no rigid morals, was fooliſh enough to like me: ſhe was wooed by two youthful monks, the Rev. Father Poignardini, and the Rev. Father Aconiti, but ſhe put an end to the pretenſions of both of them, by granting me her good graces; yet, at the ſame time, I narrowly eſcaped being excommunicated and poiſoned. I left Rome, exceedingly well pleaſed with the architecture of St. Peter's church.

I went to France, in the reign of Lewis, ſurnamed the Juſt; the firſt thing I was aſked was, whether I choſe a reliſh of the Marſhal d'Ancre, whoſe body the public had roaſted, and which was diſtributing very cheap to ſuch as deſired the happineſs of taſting. This nation was at that time torn to pieces by civil wars, occaſioned ſometimes by ambition, ſometimes [48] by controverſy; and thoſe inteſtine broils had for the ſpace of forty years deluged the moſt delightful country in the world with blood. Such were the liberties of the Gallican church: the French, ſaid I, are naturally wiſe; what makes them deviate from that character? They are much given to joking and pleaſantry, and yet they commit a maſſacre; happy that age in which they ſhall do nothing but joke and make merry.

From hence I ſet out for England; the ſame fanatical temper excited here the ſame furious zeal; a ſet of devout Roman Catholics, had reſolved, for the good of the church, to blow up the king, the royal family, and the parliament, with gunpowder, and thereby free the nation from thoſe heretics. I was ſhewn the ſpot where the bleſſed Queen Mary, daughter to Henry VIII. had cauſed above five hundred of her ſubjects to be burnt alive. A pious Hibernian prieſt aſſured me, it was a very laudable action, firſt, becauſe thoſe they had burned were Engliſh; and, ſecondly, becauſe they were wretches who never took any holy water, and did not believe in St. Patrick.

From England I went to Holland, in hopes of finding more peace and tranquillity among a more flegmatic people. At my arrival at the Hague, I was entertained with the beheading of a venerable old patriot, the prime miniſter Barnevelt, who was the moſt deſerving man in the republic. Struck with pity at the ſight, I aſked what his crime was, and [49] whether he had betrayed the ſtate? He has done worſe, replied a preacher with a black cloak, he believes that we can be ſaved by good works, as well as by faith. You are ſenſible, that were ſuch ſyſtems ſuffered to prevail, the commonwealth could not long ſubſiſt, and that a ſevere law is neceſſary to check and refute ſuch ſcandalous errors. A deep Dutch politician told me with a ſigh, that ſuch commendable actions could not laſt for ever: Alas, Sir! ſaid he, our people naturally incline towards toleration; ſome day or other they will adopt it; I ſhudder at the thought: believe me, Sir, purſued he, it is a mere chance that you actually find them ſo laudably and zealouſly inclined as to cut off the heads of their fellow-creatures for the ſake of religion. Such were the lamentable words of the Dutchman; for my own part, I thought proper to abandon a country, whoſe ſeverity had no compenſation, and therefore embarked for Spain.

I arrived at Seville in the fineſt ſeaſon in the year. The court was there, the galleons were arrived, and all ſeemed to proclaim joy, abundance, and profuſion. I eſpied at the end of a beautiful alley, full of orange and lemon-trees, a vaſt concourſe round an amphitheatre richly adorned; the king, the queen, the infants and infantas, were ſeated under a ſtately canopy, and over againſt that auguſt family, another throne, higher and more magnificent, had been erected. I told one of my travelling companions, that unleſs that ſuperb throne were dedicated to the Deity, [50] I could not ſee the uſe of it; but theſe indiſcreet words being overheard by a grave Spaniard, I paid dear for having uttered them. In the mean time, I imagined we were to be diverted with a carouſal, wreſtling, or bull-baiting; when I perceived the grand inquiſitor aſcend that throne, and beſtow his bleſſing upon the king and people. Then appeared an army of monks, filing off two by two; ſome were white, others were black, grey, and brown; ſome were ſhod, and ſome bare-footed; ſome had beards, and ſome had none; ſome were with cowls, and ſome without. Then came the executioner, followed by about forty wretches, guarded by a world of grandees and alguazils, and covered with garments, upon which were painted flames and devils. Theſe fellows were Jews, who would not altogether be compelled to abandon the law of Moſes; and Chriſtians who had married their godmothers, or perhaps refuſed to worſhip Neuſtra Dama d' Atocha, or to part with their money in favour of the brothers Hieronymians. Prayers were ſaid very devoutly, after which all thoſe wretches were tortured and burnt: which concluded the ceremony, to the great edification of all the royal family.

The ſame night, while I was going to bed, two meſſengers from the inquiſition came to my lodgings with the holy Hermandad. They embraced me tenderly, and, without ſpeaking a word, carried me out of the houſe, and conducted me into a dungeon, not incommoded by heat, adorned with a curious [51] crucifix, and a mat inſtead of a bed. After I had been there ſix weeks, the father inquiſitor ſent his compliments, and deſired to ſee me: I obeyed the ſummons: he received me with open arms, and after having embraced me with more than paternal fondneſs, told me, he was very ſorry they had put me in ſo bad a lodging, but that all the apartments happening to be full, it was impoſſible to give me another; adding, however, that he hoped I ſhould be better taken care of another time. He then aſked me very lovingly, whether I knew why I was put in there. I told the reverend father, I ſuppoſed it was for my ſins. Well, my dear child, replied he, but for what ſin? make me your confident—ſpeak. I did all I could to bethink myſelf of ſome miſdemeanor, but in vain; upon which, he made me recollect my imprudent words: in ſhort, I recovered my liberty, after having undergone a ſevere diſcipline, and paid 30,000 reals. I went to take leave of the grand inquiſitor; he was a very polite man, and aſked me how I reliſhed the holidays they had given me? I told him they were delightful, and at the ſame time went to preſs my companions to quit this enchanting country. They had time enough, during my confinement, to learn all the great atchievements of the Spaniards, for the ſake of religion. They had read the memoirs of the famous biſhop of Chiapa, by which it appears, that ten millions of infidels had been murdered in America to convert the reſt. I imagined that biſhop might exaggerate [52] a little, but ſuppoſing the victims were but half that number, the ſacrifice was ſtill admirable.

Notwithſtanding the diſagreeable adventures I had met with in my travels, determined to finiſh my tour, and accordingly embarked for Turkey, fully reſolved never more to intermeddle with other people's affairs, nor give my judgment about public ſhews. Theſe Turks, ſaid I, to my companions, are a ſet of unbaptized miſcreants; and of courſe more cruel than the reverend fathers of the inquiſition. Let us be ſilent among the Mahometans.

I arrived at Conſtantinople, where I was ſtrangely ſurprized to ſee more Chriſtian churches than in Candia; but much more ſo, to ſee alſo a numerous train of monks, permitted to offer their prayers freely to the Virgin Mary, and to curſe Mahomet, ſome in Greek, others in Latin, and ſome in Armenian. How reaſonable are the Turks! exclaimed I. Whilſt the Chriſtian world ſtains a ſpotleſs religion with blood, theſe infidels tolerate doctrines which they abhor, without moleſtation or inhumanity. The Grecian and Latin Chriſtians were at mortal enmity in Conſtantinople, and like dogs that quarrelled in the ſtreets, perſecuted each other with the utmoſt violence. The Grand Vizir protected the Greeks, whoſe patriarch accuſed me before him of having ſupped with the Latins, and I was moſt charitably condemned by the divan, to receive one hundred blows with a lath, upon the ſole of the foot, with permiſſion, however, to be excuſed for 500 ſequins. [53] The next day the Grand Vizir was ſtrangled; and the day following, his ſucceſſor, who was for the Latin party, and who was not ſtrangled till a month afterwards, condemned me to the ſame puniſhment, for having ſupped with the Grecian patriarch: and, in ſhort, I was reduced to the ſad neceſſity to frequent neither the Latin nor the Greek church. To make myſelf amends, I determined to make love to a young Turkiſh laſs, who ſeemed to have a diſpoſition as gentle, kind, and compaſſionate in private, as it was pious and devout in the moſque. One night, as I was pleading my paſſion, and complaining of her cruelty, ſhe ſuddenly exclaimed, Oh alla, alla, alla. Theſe are the ſacramental words of the Turks, which I miſtook for the ſoft tranſports of love, and therefore cried out in my turn, Oh alla, alla, alla; upon which ſhe ſaid, "Let Mahomet be glorified, you are a Turk." In the morning the iman came to perform the initiating ceremony, but as I made ſome reſiſtance, the cady, who certainly was a very loyal gentleman, told me he intended to have me impaled. I preſerved my religion, &c. by a thouſand ſequins, and fled into Perſia, firmly reſolved never to go to the Latin or Grecian maſs, or to ſay alla, alla, alla, in Turkey.

At my arrival at Iſpahan, I was aſked which I was for, white or black ſheep? I anſwered, that the fleſh of a white or black ſheep was equal to me, provided it was tender. It ſhould be known, that the factions of the white and black ſheep ſtill divided [52] [...] [53] [...] [54] the Perſians, who imagined I meant to laugh at both parties, inſomuch that I had ſcarce entered the city gates, when I had a ſad affair to extricate myſelf from; which I did however with a good number of ſequins, and by their means got ſafe out of the hands of theſe ſheep.

I went as far as China with an interpreter, who informed me, that it was the only country where one might live freely, gaily, and peaceably. The Tartars had rendered themſelves maſters of it with fire and ſword, and the reverend fathers me Jeſuits, on one ſide, and the reverend fathers the Dominicans, on the other, ſaid that they drew ſouls towards God every day, without any body's knowing it. Sure there never was a ſet of more zealous converters! for they perſecuted one another by turns; and ſent to Rome whole volumes of calumnies, wherein they were reciprocally called infidels and prevaricators. There was particularly a terrible quarrel among them, about the method of making a bow. The Jeſuits taught the Chineſe to ſalute their parents after the manner of their country; and the Dominicans, on the contrary, held that they ought to bow to them after the manner of Rome. I happened to be taken by the Jeſuits for a Dominican, and they told his Tartarian majeſty, that I was the Pope's ſpy. The ſupreme council immediately ordered the prime mandarin, who ordered a ſerjeant, who ordered four guards to arreſt and bind me, with all the ceremony uſual on ſuch occaſions. I was [55] brought, after one hundred and forty genu-flexions, before his majeſty, who aſked me, whether I really was the Pope's ſpy, and whether it was true, that his holineſs intended to come in perſon to dethrone him? I anſwered, that the Pope was a prieſt, threeſcore and ten years of age; that he lived four thouſand miles diſtant from his ſacred Tartaro-Chineſe majeſty; that he had about two thouſand ſoldiers, who mounted guard with an umbrella; that he never dethroned any body; and, in ſhort, that his majeſty might ſleep in quiet. This was the laſt unfortunate adventure I met with in the whole courſe of my travels. I was ſent to Macao, where I embarked for Europe.

I was obliged, in order to refit my ſhip, to put into a harbour, on the coaſt of Golconda. I laid hold of that opportunity, to go and ſee the court of the great Aureng-zebe, ſo much renowned for its wonderful magnificence: he was then at Delhi; and I had the good fortune to ſee him the day of that pompous ceremony, in which he received the Heavenly Preſent ſent him by the ſheriff of Mecca, viz. the broom, with which they had ſwept the holy houſe, the Caaba, and the Beth alla. That broom is a ſymbol which ſweeps away all uncleanneſs of ſoul. Aureng-zebe had no occaſion for it, ſince he was the moſt pious man in Indoſtan. It is true, he had cut his brother's throat, poiſoned his father, and put to death, by torture, about twenty rayas, and as many omrahs; yet nothing was talked of but his [56] devotion, which, they ſaid, was without equal, except that of his moſt ſacred majeſty Muley Iſmael, the moſt ſerene emperor of Morocco, who never failed to ſtrike off ſeveral heads, every Friday after prayers.

To all this I ſpoke not a word; my travels and adventures had taught me to bridle my tongue; and I was very ſenſible, it was not mine to decide between the piety of the emperors of India and Morocco.

I had not yet ſeen Africa; but whilſt I was debating with myſelf, whether it was better to ſatisfy this laſt inclination, or ſail for Italy, my ſhip was taken by the negroes, and I was, of courſe, carried thither. Our captain railed againſt the captors, aſking them the reaſon why they thus outrageouſly violated the law of nations? They replied, Your noſe is long, and Our's is flat; your hair is ſtraight, and our wool is curled; you are white, and we are black; conſequently we ought, according to the ſacred and unalterable law of nature, to be ever enemies.— You buy us on the coaſt of Guinea, as if we were not human creatures, then treat us like beaſts, and with repeated blows conſtrain us to an eternal digging into the mountains, in order to find a ridiculous yellow duſt, of no intrinſic value, and not worth a good Egyptian onion; therefore when we meet with you, and happen to be ſtrongeſt, we make you our ſlaves, and force you to till our ground, or elſe we cut off your noſe or ears. We had nothing to ſay [57] againſt ſo wiſe a diſcourſe. I was employed to till the ground of an old negro woman, having no inclination to loſe either my noſe or my ears; and, after a twelvemonth's ſlavery, was redeemed by ſome friends I had written to for that purpoſe.

Having thus ſeen the world, and all that is great, good, and admirable in it, I reſolved to return to Candia, where I married preſently after my arrival, and ſoon became an example to devotees and jealous huſbands, by the profound taciturnity and tranquillity which I obſerved upon all occaſions. To ſay the truth, I found matrimony, when compared to what I had ſeen and ſuffered, a very tolerable evil.

DIALOGUE XIII.

CHARLES.

YOU were ſo good yeſterday, Sir, as to explain the ill conſequences of ſuperſtition, and the injuſtice of perſecution. This brought to my mind the ſtory of the flying cheſt, which I read ſome time ago; and I thought very diverting. As it is founded on ſuperſtition, will you give me leave to read it? Perhaps it will entertain the company.

MR. EGERTON.
[58]

Very willingly, Charles; for though there is more of diverſion than inſtruction in this tale, yet, as you may be innocently merry at the incidents, and as innocent mirth is very deſirable, I gladly give my conſent. Neither is it without a moral; it will caution you againſt credulity, and teach you not to give a haſty aſſent to bold and raſh pretenders.

CREDULITY: Or the Story of MALEK and the Princeſs SCHIRINE.

I AM the only ſon of a rich merchant of Surat. A little while after his death, I ſpent the beſt part of the wealth he left me. I was making an end of the remainder with my friends, when a ſtranger that paſſed by Surat, to go, as he ſaid, to the Iſle of Ceylon, by chance dined at my table. They happened to talk about travelling. Some commended the uſefulneſs and pleaſure of it, others repreſented the dangers. Some of the company gave us an account of their travels. The curious things they had ſeen excited me to travel; but the dangers they had run through, hindered me from reſolving on it.

After I had heard them all, I ſaid, one cannot hear you ſpeak of the pleaſures you have had in going over the world, without feeling an extreme deſire of travelling. But the dangers that travellers are expoſed to, take from me the inclination of [59] ſeeing other countries. If one could, added I, ſmiling, go from one end of the world to the other, without meeting with unlucky accidents on the way, I ſhould ſet off to-morrow from Surat. At theſe words, which made all the company laugh, the ſtranger ſaid to me; Seigneur Malek, if you have a deſire to travel, and if the danger alone of meeting with robbers hinders you from reſolving to do ſo, I will teach you, when you will, a way to go from kingdom to kingdom, without any danger. I believed he was in jeſt; but after dinner he took me aſide, and told me that the next morning he would come to me, and ſhew me ſomething very extraordinary.

He did not fail: he came again to me, and ſaid, I will keep my word with you; but you will not ſee the effect of my promiſe theſe two or three days, for it is a work that cannot be done to-day. Send one of your ſlaves for a joiner, and let them both bring boards with them; which was done immediately.

When the joiner and the ſlave were come, the ſtranger bid the joiner make a cheſt ſix feet long, and four broad. The workman went preſently to work; the ſtranger, on his part, was not idle; he made a great many pieces of the machine, the vices and the ſprings. They worked all day long, and the joiner was diſmiſſed: the ſtranger ſpent the day following to place the ſprings, and to perfect the work.

At three days end the cheſt was finiſhed; it was covered with a Perſian carpet, and carried into the [60] country, whither I went with the ſtranger: who ſaid to me; ſend away your ſlaves, and let us ſtay here alone, I will have none near but yourſelf to be witneſs of what I do. I ordered my ſlaves to go home, and I ſtaid alone with the ſtranger. I longed to know what he would do with this machine; he at length got in it, and at the ſame time the cheſt raiſed itſelf up from the ground, and cut the air with incredible ſwiftneſs; in one moment it ſprung a great way from me, and the next was again at my feet.

I cannot tell you how much I was ſurprized at this prodigy. You ſee, ſaid the ſtranger to me, getting out of the machine, a very eaſy carriage, and you ought to be perſuaded, that, travelling after this manner, one need not fear being robbed on the road. This is the method I would have you take to travel in ſafety. I will make you a preſent of this trunk; you may make uſe of it when you have a mind to go into foreign countries. Think not, continued he, that there is any inchantment in what you have ſeen: 'tis not by cabaliſtick words, nor by virtue of a taliſman, that this cheſt raiſes itſelf in the air. Its motion is made by an ingenious artifice, that ſhews the power of mechanics, of which I am a perfect maſter.

I thanked the ſtranger for ſo rare a preſent, and gave him, as an acknowledgment, a purſe full of ſequins. Inform me, ſaid I to him afterwards, how I muſt do to ſet this cheſt in motion: I will teach [61] you that preſently, anſwered he. At theſe words he made me go into the machine with him; touched a ſpring, and preſently we were lifted up in the air. Then ſhewing me what method was to be taken to guide it right; in turning this vice, ſaid he to me, you go to the right, and in turning that, you go to the left; by touching this ſtring you aſcend, and by touching that you deſcend. I made trial of it myſelf; I turned the vices, and touched the ſprings; the cheſt, effectually obedient to my hand, went which way I pleaſed, and haſtened or ſlackened the motion as I managed. After having made a great many wheelings about in the air, we took our flight towards my houſe, and deſcended into my garden; which we eaſily did, becauſe we had taken off the carpet that covered the machine, which had a great many holes through it, as well to admit the air, as to look through.

We were at home before my ſlaves, who were enough ſurprized to ſee us return. I locked the cheſt up in my apartment, where I kept it with as much care as if it had been a treaſure; and the ſtranger went away as content with me, as I was with him. I continued to divert myſelf with my friends, till I had ſpent all my patrimony. I began alſo to borrow, inſomuch that I inſenſibly found myſelf loaded with debts. As ſoon as it was known in Surat that I was ruined, I loſt my credit, nobody would lend me any thing; and my creditors, impatient to have their money again, gave me notice to [62] pay it. Not knowing any longer which way to turn myſelf, and by conſequence being liable to troubles and affronts, I had recourſe to my cheſt: I drew it one night out of my apartment into my yard, I got into it, with ſome proviſions, and the little money I had left. I touched the ſpring that made the machine mount; then turning one of the vices, I went far enough from Surat, and from my creditors, without fear of their ſending any officers after me.

I made the cheſt go all that night as faſt as poſſible, and I believed that I ſurpaſſed the wind in ſwiftneſs. At day-break, I looked through a hole to ſee where I was, and perceived nothing but mountains and precipices, a dry country, and a frightful deſert; I could diſcover no appearance of an habitation. I continued to travel through the air all that day and the night following. The next day I found myſelf over a very thick wood, nigh which there was a very fine town ſituated in a plain of great extent.

I ſtopt to look at the town, as well as at a magnificent palace, that offered itſelf to my view at the end of the plain. I deſired paſſionately to know where I was, and had already thought on a way to ſatisfy my curioſity, when I ſaw in the fields a peaſant tilling the ground. I deſcended in the wood, where I left my cheſt, and went towards the huſbandman, of whom I aſked how they called the town. Young man, anſwered he, one may ſee you [63] are a ſtranger, ſince you know not that this town is called Gazna; the equitable and valiant King Bahaman makes it the place of his reſidence. And who lives, ſaid I to him, in that palace that we ſee at the end of the plain? The King of Gazna, replied he, has built it to keep his daughter the Princeſs Schirine in, who is threatened by her horoſcope to be deceived by a man. Bahaman, to elude this prediction, built this palace, which is of marble and ſurrounded with deep ditches of water. The gate is ſteel of China; and beſides that, the King keeps the key of it; there is a numerous guard that watches night and day, to hinder any man from going in. The King goes once a week to ſee the Princeſs his daughter, and then returns to Gazna. Schirine has no company in this palace, but a governeſs and ſome maiden-ſlaves.

I thanked the peaſant for his information, and went towards the town. When I was almoſt arrived there, I heard a great noiſe, and preſently ſaw many horſemen, magnificently cloathed, and all mounted on very fine horſes that were richly accoutred. I perceived, in the middle of that ſtately cavalcade, a luſty man, who had on his head a crown of gold, and whoſe cloaths were covered with diamonds. I judged that he was the King of Gazna, who was going to ſee the Princeſs his daughter, and I underſtood in the town that I was not deceived in my conjecture.

[64]After I had taken a turn or two about the town, and ſatisfied my curioſity a little, I remembered my cheſt; and though I had left it in a place where I had reaſon to think it ſafe, yet I was uneaſy. I went from Gazna, and I could not be ſatisfied, till I came where it was. Then I was at eaſe, I eat with a good appetite what was leſt of my proviſion, and the night coming on, I reſolved to ſpend it in the wood. I doubted not but I ſhould ſleep well; for neither my debts, nor the ill condition I found myſelf in, gave me much uneaſineſs: nevertheleſs I could not ſleep; what the peaſant had told me of the Princeſs Schirine was always in my thoughts. Is it poſſible, ſaid I, that Bahaman ſhould be afraid of a frivolous prediction? Was it neceſſary to build a palace to ſhut up his daughter in? Was ſhe not ſafe enough in his? Beſides, if aſtrologers can dive into the obſcurity of what is to come, if they can read futurity in the ſtars, it is in vain to endeavour to elude their predictions, they muſt of neceſſity be accompliſhed. If the Princeſs of Gazna be predeſtined to be deceived by a man, it is in vain for any one to pretend to prevent it.

I was ſo taken up with thinking on Schirine, who I fancied to myſelf was handſomer than all the ladies I had ſeen, though at Surat and Goa I had beheld many of the moſt beautiful women, who had contributed not a little to ruin me. But I had a great deſire to try my fortune. I will, ſaid I, tranſport myſelf to the top of the Princeſs's palace, [65] and endeavour to get into her apartment. Perhaps I am the mortal, whoſe fortunate attempt the aſtrologers have ſeen written in the ſtars.

I was young, and by conſequence heedleſs; I wanted not courage: I formed this raſh deſign, and executed it immediately. I raiſed myſelf in the air, and guided my cheſt towards the palace. The darkneſs of the night was ſuch as I could deſire. I paſſed, without being perceived, over the ſoldiers heads, who being poſted about the ditches, kept a ſtrict guard. I deſcended upon the roof of the palace, nigh a place where I ſaw a light. I got out of my cheſt, and ſlipt in at a window, that was open to receive the freſhneſs of the air, into an apartment richly furniſhed, where the Princeſs Schirine was lying on a brocaded ſopha. She ſeemed to me of a dazzling beauty; I found her far excelling the idea I had formed of her. I went near to behold her, but I could not look on ſo many charms without tranſport; I fell on my knees before her, and kiſſed one of her delicate hands. She waked that inſtant, and perceiving a man in ſuch a poſture, was frightened. She gave a ſhriek, and preſently her governeſs, who lay in the next chamber, came running to her. Mahpeiker, ſaid the Princeſs, come and help me. There is a man! How got he into my apartment? Or rather, are not you an accomplice of his crime? Who I? replied the governeſs, your ſuſpicion wrongs me! I am not leſs aſtoniſhed than you, to ſee this audacious youth here: Beſides, if I [64] [...] [65] [...] [66] would have favoured his boldneſs, how could I have deceived the vigilance of the guards that are about this caſtle? You know there are twenty ſteel doors to open, before any can get into this apartment; that the royal ſignet is upon every lock; and that the King your father has the keys: I cannot comprehend how this young man has ſurmounted all theſe difficulties.

While the governeſs was thus ſpeaking, I thought on what I ſhould ſay to them; and it came in my head to perſuade them that I was the prophet Mahomet. Charming Princeſs, ſaid I to Schirine, let not yourſelf, or Mahpeiker, be ſurpriſed to ſee me here; I am not one of thoſe lovers who make uſe of gold, and employ every artifice to accompliſh their wiſhes. I have no deſires that your virtue need to be frightened at; far be all guilty thoughts from me. I am the prophet Mahomet. I could not, without pity, ſee you condemned to paſs your youthful days in a priſon, and I come to give you my promiſe, that I will ſecure you from the prediction which Bahaman your father is afraid of. Let him and yourſelf be both eaſy henceforth as to your future deſtiny, which cannot but be full of glory and happineſs, ſince you ſhall be Mahomet's wife. As ſoon as the news of your marriage ſhall be ſpread abroad in the world, all the Kings of the earth will fear the father-in-law of the great prophet, and all the Princeſſes will envy your condition.

[67]Schirine and her governeſs looked upon one another at this diſcourſe, as if to conſult what they ought to think of it. I had reaſon to fear, I confeſs, that they would not believe me; but women are apt to give into wonders. If you are the holy prophet Mahomet, ſaid Schirine, you are pure, and free from evil intentions; you will firſt reconcile my father to the match, and then, on an appointed day, perform the ceremonies proper to marriage: but if you are an impoſtor, you will betray your wicked deſigns. My governeſs ſhall wait in the next apartment whenever you viſit me, till this be accompliſhed; one ſhriek from me will alarm her, and ſhe will call the guards, if your actions ſhould ſhew you are not what you pretend. I anſwered the Princeſs by commending her virtue, applauding the juſtice of the teſt ſhe propoſed, and fixing on that day month for the ſolemnization of our nuptials, as I hoped by that time to find ſome lucky means of deceiving her father into the ſame belief. Accordingly Mahpeiker and her miſtreſs gave credit to my ſtory, and believed me to be Mahomet. After having paſſed the beſt part of the night with the Princeſs of Gazna, I went out of her apartment before it was day-light, not without promiſing her that I would come the following evening. I made haſte to my machine, I put myſelf in it, and raiſed myſelf very high, that I might not be ſeen by the ſoldiers. I deſcended in the wood; I left my cheſt, and went to the town, where I bought proviſions for eight days, with magnificent [68] apparel, a fine turban of Indian linen, with ſtripes of gold, and a rich girdle. I did not forget eſſences and the beſt perfumes. I laid out all my money in theſe purchaſes, without perplexing myſelf to know where I ſhould get more: I thought I could want for nothing, after ſo extraordinary an adventure.

I ſtaid all that day in the wood, where I employed myſelf in perfuming and ſetting myſelf out. When the night was come, I got into my cheſt, and returned to the top of the Princeſs Schirine's palace. I introduced myſelf into her apartment as the night before. The Princeſs declared ſhe waited for me with much impatience. O great prophet, ſaid ſhe, I began already to be uneaſy, and I feared you had forgot your ſpouſe. My dear Princeſs, anſwered I, could you give way to ſuch a fear? Since I have plighted you my troth, ought not you to be perſuaded that I would love you always? But tell me, replied ſhe, why have you ſo young a look? I thought that the prophet Mahomet was a venerable old man. You were not deceived, anſwered I, 'tis the idea you ought to have of me; and if I ſhould appear to you ſuch as I ſometimes ſhew myſelf to the faithful, to whom I deign that honour, you would ſee me with a long white beard and a bald head; but I thought you would better like a form not ſuperannuated: And, for this reaſon, I have borrowed the ſhape of a young man. The governeſs joining then in our diſcourſe, told me, that I had done very [69] well; and that whoever would perſonate a huſband, cannot appear too agreeable.

I went again from the caſtle towards the end of the night, for fear it ſhould be diſcovered that I was a falſe prophet. I returned the next day, and behaved myſelf always ſo cautiouſly, that Schirine and Mahpeiker could not ſuſpect the leaſt deceit in me. It is true, the Princeſs took inſenſibly ſuch a liking to me, that it contributed very much to make her believe all that I ſaid to her. When we are favourably prepoſſeſſed, we miſtruſt not ſincerity.

In a few days, the King of Gazna, attended by his officers, went to the palace of the Princeſs his daughter, and finding his doors all ſhut, and his ſeal on the locks, he ſaid to his viſiers that were with him, all is ſafe; while the doors of the palace are in this condition, I ſhall not fear the misfortune my daughter is threatened with. He went alone into the apartment of Schirine, who could not conceal her confuſion at the ſight of him. He perceived it, and was willing to know the cauſe of it. His curioſity augmented the Princeſs's confuſion, who ſeeing herſelf at laſt obliged to ſatisfy him, told him all that had paſt.

You may imagine how much King Bahaman was ſurprized, when he underſtood he was Mahomet's father-in-law. Oh abſurdity! cried he, Oh! my daughter, that you ſhould be ſo credulous! O Heaven, I now ſee very plain, that it is in vain to endeavour [70] to ſhun the misfortunes you have reſerved for us. The fate of Schirine is inevitable. A traitor has deceived her. In ſaying this, he ruſhed out of the Princeſs's apartment in affliction, and ſearched the palace from top to bottom. But his ſearch was to no purpoſe, for he found no marks of diſcovery. At this his ſurprize increaſed. Which way, ſaid he, did this audacious fellow get into the caſtle? 'Tis what I cannot conceive.

Then he called his viſiers and his confidents. They ran at his call, and ſeeing him agitated, they were afraid. What is the matter, Sir? ſaid his firſt Miniſter to him; you ſeem troubled. What misfortune does the concern that appears in your looks, declare to us? The King told them all he had been informed of, and aſked them what they thought of the ſtory. The Grand Viſier ſpoke firſt. He ſaid, that the intended marriage might be true, though it had the appearance of a fable. That there were ſome noble families in the world, who made no difficulty to aſcribe their origin to ſuch like events, and that for him he looked on the communication that the Princeſs had with Mahomet, as a thing very likely.

The other viſiers, in complaiſance perhaps to him that ſpoke firſt, were of his opinion: but one of the courtiers declared himſelf againſt it, in theſe terms; I am ſurpriſed to ſee ſenſible men give credit to a ſtory, ſo little worthy of belief. How can it enter into the heads of men of ſenſe, that our great prophet [71] ſhould be capable of coming to ſeek women in this world, who in his heavenly abode is encompaſſed by the moſt beautiful ones. It is contrary to common ſenſe; and if the King will take my advice, inſtead of giving ear to ſo ridiculous a ſtory, he ſhould examine thoroughly into the affair. I am perſuaded, that he would preſently diſcover the deceiver, who, under that ſacred name, has the audaciouſneſs to endeavour to ſeduce the Princeſs.

Though Bahaman was naturally credulous; though he took his firſt Miniſter for a man of great judgement; and though all his viſiers believed that Schirine was actually betrothed to Mahomet; he declared himſelf nevertheleſs for the negative. He reſolved to be informed of the truth of it; but being willing to act with prudence in this affair, and to endeavour to ſpeak with the pretended prophet, in private, he ſent his viſiers and his courtiers back to Gazna. Go back, ſaid he to them, I will ſtay alone to-night in this caſtle with my daughter. Go; but come hither to me again to-morrow. They all obeyed the King's orders. They went back to the town, and Bahaman waiting for the night, began to aſk the Princeſs new queſtions. He aſked her if I had eaten with her. No, Sir, ſaid his daughter, I offered him in vain meat and drink, he would not touch them, and I never ſaw him take the leaſt nouriſhment, nor commit the leaſt indelicacy, ſince he has uſed to come hither. Relate to me again this adventure, replied he, and hide not from me any [72] one particular. Schirine gave him a renewed account of it, and the king, attentive to her relation, carefully weighed every circumſtance.

In the mean while, the night came on; Bahaman ſat himſelf on a ſopha, and wax candles were lighted, and placed before him on a marble-table. He drew his ſcimitar to uſe it, if there ſhould be occaſion, to waſh away in my blood the affront done to his honour. He expected me every moment, and in the expectation he was, of ſeeing me appear all on a ſudden, I cannot believe he was without trouble.

It happened that night to lighten very much. A great flaſh chanced to dart full in the king's eyes, and made him ſtartle. He went to the window which Schirine told him I came in at, and perceiving the air all on fire, he was much perplexed in his thoughts. Though he ſaw nothing that was unnatural, he could not look on thoſe meteors, as the effects of exhalations kindled in the air; he rather believed that the flames announced to earth, the deſcent of Mahomet, and that the gates of heaven unfolding to let out the prophet, made the air one luminous body.

In the diſpoſition the king's mind was, I preſented myſelf without danger before that Prince. Far from ſhewing himſelf furious when I appeared at the window, he was ſeized with reſpect and fear. He let fall his ſcimitar, caſt himſelf at my feet, and kiſſing them, ſaid to me: O great [73] prophet, who am I, and what have I done, to deſerve the honour to be your father-in-law? I judged by theſe words, what had paſſed between the king and the princeſs, and I found that the good Bahaman was not more difficult to be deceived than his daughter. I was charmed, to perceive that I had nothing to do with one of thoſe penetrating heads who would have made the prophet undergo an examination that would have puzzled him. Taking advantage of his weakneſs, O king, ſaid I to him, raiſing him up, you are of all the Mahometan princes, the moſt firm to my ſect, and by conſequence, he that ought to be the moſt acceptable to me. It was recorded in the Book of Fate, that your daughter ſhould be deceived by a man; this your aſtrologers very truly diſcovered by their ſublime ſcience, but I have prayed the moſt High to exempt you from that mortal affliction, and to blot out this misfortune from the predeſtination of mankind. This he was pleaſed to do for my ſake, upon condition that Schirine ſhould become one of my wives. To this I conſented, to recompenſe you for the good deeds you do every day.

King Bahaman was not in a condition of undeceiving himſelf. That weak prince believed all I had told him; and overjoyed at this alliance with the great prophet, he caſt himſelf at my feet a ſecond time, to ſhew me the ſenſe he had of my kindneſs. I raiſed him up again, embraced him, and aſſured [74] him of my protection, while he could not find words to expreſs the gratitude of his mind.

The next morning the viſiers and the courtiers returned to the princeſs's palace. They aſked the king if he was informed of the truth of what he deſired to know. Yes, ſaid he, I know now to what I am to truſt. I have ſeen and ſpoken to the great prophet himſelf; he is to be my daughter's huſband. Nothing is more true. Upon this the viſiers and the courtiers, turning towards him that had oppoſed the poſſibility of this marriage, reproached him with incredulity; but they found him reſolute in his opinion: He maintained it with obſtinacy, whatever the king could ſay to perſuade him that Mahomet was married to Schirine; till at laſt Bahaman became almoſt angry with this incredulous courtier, who was made the jeſt of the council.

The heavens conſpired, as it were, to deceive the King. An accident that happened the ſame day, confirmed the viſiers in their opinion. As they were returning to the town with their maſter, a ſtorm ſurpriſed them in the plain. The lightning flaſhed in their faces, and the thunder roared in ſo terrible a manner, that they feared it was the laſt day. It happened that the incredulous courtier's horſe took fright; he pranced, flung his maſter on the ground, and broke his leg with the fall. This event was looked upon as an effect of the wrath of heaven. O miſerable wretch, cried the king, ſeeing the courtier fall, this [75] is the fruit of your obſtinacy; you would not believe me, and the prophet has puniſhed you!

They carried the lame courtier home, and Bahaman was no ſooner returned to his palace, but he cauſed it to be publiſhed at Gazna, that all the inhabitants ſhould celebrate with feaſting, the day appointed for the marriage of Schirine with Mahomet. I took a walk in the town; and was informed of this news, as well as of the accident of the courtier's falling from his horſe. It is not to be conceived how credulous and ſuperſtitious the people were; they made public rejoicings, and ran crying up and down, Long live Bahaman, the father-in-law of the great prophet!

As ſoon as it was night, I got to the wood again, and was preſently with the princeſs. Charming Schirine, ſaid I, going into her apartment, you know not what has happened to day on the plain. A courtier, who doubted that you were to be Mahomet's wife, has atoned for this doubt. I raiſed a tempeſt that frightened his horſe; the courtier fell, and broke his leg. I did not think fit to carry my revenge any farther; but I ſwear by my tomb which is at Mecca, that if any one hereafter dares to doubt of your happineſs, it ſhall coſt him his life. After having ſtaid ſome hours with Schirine, I retired.

The day following, the king aſſembled his viſiers and courtiers. Let us go all together, ſaid he to them, to aſk Mahomet's pardon for the unhappy man [76] who refuſed to believe me, and who has received the chaſtiſement of his unbelief. At the ſame they mounted their horſes, and went to the princeſs's palace. The king himſelf opened the doors, which he had locked and ſealed with his ſignet the day before. He went up, followed by his viſiers, into his daughter's apartment. Schirine, ſaid he, we are come to deſire you to intercede with the prophet for a man who has incurred his wrath. I know very well what you mean, Sir, anſwered the princeſs; Mahomet has ſpoken to me of it. She then repeated to them what I had told her over night, and informed them that I had ſworn to deſtroy all thoſe who doubted of her marriage with the prophet.

When the good king Bahaman heard this diſcourſe, he turned himſelf towards his viſiers and courtiers, and ſaid to them. Had we not hitherto given credit to what we have ſeen, could we, after this, diſbelieve that Mahomet is my ſon-in-law. You find that he himſelf told my daughter, that he had raiſed the ſtorm to revenge himſelf of that faithleſs man. All the miniſters and others were convinced that ſhe was the prophet's wife; they caſt themſelves before her; they humbly beſought her to intercede with me in behalf of the wounded courtier; and ſhe promiſed them ſo to do.

During this time, I had conſumed all my proviſions, and having no money left, the poor prophet Mahomet began not to know what to do. I bethought [77] myſelf of an expedient. My princeſs, ſaid I, one night to Schirine, we have forgot to obſerve one formality concerning our wedding; you have brought me no portion, and that omiſſion troubles me. Well; my dear ſpouſe, anſwered ſhe, I will ſpeak of it to-morrow to my father, who, without doubt, will offer to you his treaſures. No, no, replied I, there is no need of ſpeaking to him of it; I value not all his riches: they are of no uſe to me. It will be ſufficient to grant me ſome of your jewels; which is all the portion I aſk of you. Schirine would have loaded me with all her jewels, to make her portion the handſomer; but I was contented with two great diamonds, which I ſold the next day to a jeweller of Gazna. I put myſelf by this means in a condition to continue to perſonate Mahomet.

Juſt at this, time, unluckily for me, an ambaſſador arrived at Gazna, on behalf of a neighbouring king, to demand Schirine in marriage. He had preſently audience, and when he had declared the ſubject of his embaſſy, Bahaman ſaid to him, I am ſorry I cannot give my daughter to the king your maſter, I have promiſed her to the prophet Mahomet. The ambaſſador judged by this anſwer, that the king of Gazna was mad. He took leave of that prince, and returned to his maſter, who believed at firſt, as well as he, that Bahaman had loſt his ſenſes. At length, imputing this refuſal to contempt and ſlight, he became angry, flew to his army, and invaded the kingdom of Gazna.

[78]That king, who was named Cacem, was much ſuperior in ſtrength to Bahaman; who moreover prepared ſo ſlowly to receive his enemy, that he could not hinder him from making a great progreſs. Cacem fought ſome troops that would have oppoſed his paſſage; he came forward with all ſpeed towards the town of Gazna, and found Bahaman's army intrenched in the plain before the caſtle of the princeſs Schirine. The deſign of this provoked lover was to attack him in his intrenchments; but his troops having need of reſt, and he arriving not in the plain till towards night, put off the attack till the next morning.

In the mean while the king of Gazna, being informed of the number and valour of Cacem's troops, began to be afraid. He aſſembled his council, where the courtier, who was hurt in falling from his horſe, ſpoke in theſe words: "I am amazed that the king ſhould be in the leaſt uneaſineſs on this occaſion; what cauſe of diſmay can the father-in-law of Mahomet have, not only of Cacem, but of all the princes in the world put together? Your Majeſty, Sir, has nothing to do but to apply yourſelf to your ſon-in-law; implore the aſſiſtance of the great prophet; he will preſently confound your enemies. He can do no leſs, ſince he is the cauſe of Cacem's coming to trouble the repoſe of your ſubjects."

Though this was ſpoken in deriſion, it inſpired Bahaman with confidence. You are in the right, ſaid he to the courtier, 'tis to the prophet I ought to [79] addreſs myſelf; I will pray him to drive away my haughty enemy, and I dare promiſe myſelf he will not reject my prayer. At theſe words he went to Schirine; daughter, ſaid he, to-morrow morning, as ſoon as day appears, Cacem deſigns to attack us; I fear he will force our intrenchments. I am come hither to implore the aſſiſtance of Mahomet. Make uſe of all the intereſt you have with him, to engage him to defend us. Let us join in our interceſſions to render him propitious to us. Sir, replied the princeſs, it will not be very difficult to engage the prophet on our ſide. He will ſhortly diſperſe the enemy's troops, and all the kings of the earth will learn, at Cacem's coſt, to reſpect you. However, replied the king, the night is come, and the prophet does not appear. He has forſaken us! No, no, my father, replied Schirine, think not he will abandon us in neceſſity; he ſees from heaven the army that beſieges us, and, perhaps, he is this moment going to ſtrike them with terror and diſmay.

This was indeed what Mahomet had a great deſire to do. I had all that day obſerved the troops of Cacem afar off. I had regarded their diſpoſition, and above all had taken great notice of the king's quarters. I picked up great and little ſtones; I filled my trunk with them, and in the middle of the night I raiſed myſelf up in the air. I went towards Cacem's tents. I diſcovered without trouble that where the king lay, it was a very high pavilion, finely gilt, made in the form of a cupola, and ſupported by [80] twelve pillars of painted wood, that were driven into the ground. The intervals of the pillars were filled up with boughs of ſeveral ſorts of trees twiſted together. Towards the top there were two windows, one to the eaſt, and the other to the ſouth.

All the ſoldiers that were about the tent were aſleep, which gave me an opportunity to deſcend to one of the windows without being perceived. I ſaw the king lying on a ſofa, with his head on a ſattin cuſhion. I got a little out of my trunk, and throwing a great ſtone at Cacem, I ſtruck him full in the forehead, and wounded him dangerouſly. He gave a loud cry, which preſently waked his guards and his officers. They ran to that prince; they found him all over blood, and almoſt ſenſeleſs. They called out, the quarters took the alarm, every one aſked what was the matter. The report went that the king was wounded; but they could not tell by whom. While they were inquiring out the author, I raiſed myſelf up almoſt to the clouds, and let fall a hail of ſtones upon and about the royal tent. Some ſoldiers were wounded, and cried out, that it rained ſtones. This news ſpread itſelf abroad, and to confirm it, I flung ſtones all about. Then a panic fear ſeiſed the whole army; the officers, as well as ſoldiers, believed the prophet was angry with Cacem, and that he declared his wrath by this prodigy. At laſt the enemies of Bahaman were ſtruck with diſmay, and fled with ſuch precipitation, that they left their equipage and tents [81] behind them, crying, we are undone, Mahomet will deſtroy us.

The king of Gazna was very much ſurpriſed at day-break, when, inſtead of ſeeing himſelf attacked, he perceived that the enemy was making off. He preſently purſued them with his beſt ſoldiers. He made a great ſlaughter of the fugitives, and overtook Cacem, whoſe wound hindered him from making ſpeed. Why, ſaid he to him, did you come into my dominions againſt all right and reaſon? What cauſe had I given you to make war againſt me? Bahaman, anſwered the vanquiſhed king, I thought you had refuſed me your daughter in contempt and diſdain, and I was reſolved to revenge myſelf on you. I could not believe that the prophet Mahomet was your ſon-in-law; but I doubt it not now, ſince it is he that has wounded me, and diſperſed my army.

Bahaman ceaſed to purſue his enemies, and returned to Gazna with Cacem, who died that day of his wound. They divided a booty which was ſo conſiderable, that the ſoldiers returned home loaded with riches. Prayers were made in all the moſques, to return thanks to heaven for having confounded the enemies of the kingdom; and when it was night, the king went without any attendants to the princeſs's palace. Daughter, ſaid he to her, I am come to return thanks to the prophet; you have been informed, by the courier I ſent you, of what Mahomet has done for us; I am ſo ſenſible of his goodneſs [82] to us, that I die with impatience to embrace his knees.

He ſoon had the ſatisfaction he deſired. I entered by the uſual window into Schirine's apartment, where I expected to find him. He flung himſelf at my feet, and kiſſed the ground, ſaying, O great prophet, no words can expreſs the gratitude I feel. Read in my heart my acknowledgments. I raiſed Bahaman up, and kiſſed his forehead. Prince, ſaid I, could you think I would refuſe you my aſſiſtance in the ill circumſtances you were reduced to for my ſake? I have puniſhed the proud Cacem, who deſigned to have made himſelf maſter of your dominions, and to have taken away Schirine to place her among the ſlaves in his ſeraglio. Fear not from henceforth, that any potentate in the world will dare to make war againſt you. If any one ſhould have the boldneſs to come and attack you, I will pour on his troops a rain of fire, that ſhall reduce them all to aſhes.

After having aſſured the king of Gazna afreſh that I would take his kingdom under my protection, I told him how the enemy's army was frightened when it rained ſtones on their camp. Bahaman, on his part, repeated to me what Cacem had told him, and retired. That princeſs, who was not leſs ſenſible than the king her father of the important ſervice I had done the ſtate, declared to me her acknowledgments in ſo tender a manner, that I had very nearly forgot the time: for the day appeared as I [83] got to my trunk; but I paſſed ſo well then for Mahomet in every body's opinion, that if the ſoldiers had ſeen me in the air, they would not have been undeceived. I could hardly forbear thinking myſelf to be the prophet, after having routed an army.

Two days after, when they had interred Cacem, to whom, though an enemy, they gave a magnificent burial, the king ordered public rejoicings to be made in the city, as well for the defeat of the enemy's troops, as to celebrate ſolemnly the marriage of the princeſs Schirine with Mahomet. The morrow was the day I had appointed upon which I thought I could do no leſs than ſignalize, by ſome prodigy, a feſtival that was obſerved in honour of me. To this end I bought in Gazna ſome white pitch, and cotton-ſeed, together with a little ſteel to ſtrike fire with. I ſpent the day in the wood to prepare my fire-works. I ſteeped the cotton-ſeed in the pitch; and at night, when the people were rejoicing in the ſtreets, tranſported myſelf above the town; I raiſed myſelf as high as was poſſible, for fear they ſhould diſcern my machine by the brightheſs of my artificial flame; then ſtruck fire, and lighted the pitch, which, with the cotton-ſeed, produced a wonderful effect. This done, I retired into my wood. The day appearing a little afterwards, I went into the town, to have the pleaſure of hearing what they ſaid of me. Was not deceived in my expectation; the people talked extravagantly of the trick I had played them; [84] ſome ſaid it was Mahomet, who, to ſhew that their feſtival was agreeable to him, had made celeſtial fires appear; and others affirmed, that they ſaw the prophet in the middle of thoſe new meteors, with a long white beard, and a venerable air, as they fancied.

All this diſcourſe was exceedingly diverting to me; but, alas! while I was taking this pleaſure, my trunk, my dear trunk, the inſtrument of all my wonders, was burnt in the wood. In all appearance, ſome ſpark, that I did not perceive, took hold of my machine in my abſence, and conſumed it. When I returned, I found it reduced to aſhes. A father, who, returning home, ſhould ſee his only ſon pierced in a thouſand places, and weltering in his blood, could not be more ſhocked than I was. The wood echoed again with my cries and groans. I tore my hair, and rent my cloaths. I know not how I ſpared my own life in the rage of my deſperation.

Thus ended my adventure with the princeſs Schirine, at the very time when I had nearly accompliſhed my plot; and which, though I was then in deſpair, I have ſince been happy to reflect that it did not proceed any further.

MR. EGERTON.

The foregoing ſtory, my children, however extravagant and fabulous, is no bad ſatire upon Credulity; and may teach us, that though fear and ſuſpicion are diſgraceful, yet a proper degree of doubt [85] and circumſpection are neceſſary, as the following little anecdote may ſerve to confirm. One Sunday, in the afternoon, as two ladies were knocking at a door, a very genteel looking man came up to the houſe, bowed, and followed them in. After ſome converſation, the gentleman began to wonder that his aunt did not return from church, and to ſuppoſe that the ſermon muſt be longer than ordinary. Preſently afterwards, however, the lady was heard at the door, and the gentleman inſtantly, with great glee, propoſed a ſcheme to frighten the old lady, his relation: I will ſlip, ſaid he, into the next room with the ſilver tea-kettle and lamp, ſo that as ſoon as ſhe calls for them, to make tea, ſhe may conclude they are ſtolen. This was no ſooner ſaid than done, and our dextrous hero, covering his prize with his hat, and hiding himſelf till the old lady was paſt, bade the maid let him out, and told her he ſhould be back preſently. Compliments being paſt, the bell was rung, and tea ordered: this ſet the viſitors a tittering, and the old lady a wondering, but ſhe preſently found out the cauſe; the maid could find neither kettle nor lamp, and the ladies in the parlour were ſo full of the joke, that they burſt out into a loud laugh. As ſoon as their mirth would permit, the matter was explained, the old lady's nephew mentioned, and the plot unravelled: but the cataſtrophe was not happy; for the tea-kettle and the nephew, as you may ſuppoſe, never made their appearance in that houſe again. But, [86] my children, as it is neceſſary we ſhould not immediately believe every thing we hear, neither ſhould we doubt of every thing which we cannot at firſt comprehend. The ſtory of Chahabeddin, though a mere fable, is intended to correct ſuch extreme Incredulity.

INCREDULITY: Or the Story of CHEC CHAHABEDDIN.

THE Sultan of Egypt having ſummoned all the learned men of his kingdom to meet on a certain day in his palace, there aroſe a diſpute among them. It is ſaid that the angel Gabriel, having one night taken Mahomet out of his bed, ſhewed him whatever is in the ſeven heavens, in paradiſe and in hell; and that the ſame great prophet, after having had fourſcore and ten thouſand conferences with the Deity, was brought back again into his bed by the ſame angel. Some of the doctors have advanced, that all this was done in ſo ſhort a ſpace of time, that Mahomet at his return found his bed ſtill warm; and that he took up a pot of water, which was not yet run out, though the pot had been thrown down the very moment that the angel Gabriel carried Mahomet out of his chamber.

The Sultan, who preſided in this aſſembly, maintained that this was impoſſible: You teach, ſays he, that there are ſeven heavens; between each of which [87] there is a diſtance no leſs than a man can well travel in five hundred years; and that each heaven is as thick as it is diſtant from the next to it: how then is it poſſible, that Mahomet, after having paſſed through all theſe heavens, and after having had fourſcore and ten thouſand conferences, ſhould at his return find his bed ſtill warm; and the pot thrown down, with the water not ſpilt? Who can be credulous enough to believe ſo ridiculous a fable? Know you not that if a pot full of water is thrown down, you will find no water in it? The literati anſwered, that this indeed could not naturally be; but all things were poſſible to the Divine Power. The Sultan of Egypt, who was obſtinate, and had made it a maxim never to believe any thing contrary to reaſon, gave no credit to the miracle; and the learned broke up their aſſembly.

This diſpute made a great noiſe in Egypt; and the news of it came to the ears of Chec Chahabeddin, who, for reaſons not aſſigned in the hiſtory, could not be preſent at the aſſembly: however, he went to the Sultan's palace in the heat of the day. The Sultan, informed of the Doctor's being come, carried him into a ſtate chamber, and ſpoke to him in this manner: You need not have given yourſelf the trouble of coming hither; it had been enough to have ſent one of your ſervants; for we ſhould have granted him any thing in your name: Sir, anſwered the Doctor, I am come in hopes of having a moment's converſation with your majeſty. The [88] Sultan, who knew that this Chec was noted for behaving * haughtily in the preſence of Princes, ſhewed him great civilities, and made abundance of compliments.

The room they were in had four windows, on each ſide one: the Doctor deſired the King to order one of them to be ſhut. This being done, they continued for ſome time in converſation; after which the Doctor deſired that one of the windows, which had the proſpect of a mountain called Kzeldaghi, or the Red Mountain, might be opened, and then bid the King look out. The Sultan put his head to the window, and ſaw on the mountain and in the plain a body of horſe, more in number than the ſtars of heaven, armed with bucklers and coats of mail, with their ſwords drawn, advancing full ſpeed towards the palace. The Prince changed colour, and in great diſmay cried out, Heaven! what dreadful army is this, coming to attack my palace? Be not afraid, Sir, ſays the Doctor, there's nothing in it. Saying this he ſhut the window, and opening it again the next moment, the King looked out, but ſaw not a ſingle perſon on the mountain, or in the plain.

Another of the windows gave a proſpect of the city, and the Doctor opened that. The Sultan ſaw the city of Cairo on fire, and the flames aſcending [89] even to the middle region of the air. What dreadful burning is that? exclaimed the King. See my city, my fine city of Cairo, reduced to aſhes! Fear not, Sir, ſaid the Chec, there is nothing in it. At the ſame time he ſhut the window, and opened it again, when the King ſaw no more of the flames.

The Doctor opened the third window; out of which the Sultan perceived the Nile overflowing its banks, and its waves rolling with fury to drown his palace. The King, notwithſtanding what he had experienced, was terrified at this new prodigy. Alas! cried he, all is loſt; we are now undone indeed. This dreadful inundation will bear away my palace, and drown me and my people! Fear not, Sir, ſaid the Doctor, there's nothing in it. The Chec had no ſooner ſhut and opened the window again, than the Nile appeared purſuing its courſe as uſual.

He then opened the fourth window: the other wonders had not more terrified than this delighted the King. His eyes, that were accuſtomed to ſee nothing at this window but a barren waſte, were agreeably ſurprized to behold vineyards and gardens, hung with the moſt delicious fruits; rivulets murmuring as they glided; whoſe banks were adorned with roſes, narciſſus' and hyacinths, at once pleaſing to the ſight, and fragrant to the ſmell; an infinite number of turtles and nightingales, ſtraining their little throats with their ſweet and mournful ſongs. The King, charmed with the wonders [90] which now offered themſelves to his ſight, believed he beheld the garden of * Eram. What a change is this! cried he, in the exceſs of his admiration: O beautiful garden! charming abode!—Be not ſo tranſported, ſaid the Chec, there is nothing in it. The Doctor ſhut the window, then opened it again; and the Sultan, inſtead of theſe delightful phantoms, ſaw nothing but the deſart.

Sir, ſaid the Chec, I have ſhewn you many wonders, but all this is nothing in compariſon of the aſtoniſhing prodigy, of which I will make your majeſty a witneſs. Give your commands for a tub full of water to be brought hither.—The King ordered it to be done. The tub was brought into the chamber. Be pleaſed, ſaid the Doctor, to ſuffer yourſelf to be ſtripped, and let a towel be girt about your loins. The King conſented to have his cloaths taken off; and when the towel was girt about him, Sir, ſaid the Chec, plunge your head into the water, and draw it out again.

The King plunged, and in an inſtant found himſelf at the foot of a mountain on the ſea-ſhore. This prodigy aſtoniſhed him more than the others: Ah Doctor, cried he, in a tranſport of rage, perfidious Doctor, that haſt thus cruelly deceived me! If ever I return into Egypt, from whence thou haſt forced me by thy black and deteſtable art, I ſwear I will revenge myſelf of thee. O mayeſt thou miſerably [91] periſh! He continued his imprecations againſt the Chec; but, reflecting that his menaces and complaints would nothing avail him, he took courage, and went to ſome men whom he ſaw cutting wood on the mountain, reſolved not to diſcover to them who he was. For, thought he, if I tell them I am a King, they will not believe me; they will take me for an impoſtor or a madman.

The wood-cutters aſked him who he was: Good people, anſwered he, I am a merchant. My ſhip bulged on a rock, and was daſhed to pieces. I have had the good fortune to ſave myſelf on a plank. You ſee the condition I am in, which ought to excite your pity. They were concerned for his misfortune, but the poverty of their circumſtances would not allow them to grant him any relief. However, one of them gave him an old gown, and another an old pair of ſhoes; and when they had put him in this condition, they conducted him into their city, that was ſituate behind the mountain; where they no ſooner arrived, than they took leave of him, and, abandoning him to Providence, went away, each to his own home.

The Sultan was left alone; and though men take delight in new objects, he was too much taken up with the thoughts of his adventure, to give attention to any thing he ſaw: he walked up and down the ſtreets. He was weary, and, looking for a place to lie down and reſt himſelf, ſtopped before the houſe of an old farrier, who, judging by his looks that he [92] was fatigued, deſired him to come in. The King did ſo, and ſate himſelf down on a bench that was near the door. Young man, ſaid the old farrier, may I aſk you what profeſſion you follow, and what has brought you hither. The Sultan gave him the ſame anſwer he had given to the wood-cutters: I met, added he, with ſome good people, who were cutting wood on the mountain; and having told them my misfortune, they were ſo kind as to give me this old gown, and theſe cobbled ſhoes. I am glad, ſaid the farrier, that you eſcaped being drowned: comfort yourſelf for the loſs of your goods: you are young, and will not perhaps be unhappy in this city, where our laws and cuſtoms are very favourable to ſtrangers, that come to ſettle among us. Do not you intend to do ſo? I deſire nothing better, anſwered the Sultan, provided I could have any proſpect of retrieving my affairs. Well then, replied the old man, follow the advice I am about to give you. Go this moment to the public baths of the women: ſet yourſelf down at the gate, and aſk each lady that comes out, if ſhe has a huſband: ſhe that ſhall anſwer you, No, muſt be your wife according to the cuſtom of this country.

The Sultan, being determined to follow this advice, went to the gate of the baths. It was not long ere he ſaw a lady of exquiſite beauty. Ah! how happy ſhould I be, thought he to himſelf, if this lovely perſon be not married! were ſhe but mine, I could forget my misfortunes. He ſtopped [93] her and ſaid, Fair lady, have you a huſband? She anſwered, Yes. I am ſorry for it, replied the King: you would have made a fit wife for me. The lady went her way, and ſoon after came another, frightfully ugly: the Sultan ſhuddered at ſight of her: What a piece of deformity is this! ſaid he: I had rather be ſtarved to death, than live with ſuch a creature: I will let her paſs. The old farrier, however, bid me aſk the queſtion of every lady. In all appearance the cuſtom is ſo, and I muſt ſubmit: how do I know but ſhe has a huſband: ſome unfortunate ſtranger, whoſe ill deſtiny has brought him hither, as mine has me, may perhaps have married her. In ſhort, the King reſolved to aſk the queſtion. She anſwered, Yes.

Next came out a third, as ugly as the other. O heavens! ſaid the King, this is more horrible than the laſt: no matter; ſince I have begun, I muſt go through with it. If this have a huſband, I muſt own there are men more to be pitied than myſelf. As ſhe was paſſing him, he addreſſed her, and trembling, ſaid, Fair lady, are you married? Yes, young man, anſwered ſhe, without ſtopping. I am glad of it, replied the Sultan. I bleſs my ſtars, continued he, that I am free of theſe two women. But it is not yet time to rejoice: all the ladies are not come out of the baths; nor have I yet ſeen her that is deſtined for me. Perhaps I ſhall get nothing by the change.

[94]A fourth appeared, who ſurpaſſed in beauty the firſt, that he thought ſo charming: What difference, cried he; there is not ſo much diſparity between day and night, as between this fine woman and the two laſt! Are angels and devils to be ſeen in the ſame place? He advanced to her with eagerneſs. Lady, ſaid he, have you a huſband? She anſwered, No; looking on him with as much diſdain as attention; then went away, leaving him in deep ſurprize. What am I to think of this, ſays he: the old farrier has certainly jeered me. If, according to the laws of this country, I am to marry this lady, why did ſhe leave me ſo rudely? Why put ſhe on that haughty and diſdainful air? She viewed me from head to foot; and I ſaw in her looks the marks of contempt and ſcorn. The truth is, ſhe is not much in the wrong. In juſtice I cannot blame her. This threadbare gown, full of holes, is not over proper to engage a lady's heart. I forgive her for thinking ſhe may chance to mend herſelf.

While thus reflecting, a ſlave accoſted him: Sir, ſaid he, I am ſent to find a ſtranger in tatters; and, by your air, methinks it ſhould be you. If you pleaſe to give yourſelf the trouble of following me, I will lead you to a place, where you are expected with great impatience. The Sultan followed the ſlave, who led him to a great houſe, and ſhewed him into an apartment elegantly furniſhed. He bid him wait. The Sultan ſtaid full two hours without ſeeing [95] a ſoul but the ſlave, who every now and then came and deſired him not to be impatient.

At length came in four ladies, who accompanied another, glittering in jewels, but yet more reſplendent in beauty. The Sultan caſt his eyes upon her, and recollected her to be the laſt lady that he had ſeen coming out of the bath. She drew near him: Forgive me, Sir, ſaid ſhe, that I have made you wait. I was loth to appear in my undreſs before my lord and maſter. You are in your own houſe, all you ſee here belongs to you: you are my huſband: command me what you pleaſe, I am ready to obey. Madam, anſwered the Sultan, not a moment ago I complained of my deſtiny, but now I am the moſt happy of men. But ſince I am your huſband, why did you juſt now look ſo diſdainfully upon me? You were ſhocked, perhaps, at the ſight of me; and, to confeſs the truth, I could not much blame you. Sir, replied the lady, I could not do otherwiſe; the women of this city are obliged to carry themſelves haughtily in public: it is the cuſtom. Well, ſaid the King, ſince I am maſter here, in order to exerciſe my little ſovereignty, let ſomebody bring me a taylor and a ſhoemaker: I am aſhamed to be ſeen in your preſence in this tattered gown, and theſe cobbled ſhoes, which ill ſuit with the rank I have hitherto held in the world. I have taken care of that already, replied the lady: I have ſent a ſlave to a Jew, who ſells cloaths ready made, and who will furniſh you at once with all you want: [96] mean while let us take ſome refreſhment. In ſaying this, ſhe led him to a table covered with all ſorts of fruits and ſweat-meats. While they were eating, the four attendant ladies, who ſtood behind, ſung ſongs, and played on ſeveral inſtruments; their miſtreſs took a lute, and accompanying the muſic with her voice, charmed the Sultan.

The concert was interrupted by the Jew tradeſman, with bundles of cloaths of different ſorts. They made choice of a white ſattin veſt, flowered with gold, and a gown of purple. The lady admired the King; was very well ſatisfied to have found ſuch a huſband; and he well pleaſed to have met with ſo beautiful a wife.

He had lived ſeven years with this lady, by whom he had ſeveral ſons and daughters. But both of them taking delight in expenſive life, they outrun the lady's eſtate, were obliged to put away their waiting ladies and ſlaves, and to ſell their furniture for ſubſiſtence. The Sultan's wife, ſeeing herſelf reduced to want, told her huſband; "As long as my eſtate laſted, you never ſpared it: it behoves you now to think of ſome way or other to maintain your little family."

Theſe words ſtruck the King, who went to the old farrier to aſk his advice. O my father, ſays he, I am now in a worſe condition, than when I came firſt to this city: I have a wife and children, and nothing for their ſubſiſtence. Young man, replied the aged farrier, were you not brought up to trade? [97] The Sultan anſwered, No. The farrier put his hand in his pocket, and giving him two * Aqtchas, bid him immediately buy himſelf ſome Ypes, and wait in the place where the porters plied. The Sultan bought them, and went to ply among the porters.

Scarce was he arrived, when a man aſked him if he would carry a burthen? I am here for that purpoſe, anſwered the Sultan. The man loaded him with a great ſack, which the King had much ado to carry, and the cords wrung the ſkin off his ſhoulders. He received his pay of one Aqtcha, and carried it home. His wife, ſeeing no more money, told him, that if he earned not ten times as much every day, his family muſt ſtarve.

The next morning, overwhelmed with grief, inſtead of plying among the porters, he walked to the ſea-ſide, reflecting on his miſerable condition. There he looked very earneſtly on the place, and, recalling to mind his ſtrange and fatal adventure, he ſunk into tears. The ceremony of Ablution being indiſpenſible before prayers, he plunged himſelf into the ſea; and raiſing his head out of the water, (what aſtoniſhment!) he found himſelf again in his own palace, in the middle of the tub, and ſurrounded by all his officers. O barbarous Doctor, cried he, [98] perceiving the Chec upon the very ſpot on which he had left him, doſt thou not dread that God will puniſh thee, for having played this trick with thy Sultan and thy maſter? Sir, ſaid the Chec, why is your majeſty angry with me? You but this moment plunged your head into this water. I tell you nothing but the truth: if you do not believe me, aſk your officers, who were eye-witneſſes of it. The Sultan gave no credit to them. It is full ſeven years, ſaid he, that this curſed Doctor has detained me in a foreign country by the force of his enchantments; I married, and had children; but it is not of this I complain ſo much, as of my being a porter. Oh villainous Chec! couldſt thou be ſo cruel as to make me carry Ypes: Sir, replied the Doctor, when you came into this apartment, did not you leave the beautiful Sultaneſs, Zeineb, in the pangs of child-birth? Yes, ſaid the Sultan. Lo! ſaid Chahabeddin, here comes an officer to ſalute thee a father, but to inform thee likewiſe that the Prophet has puniſhed thy infidelity, Zeinib is dead. As the Chec finiſhed this ſentence, the room ſhook with thunder, the learned Chahabeddin diſappeared, and left the Sultan to lament his charming Zeneib, and his want of faith.

*
The contemplative cabaliſtical Doctors of the Eaſt are ſo proud, that they claim reſpect from their Kings.
*
The name of the Terreſt [...]ial Paradiſe, according to the Turks.
*
Aqtcha is a coin of the value of a penny.
Ypes are cords that porters uſe inſtead of a knot.
The Mahometans waſh their bodies before they ſay their prayers.

DIALOGUE XIV.

[99]
MR. EGERTON.

THE ſubject which I have ſelected for this day's reading is of ſo much importance to your preſent and future conduct, that I muſt intreat you all to liſten with more than ordinary attention.

Truth is the firſt duty of man, the greateſt of moral virtues, and the ſtrongeſt bond of ſocial affection. Whoever poſſeſſes truth muſt, of neceſſity, be virtuous; for he will poſſeſs that permanent and unſhaken veracity which will not admit the leaſt equivocation, or mental reſervation, that ſteady ſincerity which will rather ſubmit to the ſhame of an indiſcreet, or even the puniſhment of a wrong action, than the greateſt of all diſgrace, the meaneſt of all vices, lying. It is eaſy to conceive that a man who reſolutely perſiſts in being ſincere in telling the exact truth, and the whole truth, though, by ſuch conduct, he muſt at ſome times publiſh his own weakneſs, will become exceedingly circumſpect and watchful over himſelf. Shame is a very powerful and ſevere ſenſation, and few would be hardy enough to venture on a wrong action with a certainty of its becoming public. A determined adherence to truth will, therefore, prevent both vice and folly, and whoever can teach ſincerity, will, at the ſame time, teach many other virtues.

[100] Strong minds alone are capable of that inflexible veracity of which I ſpeak; and wherever this is found, we need not heſitate to pronounce the poſſeſſor to be among the firſt of men. Obſerve therefore, children, whoſoever of you gives me the moſt repeated proofs of plain, full, and unequivocal ſincerity, will, at the ſame time, give me the moſt undoubted aſſurance of ſuperior capacity, and become moſt honoured, moſt reſpected, and moſt beloved.

The fidelity and truth of the philoſopher Xenocrates were ſuch, that the Athenians, when he gave evidence, would not ſuffer him to be ſworn; his word alone was ſufficient. This, my children, is true, ſubſtantial, and everlaſting fame.

When the Duke of Oſſura was at Barcelona, he went on board one of the gallies, and having the privilege of releaſing any of the priſoners which had been ſent there for crimes and miſdemeanors, he began to queſtion them, in order to diſcover who moſt deſerved his pity. All were anxious to excuſe themſelves, by attributing their puniſhment to the malice of their enemies, or the injuſtice of the magiſtrates, excepting one man, who, when the Duke aſked what was the reaſon of his being there, replied, "I was ſent here, Sir, very deſervedly; I committed a robbery upon the highway near Saragoſſa. It is true I was not only ſtarving myſelf, but had a wife and family in the ſame condition. However, I was guilty of the fact, and deſerve my puniſhment." "Why, hey-day! ſaid the Duke; [101] here's an impudent fellow indeed! How dare you intrude into the ſociety of ſuch honeſt worthy men? Here, knock off this fellow's irons. Get away, you raſcal; and, do you hear, never more let me find you in ſuch innocent company." "No, God bleſs your Grace," ſaid the poor fellow; "that I will be anſwerable you never ſhall."

I quote theſe particulars to exemplify this great point, videlicet, that truth is not only virtuous but politic. The Orientals had a law, that whoever was three times convicted of ſpeaking falſely, was condemned, under pain of death, never to ſpeak again; but continue in ſilence and reproach during life: ſo utterly did they deteſt falſehood, and ſo convinced were they of its pernicious conſequences. And believe me, my children, though lyars are permitted the uſe of their tongues, their puniſhment is little inferior among us; for whoever is three times detected in lying by any perſon of veracity, will never be credited by that perſon again. Liſten, children, to the ſtory of Saddyq, and learn wiſdom.

TRUTH: Or the Story of SADDYQ.

TOGALTIMUR-CAN, King of Tartary, was one day told that there was, in his dominions, a man who was ſo great an enemy to lying that he always told truth. The King had a mind to have [102] him near his perſon, and made him Maſter of the Horſe. A courtier of ſo extraordinary a character ſoon found enemies, who watched all opportunities to ruin him: but the King, who was not eaſily to be impoſed on, and who truſted to his own judgement, made trial of his Maſter of the Horſe on ſeveral occaſions, and having always found him frank and ſincere, gave him the ſurname of Saddyq, or the Teller of Truth.

Of all Saddyq's enemies, the Viſier Tangribirdi was the moſt inveterately bent on his ruin. He employed all ſorts of ſtratagems to diſgrace him in the mind of Togaltimur: but not being able to compaſs his deſign, he diſcloſed one day to his daughter Hoſchendan the uneaſineſs it gave him to be ſtill diſappointed. How unfortunate am I! ſaid he to her: I have been the cauſe of the diſgrace of a thouſand old courtiers; yet I cannot deſtroy this man, who, though but newly ſettled at court, triumphs over all my efforts to ruin his fortune. Hoſchendan, who equalled her father in malice, inſtead of exhorting him no longer to oppoſe the good fortune of Saddyq, ſaid to him, My dear father, ceaſe to afflict yourſelf: if you are abſolutely determined to bring Saddyq into the King's disfavour, leave the care of it to my management. Ah! replied the viſier, what method will you take to compaſs it? Aſk me not that, Sir, ſaid ſhe, give me leave only to go to the Maſter of the Horſe, and I promiſe you I will bring him to a neceſſity of telling a lie to the King. Do whatever [103] you will, daughter, ſaid the viſier, I give you free leave. Provided you prove as good as your word, no matter what it coſts.

Hoſchendan was wholly intent to prepare herſelf for the execution of the project ſhe had formed. She cloathed herſelf in her richeſt apparel, and adorned herſelf with all her jewels. In ſhort, after having added to her natural beauty all the advantages that art could give, ſhe went from her father's one night, attended by ſome ſlaves, who convoyed her ſafely to Saddyq's houſe. When ſhe was arrived, ſhe ſent back her ſlaves, knocked at the door, and told the ſervant that ſhe deſired to ſpeak with Saddyq about an affair of very great importance. They conducted her into his apartment. She found him ſitting on a ſopha, approached him, threw off the veil that covered her face, and ſat down on the ſame ſopha, without ſaying one ſingle word.

Saddyq who had never ſeen, not even in a dream, ſo beautiful a perſon, was ſtruck to the heart, and became motionleſs. The lady, whoſe deſign was to inſpire him with love, ſpared not the means to accompliſh it. She careſſed him with a thouſand dalliances; and ſaid, O Saddyq, be not ſurpriſed that a woman who loves you, thus ſeeks for you in private. Grant me a ſingle favour.—Soul of my ſoul! cried out the Maſter of the Horſe, you need only name it. What can I refuſe to theſe powerful charms, of which I am ſo enamoured? Command your ſlave—tell him what you wiſh. I have a mind, [104] replied Hoſchendan, with a longing deſire to eat ſome horſe-fleſh*. Kill me immediately the fatteſt of all the King's horſes: take out the heart and the liver, get them roaſted, and let us eat them together. Charming lady, anſwered Saddyq, rather aſk me my life: I have a reſpect for every thing that belongs to the King my maſter. Let us put off this frolick till to-morrow: I will then buy a horſe as fat as a bacon-hog, and we will regale ourſelves like Princes. No, no, replied Hoſchendan, I muſt eat of one of the King's horſes: it is a fancy I have taken, and you muſt gratify it. I cannot comply with your requeſt, ſaid Saddyq: I love the King my maſter too well to give him the leaſt uneaſineſs. Should I prove ſo weak as to yield to your requeſt, I am certain he would not fail to puniſh me. You need not fear that, ſaid Hoſchendan; ſhould the King aſk you what was become of the horſe, ſay, that having found him ſick, and paſt all hope of recovery, you thought it beſt to kill him, leſt he ſhould have infected the other horſes with his diſeaſe. The King, who by way of excellence has given you the ſurname of Saddyq, will take your word for it, and even commend your precaution.

The Maſter of the Horſe began to waver—What ſhall I do? ſaid he to himſelf. On the one hand, my reſpect for the King, and the fear of puniſhment, keep me in awe: on the other, the charms of this [105] heavenly face allure me. Hoſchendan, perceiving the perplexity he was in, renewed her attacks ſo forcibly that he condeſcended at length to her requeſt. They went together to the King's ſtables. O my Prince! ſaid Hoſchendan to Saddyq, ſince you grant me the favour, grant it to my wiſh; pray cut the throat of this black horſe, which ſtands here apart from the reſt. O my Queen! my Sultaneſs! cried the Maſter of the Horſe, you know not what you aſk. You put my love to too ſevere a trial. This black horſe is of all others that which the King loves beſt. It is impoſſible for me to comply with your deſire. Pitch upon any one of the reſt, and his throat ſhall be cut inſtantly. This is all that I can do for you; and, indeed, all that you ought to expect. But the lady was not to be refuſed: on the contrary, throwing herſelf at his feet, O my Prince! ſaid ſhe, my dear Maſter of the Horſe, I conjure you not to refuſe my ſuit. I know well that the proof of tenderneſs, which I aſk of you, claſhes in ſome meaſure with your duty: but women, you know, are whimſical and capricious; whatever they ardently deſire, they are obſtinate to obtain: comply therefore, and ſatisfy my humour. I will for ever love you, and hold you dearer than my life.

Her words were accompanied with ſo many marks of tenderneſs, and ſuch tranſports, that the Maſter of the Horſe could reſiſt no longer. He drew his knife, and cut the black horſe's throat inſtantly. [106] Then taking out the heart and liver, they were roaſted, and ate in the bed-chamber. In the morning the lady took leave of the Maſter of the Horſe, returned home to her father, and told him all that had paſſed. The viſier was ſo overjoyed at it, that he had no time to think how dear it had coſt his daughter to play the part ſhe had acted; but went directly to the palace, and told the King the adventure. He took care, however, not to ſay that Hoſchendan was the lady in queſtion, or that it was to ſatisfy his hatred and envy that his daughter had dared to tempt the integrity of Saddyq.

While the viſier Tangribirdi was making this recital to the King, with all the malice of a ſtanch courtier, who wiſhed ruin to his enemy, the Maſter of the Horſe had come to himſelf, and made moſt bitter reflections on what he had done. How void of ſenſe are men, ſaid he, to give themſelves up to their paſſions! I ſhould have done much better to have ſent away the lady with a flat denial, than to have pleaſed her in killing a horſe that was the delight of the King my maſter. I ſhould not then have been agitated with all the cruel thoughts which now diſturb my quiet. What ſhall I anſwer to the King when he aſks me for his horſe? I, who hitherto have made it a law to myſelf ever to tell truth, ſhall I fly to falſehood for ſhelter, and ſhall I dare to be found a liar in the preſence of my King? This would be adding a new crime to that I have committed. On the other hand, ſhould I make a true [107] confeſſion, my ſincerity muſt coſt me my life: what then muſt I determine to do? To lie? Well, be it ſo. Let me ſuppoſe that I am at court: let me ſuppoſe this cap (taking it off his head, and laying it on the floor) to be Togaltimur: let me ſee if I can have the confidence to inſiſt upon a lie in the face of the King. Entering into his preſence, I ſalute him. Saddyq, ſays he, let my black horſe be got ready, I mean to ride to-day.—Sir, an accident has befallen him: yeſterday in the evening he would eat nothing we could offer him, and he died at midnight; nor can I imagine the occaſion of his death. How! my black horſe, that carried me ſo well but yeſterday—is he dead? Why muſt it be him rather than ſo many others that are in the ſame ſtable? What ſtory is this thou telleſt me? Be gone; thou art a liar. Thou haſt either fold my horſe, or elſe thou haſt killed him in ſome freak. Think not to eſcape my vengeance. Thou ſhalt be puniſhed according to thy deſerts. One of you ſtab that villain to the heart this moment;—hack him in pieces.

Togaltimur, purſued Saddyq, will, no doubt, ſpeak to me in this manner; and ſuch will be the reward of the firſt lie I ever told in my life. Now let me conſider, if, by telling the truth, I ſhall fare any better. Saddyq, let my black horſe be got ready: I will ride abroad.—O King! you ſee your ſervant in the deepeſt affliction. There came to my houſe laſt night a lady, who aſked me to have the heart and liver of that horſe, and I had no power to refuſe [108] her. What! could you kill my fine horſe to gain a lady's favour? One of you go for the executioner; he ſhall do his office before my face.

Behold, ſaid the Maſter of the Horſe, what reception I am to expect: whether I lie, or whether I tell truth, I am ſure to loſe my life. Wretch that I am! Curſed be the object whoſe charms have thrown me into this perplexity. While he was buſied with theſe diſmal thoughts, came one to tell him the King would ſpeak with him. He inſtantly obeyed the order, and found there the viſier his enemy.

Maſter of the Horſe, ſays the King, I intend to hunt to-day: ſaddle me the black horſe. Struck with a mortal dread, he anſwered in confuſion—Sir, there happened laſt night a misfortune to your ſervant; if your Majeſty commands me, I will tell it you. Tell it, replied the King. Laſt night, ſaid the Maſter of the Horſe, as I was ſitting in my chamber, there came to me a lady in a veil. She ſat herſelf down by me on a ſopha, unveiled, and ſhewed me a neck and face of raviſhing beauty: ſhe won my affection; and prevailed on me to promiſe her the heart and liver of your black horſe. I anſwered without heſitation, that I could not conſent to kill a horſe that your Majeſty was ſo fond of. But the lady threw herſelf at my feet, and beſought me in terms ſo moving, that I had no power to reſiſt her importunity. This, Sir, is an ingenuous recital of my adventure. I confeſs my crime, and am ſo far from deſiring to eſcape the [109] puniſhment I deſerve, by telling a lie, that I come of my own accord to ſubmit to it.—There, Sovereign, is the ſabre,—here is my head.

The King turned towards the viſier, and aſked him in what manner he thought it beſt to deal with Saddyq. Sir, anſwered the viſier, overjoyed to be conſulted in this affair, I am of opinion, that he ought to be burnt in a ſlow fire. A man, who has dared to ſacrifice to his pleaſure a horſe that you were fond of, is unworthy of mercy.—I am not of your opinion, viſier, replied Togaltimur: I think it more reaſonable to pardon a firſt fault, than to puniſh it.—Then addreſſing his diſcourſe to the Maſter of the Horſe, ſaid, O Saddyq! I am aſtoniſhed at thy ſincerity, and excuſe thy weakneſs. Had I been in thy place, I might not only have given my black horſe, but all the horſes in my ſtables. The allurements were too mighty to be reſiſted: no man could have been ſafe againſt them. I forgive thee the death of my horſe; and take it ſo well of thee, that thou haſt told me the truth on this occaſion, that I order a robe of honour to be brought for thee immediately.

When the viſier Tangribirdi ſaw that the Maſter of the Horſe was rewarded, inſtead of being puniſhed, he was ſeiſed with a melancholy, that threw him into an illneſs, of which he died in a few days, and the fortunate Saddyq was made choice of to ſucceed him in his poſt of Viſier.

*
Horſe-fleſh is a great dainty among the Tartars; ſo likewiſe is the milk of mares.
NANCY.
[110]

Upon my word I began to tremble for poor Saddy (que) I am quite happy that he did not tell a lie.

EUSTACE.

I never could be thoroughly perſuaded that he would ſiſter, though I own I was once almoſt in doubt.

CHARLES.

Well, I hope I ſhall never be put to ſuch a ſevere trial.

MR. EGERTON.

Rather hope, Charles, that you ſhall obtain ſufficient fortitude to ſupport ſuch a trial.

MRS. EGERTON.

The tale you have juſt heard, my dears, points out to you both the magnanimity and the advantages of ſpeaking truth. But you muſt look further; you muſt not only avoid inventing direct lies, but equivocal ones likewiſe. They are equally diſgraceful, equally guilty, and oftentimes equally fatal in their conſequences. Theſe you muſt particularly guard againſt. Remember, though nobody ſhould detect you, though you ſhould paſs with impunity in the eyes of others, yet if you can reproach yourſelves [111] with the leaſt deviation from veracity, you ought to be aſhamed of your conduct, to ſhrink from the recollection of your weakneſs, and to take the moſt effectual and poſitive method of preventing it in future. Remember too, it is very poſſible for you to be guilty of lying without ſpeaking a word.

MR. EGERTON.

I recollect reading an account of the behaviour of Colonel Edmonds, who ſerved in the Dutch wars at Utrecht, which will teach you how you ought to act on the like occaſion. As he was one day ſtanding among his brother officers, one of his countrymen who had juſt arrived from Scotland, and who wanted to inſinuate himſelf into the Colonel's favour, came up to him, ſaluted him, and delivered pretended meſſages from my Lord his father, from the Earl his couſin, and various others of his relations, all of whom, he ſaid were well. "Gentlemen, ſaid the Colonel, turning to his friends, do not believe that fellow; my father is a poor baker in Edinburgh, and works hard for his livelihood. I am neither related to lord or knight. He has made an impudent attack upon my vanity, and has wanted to engage me tacitly to become an accomplice in his falſehoods, for which contemptible trick, every gentleman who has heard him, muſt, I am ſure, deſpiſe him."

I can never repeat too often to you that the plain truth is beſt. When ſome young men were brought before Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, and accuſed of [112] having libelled him, Pyrrhus aſked them, "Is it true, young men? did you ſay ſuch things?"—"We did, Sir, replied one of the youths; and I am afraid we ſhould, at that time, have ſaid many more if we had had more wine." No denial of the fact, no evaſive anſwers could have pleaded ſo effectually as the ſimple truth. Pyrrhus admired the ſincerity, was ſenſible of the force of the defence, and readily pardoned the error of the offenders.

We will now read the hiſtory of Lady Forreſt, which is a melancholy but ſtrong inſtance of the danger of equivocation.

EQUIVOCATION. The Hiſtory of Lady FORREST, &c.

CHARLOTTE and Maria were educated together at an eminent boarding-ſchool near London: there was little difference in their age, and their perſonal accompliſhments were equal: but though their families were of the ſame rank, yet as Charlotte was an only child, ſhe was conſiderably ſuperior in fortune.

Soon after they were taken home, Charlotte was addreſſed by Captain Freeman, who, beſides his commiſſion in the guards, had a ſmall paternal eſtate: but as her friends hoped for a more advantageous match, the Captain was deſired to forbear his viſits, and the lady to think of him no more. After ſome [113] fruitleſs ſtruggles they acquieſced; but the diſcontent of both were ſo apparent, that it was thought expedient to remove Miſs into the country. She was ſent to her aunt, the Lady Meadows, who with her daughter lived retired at the family ſeat, more than one hundred miles diſtant from the metropolis. After ſhe had repined in this dreary ſolitude from April to Auguſt, ſhe was ſurpriſed with a viſit from her father, who brought with him Sir James Forreſt, a young gentleman who had juſt ſucceeded to a baronet's title and a very large eſtate in the ſame county. Sir James had good nature and good ſenſe, an agreeable perſon and an eaſy addreſs: Miſs was inſenſibly pleaſed with his company; her vanity, if not her love, had a new object; a deſire to be delivered from a ſtate of dependance and obſcurity had almoſt abſorbed all the reſt: and it is no wonder that this deſire was gratified, when ſcarce any other was felt; or that in compliance with the united ſolicitations of her friends, and her lover, ſhe ſuffered herſelf within a few weeks to become a lady and a wife. They continued in the country till the beginning of October, and then came up to London, having prevailed upon her aunt to accompany them, that Miſs Meadows, with whom the bride had contracted an intimate friendſhip, might be gratified with the diverſions of the town during the winter.

Captain Freeman, when he heard that Miſs Charlotte was married, immediately made propoſals of marriage to Maria, with whom he became acquainted [114] during his viſits to her friend, and ſoon after married her.

The friendſhip of the two young ladies ſeemed to be rather increaſed than diminiſhed by their marriage; they were always of the ſame party both in the private and public diverſions of the ſeaſon, and viſited each other without the formalities of meſſages and dreſs.

But neither Sir James nor Mrs. Freeman could reflect without uneaſineſs upon the frequent interviews which familiarity and confidence had produced between a lover and his miſtreſs, whom force only had divided; and though of theſe interviews they were themſelves witneſſes, yet Sir James inſenſibly became jealous of his lady, and Mrs. Freeman of her huſband.

It happened in the May following, that Sir James went about ten miles out of town to be preſent at an election of a member of parliament for the county, and was not expected to return till the next day. In the evening his lady took a chair and viſited Mrs. Freemen: the reſt of the company went away early, the Captain was upon guard, Sir James was out of town, and the ladies after ſupper ſat down to piquet, and continued the game without once reflecting upon the hour till three in the morning. Lady Forreſt would then have gone home; but Mrs. Freeman, perhaps chiefly to conceal a contrary deſire, importuned her to ſtay till the Captain came [115] in, and at length, with ſome reluctance, ſhe conſented.

About five the Captain came home, and Lady Forreſt immediately ſent out for a chair: a chair, as it happened, could not be procured; but a hackney coach being brought in its ſtead, the Captain inſiſted upon waiting on her ladyſhip home. This ſhe refuſed with ſome emotion; it is probable that ſhe ſtill regarded the Captain with leſs indifference than ſhe wiſhed, and was therefore more ſenſible of the impropriety of his offer: but her reaſons for rejecting it, however forcible, being ſuch as ſhe could not alledge, he perſiſted, and her reſolution was overborne. By this importunate complaiſance the Captain had not only thrown Lady Forreſt into confuſion, but diſpleaſed his wife: ſhe could not, however, without unpoliteneſs oppoſe it; and left her uneaſineſs ſhould be diſcovered, ſhe affected a negligence which in ſome degree revenged it: ſhe deſired that when he came back he would not diſturb her, for that ſhe ſhould go directly to bed; and added with a kind of drowſy inſenſibliity, "I am more than half aſleep already."

Lady Forreſt and the Captain were to go from the Haymarket to Groſvenor-ſquare. It was about half an hour after five when they got into the coach; the morning was remarkably fine, the late conteſt had ſhaken off all diſpoſition to ſleep, and Lady Forreſt could not help ſaying, that ſhe had much rather take a walk into the Park than go home to bed. The [116] Captain zealouſly expreſſed the ſame ſentiment, and propoſed that the coach ſhould ſet them down at St. James's Gate. The lady, however, had nearly the ſame objections againſt being ſeen in the Mall without any other company than the Captain, than ſhe had againſt its being known that they were alone together in a hackney coach: ſhe, therefore, to extricate herſelf from this ſecond difficulty, propoſed that they ſhould call at her father's in Bond-ſtreet, and take her couſin Meadows, whom ſhe knew to be an early riſer, with them. This project was immediately put in execution; but Lady Forreſt found her couſin indiſpoſed with a cold. When ſhe had communicated the deſign of this early viſit, Miſs Meadows intreated her to give up her walk in the Park, to ſtay till the family roſe, and go home after breakfaſt: "No, replied Lady Forreſt, I am determined upon a walk; but as I muſt firſt get rid of Captain Freeman, I will ſend down word that I will take your advice." A ſervant was accordingly diſpatched to acquaint the Captain, who was waiting below, that Miſs Meadows was indiſpoſed, and had engaged Lady Forreſt to breakfaſt.

The Captain diſcharged the coach; but being piqued at the behaviour of his wife, and feeling that flow of ſpirits which uſually returns with the morning even to thoſe who have not ſlept in the night, he had no deſire to go home, and therefore reſolved to enjoy the fine morning in the Park alone.

[117]Lady Forreſt not doubting but that the Captain would immediately return home, congratulated herſelf upon her deliverance; but at the ſame time, to indulge her deſire of a walk, followed him into the Park.

The Captain had reached the top of the Mall, and turning back, met her before ſhe had advanced two hundred yards beyond the palace. The moment ſhe perceived him, the remembrance of her meſſage, the motives that produced it, the detection of its falſehood, and diſcovery of its deſign, her diſappointment and conſciouſneſs of that very ſituation which ſhe had ſo much reaſon to avoid, all concurred to cover her with confuſion which it was impoſſible for her to hide: pride and good-breeding were, however, ſtill predominant over truth and prudence; ſhe was ſtill zealous to remove from the Captain's mind any ſuſpicion of a deſign to ſhun him, and therefore with an effort perhaps equal to that of a hero who ſmiles upon the rack, ſhe affected an air of gaiety, ſaid ſhe was glad to ſee him, and as an excuſe for her meſſage and her conduct, prattled ſomething about the fickleneſs of woman's mind, and concluded with obſerving that ſhe changed her's too often ever to be mad. By this conduct a retreat was rendered impoſſible, and they walked together till between eight and nine: but the clouds having inſenſibly gathered, and a ſudden ſhower falling juſt as they reached Spring-gardens, they went out inſtead [118] of going back; and the Captain having put the lady into a chair, took his leave.

It happened that Sir James, contrary to his firſt purpoſe, had returned from his journey at night. He learnt from the ſervants that his lady was gone to Captain Freeman's, and was ſecretly diſpleaſed that ſhe had made this viſit when he was abſent; an incident which, however trifling in itſelf, was by the magic of jealouſy, ſwelled into importance: yet upon recollection, he reproved himſelf for this diſpleaſure, ſince the preſence of the Captain's lady would ſufficiently ſecure the honour of his own. While he was ſtruggling with theſe ſuſpicions, they increaſed both in number and ſtrength, in proportion as the night wore away. At one he went to bed; but he paſſed the night in agonies of terror and reſentment, doubting whether the abſence of his lady was the effect of accident or deſign, liſtening to every noiſe, and bewildering himſelf in a multitude of extravagant ſuppoſitions. He roſe again at break of day; and after ſeveral hours of ſuſpence and irreſolution, whether to wait the iſſue, or go out for intelligence, the reſtleſſneſs of curioſity prevailed, and about eight he ſet out for Captain Freeman's; but left word with his ſervants, that he was gone to a neighbouring coffee-houſe.

Mrs. Freeman, whoſe affected indifference and diſſimulation of a deſign to go immediately to bed, contributed to prevent the Captain's return had, during his abſence, ſuffered inexpreſſible diſquiet: [119] ſhe had, indeed, neither intention to go to bed, nor inclination to ſleep; ſhe walked backward and forward in her chamber, diſtracted with jealouſy and ſuſpenſe, till ſhe was informed that Sir James was below, and deſired to ſee her. When ſhe came down, he diſcovered that ſhe had been in tears; his fear was now more alarmed than his jealouſy, and he concluded that ſome fatal accident had befallen his wife; but he ſoon learnt that ſhe and the Captain had gone from thence at five in the morning, and that he was not yet returned. Mrs. Freeman, by Sir James's enquiry, knew that the lady had not been at home: her ſuſpicions, therefore, were confirmed; and in her jealouſy, which to prevent a duel ſhe laboured to conceal, Sir James found new cauſe for his own. He determined, however, to wait with as much decency as poſſible, till the Captain came in; and perhaps two perſons were never more embarraſſed by the preſence of each other. While breakfaſt was getting ready, Dr. Tattle came to pay Mrs. Freeman a morning viſit; and to the unſpeakable grief of both the lady and her gueſt, was immediately admitted. Doctor Tattle is one of thoſe male goſſips who, in common opinion, are the moſt diverting company in the world. The Doctor ſaw that Mrs. Freeman was low ſpirited, and made ſeveral efforts to divert her, but without ſucceſs: at laſt he declared, with an air of ironical importance, that he could tell her ſuch news as would make her look grave for ſomething; "The Captain, ſays he, [120] has juſt huddled a lady into a chair at the door of a bagnio, near Spring-gardens." He ſoon perceived that this ſpeech was received with emotions very different from thoſe he intended to produce; and therefore added, "that ſhe need not, however, be jealous; for notwithſtanding the manner in which he had related the incident, the lady was certainly a woman of character, as he inſtantly diſcovered by her mein and appearance:" this particular confirmed the ſuſpicion it was intended to remove; and the Doctor finding that he was not ſo good company as uſual, took his leave, but was met at the door by the Captain, who brought him back. His preſence, however inſignificant, impoſed ſome reſtraint upon the reſt of the company; and Sir James, with as good an appearance of jocularity as he could aſſume, aſked the Captain "What he had done with his wife?" The Captain, with ſome irreſolution, replied, that "he had left her early in the morning at her father's; and that having made a point of waiting on her home, ſhe ſent word down that her couſin Meadows was indiſpoſed, and had engaged her to breakfaſt." The Captain, who knew nothing of the anecdote that had been communicated by the Doctor, judged by appearances that it was prudent thus indirectly to lie, by concealing the truth both from Sir James and his wife: he ſuppoſed, indeed, that Sir James would immediately enquire after his wife, at her father's, and learn that ſhe did not ſtay there to breakfaſt; but as it would not follow that [121] they had been together, he left her to account for her abſence as ſhe ſhould think fit, taking for granted that what he had concealed ſhe would alſo conceal for the ſame reaſons; or if ſhe ſhould not, as he had affirmed nothing contrary to truth, he might pretend to have concealed it in jeſt. Sir James, as ſoon as he had received this intelligence, took his leave with ſome appearance of ſatisfaction, and was followed by the Doctor.

As ſoon as Mrs. Freeman and the Captain were alone, ſhe queſtioned him with great earneſtneſs about the lady whom he had been ſeen to put into a chair. When he had heard that this incident had been related in the preſence of Sir James, he was greatly alarmed leſt Lady Forreſt ſhould increaſe his ſuſpicions, by attempting to conceal that which, by a ſeries of enquiry to which he was now ſtimulated, he would probably diſcover: he condemned this conduct in himſelf, and as the moſt effectual means at once to quiet the mind of his wife, and obtain her aſſiſtance, he told her all that had happened, and his apprehenſion of the conſequences: he alſo urged her to go directly to Miſs Meadows, by whom his account would be confirmed, and from whom ſhe might learn farther intelligence of Sir James; and to find ſome way to acquaint Lady Forreſt with her danger, and admoniſh her to conceal nothing.

Mrs. Freeman was convinced of the Captain's ſincerity, not only by the advice which he urged her [122] to give to Lady Forreſt, but by the conſiſtency of the ſtory and the manner in which he was affected. Her jealouſy was changed into pity for her friend, and apprehenſion for her huſband. She haſted to Miſs Meadows, and learnt that Sir James had enquired of the ſervant for his lady, and was told that ſhe had been there early with Captain Freeman, but went away ſoon after him: ſhe related to Miſs Meadows all that had happened, and thinking it at leaſt poſſible that Sir James might not go directly home, ſhe wrote the following letter to his lady:

My dear Lady Forreſt,

I am in the utmoſt diſtreſs for you. Sir James has ſuſpicions which truth only can remove, and of which my indiſcretion is the cauſe. If I had not concealed my deſire of the Captain's return, your deſign to diſengage yourſelf from him, which I learn from Miſs Meadows, would have been effected. Sir James breakfaſted with me in the Hay-market; and has ſince called at your father's, from whence I write: he knows that your ſtay here was ſhort, and has reaſon to believe the Captain put you into a chair ſome hours afterwards at Spring-gardens. I hope therefore, my dear lady, that this will reach your hands time enough to prevent your concealing any thing. It would have been better if Sir James had known nothing, for then you would not have been ſuſpected; but now he muſt know [123] all, or you cannot be juſtified. Forgive the freedom with which I write, and believe me moſt affectionately

Your's, MARIA FREEMAN.

P. S. I have ordered the bearer to ſay he came from Mrs. Faſhion the milliner.

This letter was given to a chairman, and he was ordered to ſay he brought it from the milliner's; becauſe if it ſhould be known to come from Mrs. Freeman, and ſhould fall by accident into Sir James's hands, his curioſity might prompt him to read it, and his jealouſy to queſtion the lady without communicating the contents.

Sir James being convinced that his lady and the Captain had paſſed the morning at a bagnio, by the anſwer which he received at her father's, went directly home. His lady was juſt arrived before him, and had not recovered from the confuſion and dread which ſeized her when ſhe heard that Sir James came to town the night before, and at the ſame inſtant anticipated the conſequences of her own indiſcretion. She was told he was then at the coffee-houſe, and in a few minutes was thrown into an univerſal tremor upon hearing him knock at the door. He perceived her diſtreſs not with compaſſion but rage, becauſe he believed it to proceed from the conſciouſneſs of guilt: he turned pale, and his lips quivered; but he ſo far reſtrained his paſſion as to aſk her, without [124] invective, "where, and how ſhe had paſſed the night?" She replied, "at Captain Freeman's; that the Captain was upon guard, that ſhe ſat up with his lady till he came in, and then inſiſting to ſee her home, ſhe would ſuffer the coach to go no farther than her father's, where he left her early in the morning:" ſhe had not fortitude to relate the ſequel, but ſtopped with ſome appearance of irreſolution and terror. Sir James then aſked, "if ſhe came directly from her father's home." This queſtion, and the manner in which it was aſked, increaſed her confuſion: to appear to have ſtopped ſhort in her narrative, ſhe thought would be an implication of guilt, as it would betray a deſire of concealment: but the paſt could not be recalled, and ſhe was impelled by equivocation to falſehood, from which, however, ſhe would have been kept back by fear, if Sir James had not deceived her into a belief that he had been no farther than the neighbourhood. After theſe tumultuous reflections which paſſed in a moment, ſhe ventured to affirm, that "ſhe ſtaid with Miſs Meadows till eight, and then came home:" but ſhe uttered this falſehood with ſuch marks of guilt and ſhame, which ſhe had indeed no otherwiſe than by this falſehood incurred or deſerved, that Sir James no more doubted her infidelity than her exiſtence. As her ſtory was the ſame with the Captain's, and as one had concealed the truth, and the other denied it, he concluded there was a confederacy between them; and determining firſt to bring the Captain to account, he [125] turned from her abruptly, and immediately left the houſe.

At the door he met the chairman who had been diſpatched by Mrs. Freeman to his lady; and fiercely interrogating him what was his buſineſs, the man produced the letter, and ſaying, as he had been ordered, that he had brought it from Mrs. Faſhion, Sir James ſnatched it from him, and muttering ſome expreſſions of contempt and reſentment, thruſt it into his pocket.

It happened that Sir James did not find the Captain at home; he, therefore, left a billet, in which he requeſted to ſee him at a neighbouring tavern, and added, that he had put on his ſword.

In the mean time, his lady, dreading a diſcovery of the falſehood which ſhe had aſſerted, diſpatched a billet to Captain Freeman; in which ſhe conjured him, as a man of honour, for particular reaſons, not to own to Sir James, or any other perſon, that he had ſeen her after he had left her at her father's: ſhe alſo wrote to her couſin Meadows, intreating, that if ſhe was queſtioned by Sir James, he might be told that ſhe ſtaid with her till eight o'clock, an hour at which only herſelf and the ſervants were up.

The billet to Miſs Meadows came ſoon after the chairman had returned with an account of what had happened to the letter; and Mrs. Freeman was juſt gone in great haſte to relate the accident to the Captain, as it was of importance that he ſhould know it before his next interview with Sir James: but the [126] Captain had been at home before her, and had received both Sir James's billet and that of his lady. He went immediately to the tavern, and, inquiring for Sir James Forreſt, was ſhewn into a a back room one pair of ſtairs: Sir James received his ſalutation without reply, and inſtantly bolted the door. His jealouſy was complicated with that indignation and contempt, which a ſenſe of injury from a perſon of inferior rank, never fails to produce; he, therefore, demanded of the Captain, in a haughty tone, "Whether he had not that morning been in company with his wife, after he had left her at her father's?" The Captain, who was incenſed at Sir James's manner, and deemed himſelf engaged in honour to keep the lady's ſecret, anſwered, that "from what he had ſaid in the morning, no man had a right to ſuppoſe he had ſeen the lady afterwards; that to inſinuate the contrary, was obliquely to charge him with a falſehood; that he was bound to anſwer no ſuch queſtions, till they were properly explained; and that as a gentleman, he was prepared to vindicate his honour." Sir James juſtly deemed this reply an equivocation and an inſult; and being no longer able to reſtrain his rage, he curſed the Captain as a liar and a ſcoundrel, and at the ſame time ſtriking him a violent blow with his fiſt, drew his ſword, and put himſelf in a poſture of defence. Whatever deſign the Captain might have had to bring his friend to temper, and reconcile him to his wife, when he firſt entered the room, he was now [127] equally enraged, and indeed had ſuffered equal indignity; he, therefore, drew at the ſame inſtant, and after a few deſperate paſſes on both ſides, he received a wound in his breaſt, and reeling backward a few paces, fell down.

The noiſe had brought many people to the door of the room, and it was forced open juſt as the Captain received his wound: Sir James was ſecured, and a meſſenger was diſpatched for a ſurgeon. In the mean time the Captain perceived himſelf to be dying; and whatever might before have been his opinion of right and wrong, and honour and ſhame, he now thought all diſſimulation criminal, and that his murderer had a right to that truth which he thought it meritorious to deny him when he was his friend; he, therefore, earneſtly deſired to ſpeak a few words to him in private. This requeſt was immediately granted; the perſons who had ruſhed in withdrew, contenting themſelves to keep guard at the door; and the Captain, beckoning Sir James to kneel down by him, then told him, that however his lady might have been ſurprized or betrayed by pride or fear into diſſimulation or falſehood, ſhe was innocent of the crime which he ſuppoſed her ſolicitous to conceal. He then briefly related all the events as they had happened; and at laſt, graſping his hand, urged him to eſcape from the window, that he might be a friend to his widow and to his child, if its birth ſhould not be prevented by the death of its father. Sir James yielded to the force of this motive, and eſcaped as [128] the Captain had directed. In his way to Dover he read the letter which he had taken from the chairman, and the next poſt incloſed it in the following to his lady.

My dear Charlotte,

I am the moſt wretched of all men; but I do not upbraid you as the cauſe: would to God that I were not more guilty than you! We are the martyrs of diſſimulation. By diſſimulation dear Captain Freeman was induced to waſte thoſe hours with you, which he would otherwiſe have enjoyed with the poor unhappy diſſembler his wife. Truſting in the ſucceſs of diſſimulation, you was tempted to venture into the Park, where you met him whom you wiſhed to ſhun. By detecting diſſimulation in the Captain, my ſuſpicions were increaſed; and by diſſimulation and falſehood you confirmed them. But your diſſimulation and falſehood were the effects of mine; your's were ineffectual, mine ſucceeded: for I left word that I was gone no farther than the coffee-houſe, that you might not ſuſpect I had learned too much to be deceived. By the ſucceſs of a lie put into the mouth of a chairman, I was prevented from reading a letter which at laſt would have undeceived me; and by perſiſting in diſſimulation, the Captain has made his friend a fugitive, and his wife a widow. Thus does inſincerity terminate in miſery and confuſion, whether, in its immediate purpoſe, it ſucceed, or be diſappointed. O my dear [129] Charlotte! if ever we meet again,—to meet again in happineſs is impoſſible—if ever we meet again, let us reſolve to be ſincere: to be ſincere is to be wife, innocent, and ſafe. We venture to commit faults which ſhame or fear would prevent, if we did not hope to conceal them by a lie. But in the labyrinth of falſehood, men meet thoſe evils which they ſeek to avoid.—As in the ſtrait path of truth alone they can ſee before them, in the ſtrait path of truth alone they can purſue felicity with ſucceſs. Adieu! I am—dreadful!—I can ſubſcribe nothing that does not reproach and torment me—Adieu!

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this letter, the unhappy lady heard that her huſband was caſt away in his paſſage to France.

DIALOGUE XV.

MR. EGERTON.

YESTERDAY you beheld me very anxious to convince you of the abſolute neceſſity of a ſtrict adherence to truth. I cannot, perhaps, better continue to effect this, than by ſhewing you the importance of accuſtoming yourſelves to ſilence, when [130] upon the affairs of others. This will inſenſibly give you habits of ſecreſy, and teach you to avoid detraction, two very eſſential duties of ſociety. We will begin with the firſt. To ſhew you how highly the wiſeſt of men have always reverenced thoſe who were careful not to betray the ſecrets with which they were entruſted, I will remind you of the behaviour of Papyrius, and the honour conferred on him in conſequence of it, by that auguſt aſſembly, the Senate of antient Rome.

It was once the cuſtom for the ſenators to take their ſons with them to the ſenate-houſe, and among theſe did Papyrius Praeteſtatus follow his father. One day when an affair of great conſequence had been in debate, and deferred till the morrow, a particular charge was given to all not to mention it abroad. The mother of the boy, Papyrius when he came home, aſked him what the ſenators had been doing that day; to which he replied, it was a ſecret that muſt not be diſcloſed. This anſwer, inſtead of giving ſatisfaction, as it ought to have done, only enflamed her curioſity; and, when entreaties had no effect, made her proceed to violence, in order to extort the ſecret. Papyrius, who was quite young, finding it impoſſible to prevail, told her at laſt, that he might avoid diſcloſing the ſecrets of the ſenate, "it had been debated, whether it would be moſt advantageous for one man to have two wives, or for one woman to have two huſbands." The mother upon this immediately quits Papyrius, and [131] running about among her female acquaintance, who were as weak as herſelf, perſuades them to accompany her the next day to the ſenate. The ſenators, hearing the uproar, enquired what was the matter? Upon which Papyrius ſtood up, and told them in what manner he had been obliged to act. The fathers were all ſo much ſurprized and pleaſed with the invention, the reſolution, and the ſecreſy of the boy, that they returned him public thanks; but inſtantly made a decree, that the ſons of ſenators ſhould not in future be admitted to hear their deliberations, Papyrius alone excepted.

Papyrius you ſee, children, notwithſtanding his youth, had a juſt ſenſe of the dignity and importance of the truſt which had been placed in him by the ſenators. The perſon whoſe ſtory we will now read, had neither his prudence nor his fortitude.

SECRESY: Or the ENRAGED LOVER.

A YOUNG gentleman, deſcended of a good family, but whoſe eſtate was very much encumbered by the miſmanagement of his parents, was on the point of retrieving his fortune by a marriage with a lady, who, beſides eight thouſand pounds in her own poſſeſſion, was the only child of one of the moſt wealthy merchants in Briſtol.

The courtſhip between them had been kept extremely ſecret;—the lady had made no one her confidante [132] in the affair;—the gentleman had obſerved the ſame caution, till, a few days before that which ſhe had appointed for the completion of their mutual wiſhes, he imparted the ſecret of his approaching happineſs to a friend, from whom before he had never concealed any thing.

This perſon had a wife whom he extremely loved, and whoſe integrity he doubted not. He knew ſhe wiſhed well to his friend, and that ſhe would rejoice to hear of the good fortune he was ſo near enjoying, therefore communicated the ſecret to her almoſt as ſoon as he was informed of it himſelf; but charged her at the ſame time to make no mention of it, which ſhe faithfully promiſed.

It proved, however, that her mind had no ſuch retentive quality as her fond huſband imagined. A young lady of her acquaintance happening to viſit her that ſame day, and ſome diſcourſe on the ill ſituation of the intended bridegroom's affairs coming on the tapis, the wife could not forbear crying out,—'Well, well, we ſhall ſoon ſee him redeem all.'—'As how!' demanded the other.—'By a marriage with ſome great fortune,' replied ſhe.— 'Marriage!' reſumed the young lady,—'It muſt then be with ſome worn out virgin of fourſcore at her laſt prayers.'—'Not ſo, I can aſſure you,' ſaid the wife, 'but a blooming young creature of ſcarce eighteen, with a fortune of eight thouſand pounds in her own hands, and heireſs to one of the firſt merchants of Briſtol.'—'You amaze me,' returned [133] the other,—'Pray who is ſhe?'—'You muſt excuſe me for that, my dear,' anſwered ſhe, 'I am enjoined ſecreſy; but I can tell you, the wedding will be celebrated in a few days, and then all will come out. In the mean time you may have leave to gueſs.'

After what ſhe had ſaid, the other could not be much at a loſs to diſcover the perſon ſpoken of.— 'You certainly muſt mean Miſs ****. The deſcription you give correſponds with no other woman in this town.'—'You are perfectly right,' replied ſhe; 'but be ſure you tell nobody.'

Little did this unhappy wife imagine, to whom ſhe had blabbed ſo dangerous a ſecret. This lady had been courted by the gentleman in queſtion, but, her fortune not agreeing with his circumſtances, the match did not ſucceed. She had loved him, and her reſentment for his not reſolving to ſuffer every thing for her ſake, was adequate to the tenderneſs ſhe had before had for him; and the opportunity now given her for rendering him as unhappy as he had made her, filled her with an ill-natured ſatisfaction.

She no ſooner got home, than ſhe wrote an anonymous letter to the father of her rival, acquainting him with the whole ſtory of his daughter's intended marriage.—The old gentleman was equally ſurprized and enraged; he ſearched his daughter's cabinet, and found letters which confirmed the truth of the advice he had received. He immediately locked the young lady into her chamber, ſuffering no one [134] to come near her, but an aunt, who was as inflexible to compaſſion for the woes of love, as a Spaniſh Duenna. On the third day, which was agreed upon by the lovers for the celebration of their nuptials, he ſent her to a place, where it was pretty certain ſhe could hold no correſpondence unknown to him.

Some hours before her departure, ſhe found means to write to her lover.—The contents of the letter were theſe:

The day, which I thought ſhould have given me to you, tears me from you for ever;—the communication between us, by ſome means, is diſcovered to my father, and I am to be ſent to baniſhment; but to what part, or whether out of the kingdom, am not able to inform you;—I only find, by the preparations making, that I am going a long journey.—I am carefully watched, and have juſt time to bid you eternally farewel, and that you muſt now give over all expectations of my ever being your's

P. S. As I find the diſcovery of our loves has been made to my father by a letter from an unknown hand, I wiſh the misfortune may not be owing to yourſelf, in having truſted ſome perſon unworthy of the ſecret, ſince it has never eſcaped my lips, even to the faithful ſervant who brings you this, and will inform you of all my ſufferings for theſe three cruel days.—Once more adieu,—I ſhall always wiſh you happy.

[135]The poor lady had but juſt time to inſtruct her maid what ſhe ſhould ſay on the delivery of this letter, when, though it was no more than four o'clock in the morning, ſhe was called down ſtairs, and, accompanied by her aunt, hurried into a coach, and carried,—no one in the family knew whither.

The maid about ſix executed her commiſſion. The diſtraction of the lover, on hearing the account, and reading the letter, may more eaſily be conceived than deſcribed;—he knew he had made but one confident, and therefore it muſt have been that confident, by whom he was betrayed. He flew directly to his houſe, rouſed him from his bed, and cried out with a voice ſcarce intelligible through rage and deſpair,—'You have undone me;—I believed you my friend, and a man of honour;—you have baſely wronged my credulity, and are a ſcoundrel and a villain!'

The other, knowing this was the day agreed on for the marriage, had imagined that he had been called upon to be witneſs of it; but was now ſo much ſurprized, that he had no power to make the leaſt reply. The lover threw down the letter he had juſt received from Miſs ****, and went on,—'Read that, and, if you can borrow effrontery enough from hell, deny your perfidy, your baſe abuſe of friendſhip!'

The gentleman looked at the letter in the utmoſt conſternation, was extremely ſorry for the accident, [136] but certain it had not happened through his fault; adding, that he had never mentioned the affair to a ſingle ſoul but his wife, whoſe fidelity he could depend upon.

If anything could have added to the lover's fury, it muſt have been the acknowledgment made by the other, of having told the ſecret to his wife. 'You have ruined all the hopes I had on earth,' purſued the lover, 'your blood is the only atonement you can make!'—With theſe words he drew his ſword,— the other did the ſame,—they exchanged ſeveral thruſts;—the claſh of their weapons preſently brought the ſervants into the room, but not time enough to prevent both the antagoniſts from being wounded.

The wife, on this dreadful alarm, jumped out of bed, and, with only a looſe night-gown about her, came running in, crying,—'What has occaſioned this ſhocking ſcene!'—'I hope,' replied her huſband, 'that you yourſelf have not occaſioned it;— and that you never mentioned what I told you in relation to this gentleman's courtſhip with Miſs ****?'—'Oh Heavens!' returned ſhe, 'is it on this ſcore that you fight?'—'Anſwer not one queſtion with another,' reſumed he fiercely, 'but ſpeak the truth at once.'

She then confeſſed, that, in chatting with Miſs L—, ſhe had unwarily dropped ſome hints in regard to that affair, and that the other had gueſſed the reſt. 'It is mighty well,' ſaid the deſpairing [137] lover; 'the diſcovery is made, and I am no longer to ſeek for the author of that cruel letter, which has undone me;—I know the reſentment Miſs L— has to me, and muſt own, you could not have taken more effectual meaſures to compleat my ruin.'

The huſband, who felt more ſmart from his wife's confeſſion, than from the wounds he had received, was beginning to reproach her in the moſt bitter terms, when he was interrupted by the entrance of a ſurgeon, who had been ſent for by the ſervants, to whom turning, he ſaid,—'You ſee here, Sir, two perſons who have need of your help;—but I deſire you will firſt examine the condition of my friend.'— This complaiſance the other was far from returning, —he would not ſuffer himſelf to be touched, ſaying, he would receive no aſſiſtance in a houſe, the owners of which had ſo baſely betrayed him;—and with theſe words flew down ſtairs, bleeding as he was.

Fortunately, however, neither of their wounds proved mortal, nor even dangerous, and both were ſoon cured; but the friendſhip between them was never again cemented, though the huſband, conſcious of having been the aggreſſor, frequently endeavoured it. This diſunion with a perſon whom he truly valued, made the folly, which occaſioned it, appear in its worſt colours; and, though he continued to live with his wife, he never could bring himſelf either to love or even to behave towards her as before this accident.

[138]As for the lover, having ſought his miſtreſs in every place he could think of, without being able to get any intelligence of her abode, he retired to the ſouthern parts of France, in order to retrieve his affairs, by living cheap. The young lady, as it was afterwards known, had been carried into Wales, where labouring under the weight of her father's diſpleaſure, the diſappointment of her love, and the deprivation of all thoſe ſatisfactions her youth had been accuſtomed to, ſhe fell into a languiſhing diſorder, which ſoon took her from the world.

NANCY.

To be able to keep a ſecret, Sir, is certainly a very neceſſary duty; but, I obſerve, that the want of ſecreſy is always attributed to the poor women.

MR. EGERTON.

You miſtake, my dear; in the inſtance before us the men were weaker than the women. The young lady kept her own ſecret; and had either her lover, or his friend, had the ſame diſcretion, they might have been happy.

NANCY.

Would not you have a huſband, Sir, freely communicate his thoughts to a wife?

MR. EGERTON.

By no means, if theſe thoughts are concerning others; he has no right ſo to do. Metellus, a very [139] wiſe man, ſaid, that if he thought his ſhirt was privy to his deſigns, he would tear it off, and burn it.

MRS. EGERTON.

Indeed, that wife muſt very ill underſtand her duty, who makes improper enquiries; and ſhe muſt be exceedingly weak, ſhould ſhe think herſelf neglected, becauſe ſuch enquiries meet a repulſe from her huſband.

MR. EGERTON.

We will now proceed to another conſequence of not keeping a guard upon the tongue, Detraction. I need not take much trouble to convince you of the meanneſs of this folly, which, if once indulged, degenerates into deteſtable vice. But though you may perceive its ill effects, and behold it with contempt in others, if you be not very careful, you may eaſily fall into it yourſelves. There is no weakneſs more common, nor more catching, than Detraction; yet there is not any one more univerſally decried. However, there is no making you avoid this odious practice by maxims alone; if you have not a mind ſuperior to detraction, you will infallibly become detractors; and if you have, nothing but a long experience can give you the power to remain totally innocent in this reſpect. But remember, that there is no ill quality which more effectually lowers the character of the poſſeſſor, or which more certainly turns to his own diſadvantage. Let us attend to the following Fable:

[140]

The HERDSMAN. A FABLE.

A certain herdſman verified the maxim that 'every man may acquire a character in his ſtation.' His reputation, which was the reſult of honeſty and plain ſenſe, made him conſiderable in his village. All men confided in his word. Matters of property in diſpute were depoſited in his hands, till the cauſe was decided. His benevolence of temper diſpoſed him always to reconcile animoſities, and his ſtrength of underſtanding qualified him for a right deciſion, whenever his neighbours appointed him arbitrator.

As a clear ſky gradually diſpels black clouds, and enlightens the whole hemiſphere; ſo the report of a good name extends to remote parts, and is univerſally well received. The King, who at that time ruled over the country, was a mild and judicious Prince. He diſpenſed his favours impartially to men of merit. He ſent for the herdſman, tried his honeſty at one time, and his underſtanding at another; and, as the latter improved, he raiſed him from one employment to another, till our herdſman arrived, without artifice or ambition, as it were with the wings of a gentle breeze, to the higheſt pitch of fortune; and had ſuch weight and authority, that no reſolution of conſequence was taken, without previouſly conſulting him. Good counſel is the compaſs, by which a Prince ſteers his courſe. Whilſt he follows that, all his meaſures ſucceed; which was the caſe here. The King was in no [141] danger, for he was beloved. The people reſted in peace, for the labourer was ſecure of his pay. Innocence was free from anxiety, for ſhe could rely upon protection. Vice only trembled, for ſhe was proſecuted; and envy ſat watching and diſturbed by her ſide, for virtue was crowned by fortune.

It happened, during this general tranquillity, that an aged man, who had formerly an intimacy with the herdſman, returned home after a diſtant journey. His firſt inclination was to ſee the court, in order to worſhip that ſun which diffuſed ſo fruitful a warmth over all the country. He was not a little ſurprized to ſee the herdſman exalted to the King's right hand; while the herdſman, whoſe mind continued invariably the ſame, rejoiced, in the midſt of his grandeur, at the arrival of his friend.

In the evening, when they were retired to private converſation, the old experienced man thought himſelf obliged to admoniſh his friend. "You are now, ſaid he, in the ſlippery road of honour, and reſemble the blind man, who in ſearching for the ſtaff he had loſt, among ſtones and buſhes, picked up a ſerpent ſtiff with cold. A prudent traveller, who was paſſing by, adviſed him to throw it away; but the unhappy blind man rejected his counſel, and thought himſelf happy in a ſafe ſupport; till the ſerpent was refreſhed, and bit him mortally. Your own good ſenſe, continued he, will enable you to make the application."

[142]The herdſman was ſomewhat affected by the ſtory, but being conſcious of no evil himſelf, and not apprehenſive of any deſign againſt him, perſevered in the faithful and diligent diſcharge of the duties of his office. He might have continued in the ſame to the day of his death, had not the artful practices of the envious, after ſeveral far-fetched attempts, at laſt ſucceeded to render him ſuſpected by the King. Their firſt pretence was, that the herdſman had built himſelf a ſumptuous houſe, by extorting money from the poor, and gratifications from the rich. The King was determined to believe no eyes but his own, in a matter which concerned the reputation of an honeſt man. He made a viſit to the herdſman, and ſurveyed his dwelling, but found neither the building, nor the decorations, nor the furniture unequal to his ſtation, nor the expence greater than conſiſted with the liberal rewards himſelf had conferred upon him. The herdſman was therefore commended for not diſgracing his rank, and for adminiſtering to the laborious part of mankind that ſupport, which they have a right to expect from men of power and fortune. The King ſummoned the envious accuſers, and remonſtrated to them on the falſity of their charge. They invented another falſehood to excuſe the former; for no iniquity is ſo fruitful as this; one deceit begets another, unleſs the firſt be ſtifled in its birth. "It is very true, Sir, ſaid they, he is cautious of expoſing his treaſures to public view; but there is a cheſt by his [143] bed-ſide, filled with gold and jewels; which contain more property than all your ſubjects poſſeſs." The King, being a lover of truth, repaired once more to the herdſman's dwelling. He found the cheſt, and commanded him to open it; the herdſman begged to be excuſed, aſſuring him that it contained nothing worthy of any one's curioſity; but the King's ſuſpicions were heightened by the earneſtneſs with which he declined the order. The cheſt was opened, and what can you imagine were the contents? No more than a plain herdſman's coat, and a ſtaff ſtripped of its bark. The herdſman, upon this, depoſited his fine cloaths in the cheſt, and, recollecting his friend's fable of the blind man and the ſerpent, put on his former dreſs, walked to his native home, and could not be prevailed with, by the intreaties or promiſes of the King, to depart from his reſolution of finiſhing his days in the cottage where he had drawn his firſt breath.

MR. EGERTON.

In this fable you may perceive detraction was the child of envy; and ſo will it ever be. A leſſon which you may learn from the ſtory of Dorantes.

DETRACTION: Or the Story of DORANTES.

A certain gentleman whoſe real name I ſhall conceal under that of Dorantes, was married to a [144] young lady of equal birth and fortune, and who, without being a celebrated beauty, was perfectly agreeable. He behaved with great tenderneſs towards her,—ſhe was paſſionately fond of him;—no couple could live more happily together, till an unlucky propenſity, to which women are too prone, diſſolved the cement of their union, and made both as wretched as before they had been bleſſed.

The wife of Dorantes was extremely intimate with a young widow, to whom I ſhall give the name of Clara;—they were acquainted in their childhood, and the change of their conditions afterwards had made no alteration in the ſentiments of either. Seldom two days paſſed, without their ſeeing each other; and, as Dorantes ſtaid pretty much at home, he was very glad of a third perſon to make up a party for ombre.

Clara was very handſome,—had a regular ſet of features,—fine hair,—fine teeth;—and, above all, a remarkably delicate complexion.—Dorantes had ſeveral times, occaſionally, mentioned thoſe perfections in her to his wife; which, though, as will appear by the ſequel, they not a little diſpleaſed her, ſhe ſeemed not to take notice of, till one day, as they were talking together on the beauty of ſome ladies of their acquaintance, he ſaid,—"Well, I ſee none that are half ſo agreeable as your friend Clara."— "Clara looks very well altogether, replied ſhe gravely; but it coſts her a great deal of pains to do ſo."—"What pains," cried he.—"Why, to tell [145] you the truth, reſumed ſhe, all thoſe things you admire in her are nothing but mere art;—ſhe has ſeven or eight falſe teeth, to my knowledge;—then, as to her hair it is naturally inclined to red; but ſhe dyes it with a certain water, which turns it to that fine black it now appears; and, for her complexion, ſhe uſes both white and red; beſides, ſhe always ſleeps in a night-maſk, to repel pimples."—"Impoſſible, my dear!" reſumed he, "I have eyes as well as you, and can eaſily diſtinguiſh between what is natural and what is artificial."

"You men are often deceived in theſe things, anſwered ſhe; if you were to ſee her in a morning, you would be convinced of the truth of what I tell you, and a great deal more; but I love Clara, and would not, for the world, ſay what I have done to any one, except yourſelf."—"You are in the right, ſaid he with ſome ill humour; for no-body would believe you, if you did."

"I am ſorry, then, I ever mentioned it to you ſaid ſhe a little haughtily."—"It might have been better you had not, replied he ſternly;—becauſe it gives me no very favourable idea, either of your generoſity or your ſincerity; and but confirms what I have often heard of your ſex;—that no one woman ever ſpoke well of the beauty of another."— With theſe words, he ſnatched up his hat, and went directly out of the houſe.

The wife, who had never before been ſpoken to in this ſharp manner by her huſband, now, doubtleſs, [146] repented of what ſhe had ſaid; but the words were gone out of her mouth,—ſhe could not call them back; and pride and ſhame would not ſuffer her to confeſs ſhe had been guilty of uttering a falſity.— From this time forward, ſhe perceived a viſible decay in that tenderneſs and reſpect with which ſhe had been treated by Dorantes, and began to hate the innocent Clara for a misfortune which ſhe had intirely brought upon herſelf; ſhe behaved to her with great coldneſs, and, at length, ordered her ſervants to ſay ſhe was not at home, whenever ſhe came. The fair widow, on this, diſcontinued her viſits; and, as ſhe knew ſhe had done nothing to deſerve the uſage ſhe received, thought it beneath her to inquire into the cauſe.

From what ſmall beginnings do, ſometimes, the greateſt feuds and diſcontents ariſe!—Dorantes, finding that Clara did not come to the houſe as uſual, doubted not but that his wife had either perſonally affronted her, or ſpoke of her, to others, in the ſame manner ſhe had done to him; and, reflecting deeply on the injuſtice of the thing, could not keep himſelf from entertaining a ſecret contempt, mixed with indignation, for the author.

Chance contributed to heighten in him this ill humour towards his wife:—he met Clara one day by accident, and, accoſting her with his accuſtomed politeneſs, aſked the reaſon why his wife had been ſo long deprived of her agreeable company.—To which ſhe very gravely replied:—That ſhe had made [147] ſeveral viſits, none of which being returned, ſhe could not flatter herſelf that her company was any longer acceptable. "Oh, madam, ſaid he, I beg you will not ſo far wrong your own merits, or our juſt ſenſe of them, as to harbour ſuch a thought. I am extremely ſorry for my wife's remiſſneſs; but I ſuppoſe ſhe depended on the intimacy between you for an excuſe. I hope you will have good-nature enough to forgive it, and convince us, that you do ſo, by letting us ſee you ſoon."—"Sir, anſwered ſhe, when your lady thinks fit to let me know that ſhe will be at home, I ſhall wait on her."—She concluded with a curtſey, and turned ſo haſtily away, that he had no opportunity of adding any thing further.

On his return home, he repeated what had paſſed to his wife; and added, that, as he found there was no pretence for breaking off the acquaintance, he would have her ſend an invitation to her. Her complexion grew red as ſcarlet on the firſt mention of Clara's name; and, when he had given over ſpeaking,—"I do not underſtand what ſhe means, ſaid ſhe, by giving herſelf theſe airs; I never forbad her my houſe, and, if ſhe thinks fit to ſtay away, I have no reaſon to intreat her preſence; yet, ſince I find it will ſo much oblige you, I ſhall ſend to her." —"Oblige me!" cried he in an angry tone.— "Yes! ſince you intereſt yourſelf ſo far in this affair." This put him beyond all patience. He told her, that ſhe behaved very ill; that ſhe diſcovered [148] a mean diſpoſition; and that, if ſhe perſiſted in it, ſhe would render herſelf unworthy either of love or reſpect.

"I ſee, cried ſhe, that I have forfeited both with you; but it is not to my diſpoſition, it is to Clara's more prevailing charms, that I am indebted for ſo great a misfortune.—Ungrateful, inconſtant man! Is this the return for all the tender affection I have had for you?"

Men can ill bear reproaches, eſpecially when innocent of the cauſe, as Dorantes really was.—He replied in the moſt bitter terms, which, ſhe being unable either to endure or retort, half-ſuffocated her with rage. She flew into the garden, and, throwing herſelf upon a green bank at the further end, there gave a looſe to her tears and complainings.

One of the maids, happening to be at a window, ſaw where ſhe lay, and had the diſcretion to run haſtily down and remind her, that, ſome rain having lately fallen, the dampneſs of the earth might endanger her health. The poor lady was as cold as marble; though the inward agitations ſhe was in, hindered her from feeling any exterior inconvenience. She roſe, however, and went into her chamber, but fell into ſuch violent agitations, as obliged her to go to bed, where ſhe continued very ill the whole night.

Dorantes came home very late, and, being told that his wife was indiſpoſed, ſlept in another chamber. [149] On hearing, in the morning, that ſhe was much worſe, he ſent immediately for a phyſician, who attended the family.

He found her in a fever, and delirious; all that could be done for her was in vain; her diſtemper every hour increaſed, and, in two days, her life was deſpaired of. On the third, ſhe ſeemed, to all appearance, better; the violence of her fever abated, and her ſenſes were perfectly reſtored. Alas! the cruel diſeaſe had left the outward frame only to prey with greater force upon the nobler parts.—Death had now ſeized her, ſhe was ſenſible of it, and aſked if Dorantes was at home. Being told he had lately left her chamber, ſhe deſired he would come in again; which he preſently did.

He had no ſooner ſeated himſelf on her bedſide, than ſhe made a ſign to thoſe who were in the room to withdraw; and then, taking hold of his hand, ſaid to him:—"My dear Dorantes, I feel I am no longer for this world, but cannot leave it without confeſſing, that I have been guilty of the greateſt injuſtice to Clara. Yet was it not malice that made me ſo: I endeavoured to make her odious in your eyes, only becauſe I feared ſhe had appeared too amiable. It was a fault indeed, but it was the fault of love;—as ſuch, forgive it."—"It was a weakneſs, anſwered he, which I was ſorry to obſerve in you; for, upon my honour, I never had a thought of Clara, or any other woman, to the prejudice of that affection I have vowed to you."—"How kind [150] is this aſſurance! cried ſhe, it gives me pleaſure, even in death."—"Talk not of death! interrupted he, tenderly embracing her; live, oh live, and be as happy as a huſband's love can make you!"— "It is too late," ſaid ſhe;—and, that inſtant, falling into ſtrong convulſions, ſunk under them.

DIALOGUE XVI.

MR. EGERTON.

IN the commerce of life, there is a mutual confidence requiſite, my children, between man and man. To be too credulous is a weakneſs, but to be too ſuſpicious is fordid and contemptible. If we have proved a perſon's fidelity in a ſingle inſtance, it would be mean and unjuſt ever to ſuſpect him, unleſs he obliges us to it; but if after a long intercourſe no cauſe of diſtruſt ariſes, but many of punctuality and ſincerity, to doubt is then to deſerve treachery. When the Emperor Trajan was told that his moſt dear friend Surra had formed a conſpiracy againſt his life, he went the ſame evening, uninvited, attended only by two friends, and ſupped with him; was ſhaved by his barber, and conſulted his phyſician. [151] When he returned, he was again cautioned. Trajan ſmiled, and told them they did not know the man;—he did:—to prove that he did, he had actually put himſelf in Surra's power, and returned, as he knew he ſhould, ſafe and unhurt. Thus, inſtead of meanly ſuſpecting the man whoſe love and friendſhip he had had ſo many proofs of, he ſhortly after made him Tribune; and when, according to cuſtom, he delivered the naked ſword, he ſaid, "I give you this, my friend, to defend me, if I rule well; if not, to diſpatch me."

But it is not every perſon in whom you muſt place ſuch abſolute confidence: few only are worthy of the ſacred name of Friend, and thoſe few cannot be reſpected too highly, cannot be cheriſhed too intimately. Once well aſſured of a friendſhip like this, no doubt ſhould be made of its capability to do or ſuffer all things. That friend, who makes a difficulty even of death itſelf in the cauſe of honourable friendſhip, is unworthy the name.

Eudamidas, Aretaeus, and Charixenus, were friends; the two latter were rich, the former exceedingly poor. Eudamidas died, and left the following will: "To Aretaeus I bequeath my mother, to be kept and foſtered in her old age. My daughter to Charixenus, to be married, with a dowry as great as he can afford. But if, in the mean time, death ſhould happen to either of theſe men, my will is, that the ſurvivor ſhall perform what the other ſhould have done, had he lived." The poverty of the teſtator [152] was known, the duties of friendſhip were but little underſtood, and thoſe who heard the will of Eudamidas departed, laughing at the legacies which Aretaeus and Charixenus were to receive. But thoſe to whom the bequeſts were made, had different ſenſations; they came, acknowledged, and ratified the will. Charixenus died within five days, and Aretaeus, who had taken the mother of Eudamidas, immediately ſent for the daughter likewiſe, educated her, beſtowed her in marriage, and of the five talents which his eſtate amounted to, gave two to her, and two to his own daughter, and had their nuptials both celebrated in one day.

Such are the duties and privileges of friendſhip, ſuch are the obligations you enter into, when you ſay to any one, I AM YOUR FRIEND.—If, therefore, you ſhould ever raſhly make ſuch a profeſſion, and find yourſelves unequal to the character, inſtantly recede; it is more honourable than to deceive: go and ſay to whoever your pretenſions may have impoſed upon, "I releaſe you from your obligations, and muſt intreat the ſame of you: I feel my weakneſs, and am ſorry to find myſelf unworthy to be a friend."

EUSTACE.

I think, Sir, I could rather ſuffer death than betray my friend.

MR. EGERTON.
[153]

I ſhould have a very indifferent opinion of you, Euſtace, if at your age you did not think ſo: however, you know I think very highly of you. We have declared a friendſhip for each other, and I can give you no greater proof of my eſteem. As we are both under an obligation of openneſs and ſincerity, of having no reſerved pleaſures, no partialities of which the other is ignorant, I am not afraid that you will form any improper friendſhips, becauſe I am certain you would firſt conſult me, as I always conſult you, when there is any thing on my mind in which either of us is intereſted.

EUSTACE.

I am ſenſible, Sir, of the honour you do me, and have often felt the benefit of ſo near and dear a friend. I ſhould, indeed, be unworthy, if I concealed the leaſt thought from you.

MR. EGERTON.

I am ſatisfied, my Euſtace, of your ſincerity, and the generous confidence you repoſe in me. I ſhall now be obliged to you, if you will read this Arabian anecdote.—It is the picture, children, of men worthy to be friends.

[154]

FRIENDSHIP: An ARABIAN ANECDOTE.

ALI-IBN-ABBAS, favourite of the Caliph Mamoun*, and lieutenant of the police in the reign of this prince, relates, in theſe terms, a ſtory that happened to himſelf. "I was one evening with the caliph, when a man, bound hand and foot, was brought in. Mamoun ordered me to keep a watchful eye over the priſoner, and to bring him the next day. The caliph ſeemed greatly irritated; and the [155] fear of expoſing myſelf to his reſentment induced me to confine the priſoner in my haram, as the moſt ſecure place in my houſe.

"I aſked him what country he was of. He ſaid, Damaſcus; and that his habitation was in the quarter of the great moſque. May heaven, cried I, ſhower down the choiceſt of its bleſſings upon the city of Damaſcus, and particularly upon the quarter where you reſided! He was ſolicitous to know the motive that ſo much intereſted me for that diſtrict. It is, ſaid I, that I owe my life to a man that lived there.

"Thoſe words excited his curioſity, and he conjured me to gratify it. It is many years ſince, continued I, that the caliph, diſſatisfied with the viceroy of Damaſcus, depoſed him. I accompanied the perſon whom the prince had appointed his ſucceſſor; and at the inſtant we were taking poſſeſſion of the governor's palace, a quarrel broke out between the new and the old governor; the latter had poſted ſoldiers, who aſſaulted us: I eſcaped out of a window, and, finding myſelf purſued by other aſſaſſins, took ſhelter in your quarter. I obſerved a palace open, and ſeeing the maſter at the door, ſupplicated him to ſave my life. He immediately conducted me into the apartment of his women, where I continued a month in peace and plenty.

"My hoſt came one day to inform me, that a caravan was ſetting out for Bagdad; and that, if I wiſhed to return to my own home, I could not avail [156] myſelf of a more favourable opportunity. Shame held my tongue; and I had not courage to confeſs my poverty; I had no money, and, for want of that, ſhould be forced to follow the caravan on foot. But how great was my ſurprize, when, on the day of departure, a very fine horſe was brought me, alſo a mule loaded with all ſorts of proviſions, and a black ſlave to attend me on the road! My generous hoſt preſented me at the ſame time with a purſe of gold, and conducted me himſelf to the caravan, where he recommended me to ſeveral of the travellers, who were his friends. Theſe are the kindneſſes I received in your city, and that render it ſo dear to me: all my concern is, that I have not hitherto been able to diſcover my generous benefactor. I ſhould die content, could I find an opportunity of teſtifying my gratitude.

"Your wiſhes are accompliſhed, cried my priſoner in a tranſport, I am he that received you in my palace. Do you not remember me? The time that had elapſed ſince that event, and the grief into which he was ſunk, had greatly altered his face: but, on a more cloſe examination of his features, I eaſily recollected him; and ſome circumſtances he brought to my mind, left me not the leaſt room to doubt but that the priſoner, who was then in danger of loſing his life, was the very perſon who had ſo generouſly ſaved mine. I embraced him with tears in my eyes, took off his chains, and aſked him by what fatality he had incurred the caliph's diſpleaſure. [157] Some contemptible enemies, he replied, have found means to aſperſe me unjuſtly to Mamoun: I was hurried away from Damaſcus, and cruelly denied even the conſolation of embracing my wife and children: I know not what fate attends me; but as I have reaſon to apprehend my death is determined, I requeſt you to acquaint them with my misfortunes.

"No, ſaid I to him, you ſhall not die; I dare give you this aſſurance; you ſhall be reſtored to your family; be at liberty from this moment. I preſently provided ſome pieces of the richeſt gold ſtuffs of Bagdad, and begged him to preſent them to his wife: depart immediately, added I, preſenting him with a purſe of a thouſand ſequins; haſte to rejoin thoſe precious pledges of your affection which you left at Damaſcus; let the caliph's indignation fall on me; I dread it not, if I am happy enough to preſerve you.

"What a propoſal do you make me! anſwered my priſoner; and can you think me capable of accepting it? What! ſhall I, to avoid death, ſacrifice that ſame life now, which I formerly ſaved? Endeavour to convince the caliph of my innocence: this is the only proof I will admit of your gratitude: if you cannot undeceive him, I will go myſelf and offer him my head: let him diſpoſe of my life at his pleaſure, provided your's be ſafe. I again entreated him to eſcape, but he continued inflexible.

"I did not fail to preſent myſelf the next morning before Mamoun. The prince was dreſſed in a [158] crimſon coloured mantle, the ſymbol of his anger. As ſoon as he ſaw me, he enquired where my priſoner was? and at the ſame inſtant ordered the executioner to attend. My lord, ſays I, throwing myſelf at his feet, ſomething very extraordinary has happened with regard to the perſon you yeſterday committed to my cuſtody. Will your majeſty permit me to explain it? Theſe words threw him into a paſſion. I ſwear, cried he, by the ſoul of my anceſtors, that thy head ſhall pay for the priſoner, if thou haſt ſuffered him to eſcape. Both my life and his are at your majeſty's diſpoſal: vouchſafe to hear me. Speak, ſaid he. I then related to the prince, in what manner that man had ſaved my life at Damaſcus; that, deſirous to diſcharge the obligation I lay under to him, I had offered him his liberty; but that he had refuſed it, from the fear of expoſing me to death. My lord, added I, he is not guilty; a man of ſuch generous ſentiments cannot be ſo. Some baſe detractors have calumniated him to you; and he is become the unfortunate victim of their hatred and envy. The caliph appeared affected, and having naturally a greatneſs of ſoul, could not help admiring the conduct of my friend. I pardon him, ſaid Mamoun, on thy account: go, carry him this good news, and bring him to me. I threw myſelf at the prince's feet, kiſſed them, and made my acknowledgments in the ſtrongeſt terms my gratitude could ſuggeſt: I then conducted my priſoner into the caliph's preſence. The monarch ordered him to be [159] clothed with a robe of honour, preſented him with ten horſes, ten mules, and ten camels, out of his own ſtables; to all which favours he added a purſe of ten thouſand ſequins for the expences of his journey, and gave him a letter of recommendation to the governor of Damaſcus."

*
Mamoun, ſon of the Caliph Aroun-Alrachid. His name is famous all over the Eaſt; and he is reckoned the greateſt prince of the Abbaffidies family. He reigned twenty-eight years and eight months. He was a great warrior, of a ſweet diſpoſition, and liberal to exceſs; but what moſt immortalized him, was his love of learning. He was himſelf deeply verſed in every ſcience, but more eſpecially in philoſophy and aſtronomy. This is the prince that cauſed the moſt valuable books to be tranſlated from the Greeks, their firſt maſters.—The Mahometan doctors have reproached him with introducing philoſophy, and the other ſpeculative ſciences, into Mahometaniſm; for the Arabians of his days were not accuſtomed to read any other books but what related to their own religion. This prince ſhewed equal favour to every man of knowledge, let his religion be what it would.—The queſtion about the creation, or eternity, of the Alcoran, was ſtarted in his time, and occaſioned much effuſion of blood. He, with the ſmalleſt number of doctors, held it to be created. But the other doctors inſiſted, that the Alcoran being the word proceeding from God, was eternal like himſelf: this ſentiment is embraced by the preſent Mahometans, who conſider all that deny that doctrine as infidels.
MRS. EGERTON.

To ſhew you, that I entirely approve and admire the ſentiments of your father on the duties of Friendſhip, and the liberal principles by which it is actuated, I will read you the little hiſtory of two French peaſants. I hope when you have heard it, you will admire and imitate the diſintereſted, generous Colin, while you avoid and pity the conduct of the ſimple, miſled Jeanot.

FRIENDSHIP AND FORGIVENESS: Or JEANOT and COLIN.

MANY perſons worthy of credit have ſeen Jeanot and Colin at ſchool, at the town of Iſſoir, in Auvergne, a place celebrated through the whole world for its college and its kettles. Jeanot was the ſon of a horſe-dealer of high renown, and Colin derived his birth from an able huſbandman, who cultivated a neighbouring farm, and who, after he had paid the taxes, was not ſuperabundantly rich at the year's end.

[160]Jeanot and Colin were comely lads for Auvergneſe, and had a great friendſhip for each other; they had their little ſchemes and their tête-à-têtes, upon which they reflected with pleaſure, even when in other company.

The time of their being at ſchool was nearly expired, when a taylor brought Jeanot a ſuit of figured velvet, with a letter directed to Monſieur de la Jeanotiere. Colin admired the cloaths without envy, but Jeanot aſſumed an air of ſuperiority, which grieved him to the heart. From this moment Jeanot threw aſide his book, was continually gazing in the looking-glaſs, and ſeemed to deſpiſe the world.

Some time after a valet came poſt with another letter directed to Monſieur le Marquis de la Janotiere, which contained an order from Monſieur his father for his coming to Paris. Jeanot, as he got into the chaiſe, took Colin by the hand, and gave him a ſmile of protection with the air of a great man. Colin, touched with a ſenſe of his own inferiority, melted into tears; and Jeanot drove away in all the glory of his new dignity.

Thoſe readers who love to comprehend every thing as they go on, ſhould be informed, that Jeanot, the father, had ſuddenly acquired an immenſe fortune. If it ſhould be aſked how immenſe fortunes are acquired, the anſwer is ready, by being fortunate. Monſieur Jeanot was a likely fellow, and madame was by no means without her charms. It happened that, whilſt ſhe was ſtill in her bloom, [161] they were brought to Paris by a law-ſuit, which totally ruined them; but Fortune, who delights in the capricious abaſement and exaltation of mankind, juſt then threw them in the way of a commiſſary, who had contracted to furniſh the military hoſpitals during the war. This commiſſary was a man of talents, and could boaſt of having killed more ſoldiers in one year, than gun-powder had killed in ten. The wife of this extraordinary perſon was ſmitten with Jeanot, whilſt he himſelf was ſmitten with Jeanot's wife. Jeanot ſoon came in for a ſhare of the contract. When once a man gets into the middle of the ſtream, the tide will carry him along; thus Commiſſaries and Contractors get immenſe wealth without trouble. Such was the good fortune of Jeanot the father, who became immediately Monſieur de la Janotiere; and ſoon after having bought a marquiſate, which at once ennobled him and his children, he ſent for the marquis his ſon from ſchool, that he might place him among the beau-monde of Paris.

Colin, who remembered his old ſchool-fellow with a tender ſenſibility, wrote him a few lines of congratulation: the new Marquis ſent no anſwer, and Colin fell ſick with grief.

In the mean time the father and mother procured a tutor for their ſon; this tutor was a man of a genteel appearance, but who knew little, and conſequently could teach little. The father was deſirous the ſon ſhould learn Latin; the mother oppoſed [162] it. After much debate, it was agreed that the queſtion ſhould be referred to a certain celebrated author. "Sir," ſaid the maſter of the houſe, "as you are a Latin ſcholar, and a man of the world"—"I a Latin ſcholar!" ſays the bel eſprit, "I don't know a word of the language; and ſo much the better for me; thoſe people certainly ſpeak their own language beſt, whoſe attention is not divided among ſeveral. Conſider only the ladies, how much more pleaſing is their wit than ours! their letters are written with infinitely more elegance; and this ſuperiority is entirely owing to their not having learned Latin."

"Very well," ſays madame, "am I not then in the right? I would have my ſon a man of wit; I would have him make a figure in the world, and you ſee plainly that if he learn Latin he will be undone. Are operas and plays, I'd fain know, performed in Latin? Do the lawyers ſpeak Latin at the bar? or do young gentlemen make love in Latin?"

Monſieur de la Janotiere being wholly unable to reſiſt this amazing force of argument, immediately paſſed ſentence, and it was concluded that the young Marquis ſhould not loſe his time in getting acquainted with Cicero, Horace, and Virgil.

But then what ſhall he learn? for, certainly, he muſt learn ſomething. May he not be taught a little geography?—"Of what ſervice will that be," ſays the tutor? "When the Marquis ſhall think [163] proper to viſit his eſtates, do you think the poſtilions will not know the road? take my word for it, they are in no danger of loſing their way. A man of faſhion can travel very well without a quadrant, and go with great conveniency from Paris to Auvergne, without knowing what latitude he is in."

"You are certainly right," ſays the father; "but I have heard ſomething of a fine ſcience, which, I think, they call Aſtronomy."—"'Tis pity," ſays the tutor, "you ever heard of it all; what occaſion is there for people in this world to regulate their motions by the ſtars? Is it fit that a young Marquis ſhould be fatigued to death by the calculation of an eclipſe, when he may find the time exactly by conſulting an almanack; which will alſo acquaint him with all the moveable feaſts, the age of the moon, and the age of every ſovereign prince in Europe."

Madame entirely agreed; the Marquis her ſon was overjoyed, and the father was in ſuſpence. "What then, ſays he, muſt my ſon learn?" "To be amiable," replied the friend they had conſulted, "if he knows the art of pleaſing, he knows all that is worth knowing; and this art he cannot fail of learning under his mother's eye, though neither ſhe nor you ſhould give yourſelves the leaſt trouble about it."

Madame was delighted with this compliment, and embraced the dunce who had paid it. "Ah! Sir, ſaid ſhe, it is eaſy to diſcover that you are wiſer than [164] the world; my ſon will be wholly indebted to you for his education. But, perhaps, after all, it would not be amiſs for him to know a little of Hiſtory."— Alas, madam, replied the oracle, what good can that do him? Certainly, no hiſtory is either uſeful or pleaſing but that of the day. All ancient hiſtory, as a certain author has juſtly obſerved, is nothing more than fable artfully put together; and as for modern hiſtory, it is a chaos impoſſible to be reduced to order. Of what importance is it to your ſon, that Charlemagne inſtituted the twelve peers of France? And that his ſon had an impediment in his ſpeech? And never was obſervation more juſt, than that the young mind is too often buried under a load of uſeleſs learning, by which its native powers are firſt reſtrained, and then deſtroyed; but of all that is abſurd among what are called the ſciences, the moſt abſurd is Geometry. The objects of Geometry are ſurfaces, lines, and points, which have no exiſtence in nature; and a hundred curve lines are fancied Between a circle and a ſtrait line that touches it, though in reality there is not room for a ſtraw. In ſhort, Geometry is no better than a dull joke.

Though Monſieur and Madame ſcarce underſtood one word of this ingenious argument againſt Geometry, it made a great impreſſion, and they declared themſelves entirely of the tutor's mind.

A noble Lord, continued the Tutor, like Monſieur le Marquis, ought not to puzzle his brain with vain ſpeculation. Should he have occaſion for the [165] moſt ſublime part of this ſcience, to lay down a plan of his eſtates, he may have them ſurveyed for a little money; would he trace his nobility back to the remoteſt ages, he may, without difficulty, find a Benedictine monk that will do it. The ſame may be ſaid of all the arts. A young Lord of illuſtrious birth is neither a painter, a muſician, an architect, nor a ſtatuary; but he makes all theſe arts flouriſh by his munificence; and it is certainly better to patronize than practiſe them. It is enough for the Marquis to have taſte; it is the duty of artiſts to exert their ſkill for his pleaſure and advantage; it has been well ſaid that perſons of quality, I mean thoſe who are very rich, know all things without learning any; their taſte enables them to judge of every thing for which they can pay.

You have obſerved, madam, ſays he, that the great purpoſe of life is to pleaſe; but will any man pretend that this purpoſe can be anſwered by the ſciences? Who is there that would think of mentioning Geometry in good company? Would any body aſk a gentleman what ſtar roſe in a morning with the ſun?—Certainly not, replied the Marchioneſs, whoſe charms had introduced her to the beau monde; and it is by no means fit that my ſon ſhould cramp his genius by the ſtudy of all this trumpery. But what is it that we ſhall teach him? For certainly, as his father has obſerved, a young gentleman ought to be qualified to ſhine upon occaſion. I remember to have heard an Abbé ſay, that [166] there was one ſcience extremely agreeable and genteel; I cannot recollect the name of it, but it began with a B. With a B, madam? ſays the genius, it could not be Botany!—No, replied the lady, it was not botany, yet it ended ſomething like that too. O! I know what it was, ſays he, it was Blaſonry; but I aſſure you it is by no means the mode. At preſent, the ſtudy of heraldry would be infinite, for there is not a barber that has not his coat of arms; and when a thing becomes common, you know people of faſhion ſhould always diſregard it.—Upon the whole, this ſagacious and illuſtrious ſociety having fairly diſcuſſed all the ſciences, it was determined that Monſieur le Marquis de la Janotiere ſhould learn to dance.

Nature, however, which indeed does every thing, had given this flower of nobility a talent which very ſoon diſplayed itſelf with aſtoniſhing ſucceſs. This happy talent was that of ſinging a good ſong, the graces of youth, joined to ſo ſuperior an endowment, drew attention, and he was a favourite among the ladies. Having his head full of ſongs, he formed new ones out of old, and was continually repeating them; but as his verſes had commonly a foot too little, or too much, he was at the expence of having them corrected; and he at laſt got into the literary annals of the time.

The Marchioneſs conſidering herſelf as the patroneſs of wit, gave ſuppers to the wits of the town; the young man's head was turned; he acquired the [167] art of ſpeaking without knowing what he would ſay, and by habit became perfect in being fit for nothing.

When his father found him thus amazingly eloquent, he very much regretted that he had not taught him Latin, as he then might have purchaſed for him a conſiderable department in the law. His mother, who looked ſtill higher, undertook to get him a regiment, and in the mean time the young gentleman himſelf thought fit to make love.

Love ſometimes coſts more than a regiment; his expences were very great; and his parents run out their fortune by living like people of the firſt quality.

But as the ſtate of their finances was known only to themſelves, a young widow of great rank, but ſmall fortune, ſuppoſing them to be very opulent, reſolved to ſecure their riches, by making the young Marquis her huſband.

She accordingly threw out a lure, and brought him to her houſe; ſhe convinced him that he was by no means indifferent to her; led him on by degrees; and at length ſo faſcinated him by her wiles and her charms, that the conqueſt was compleat. At the ſame time ſhe gave him ſo many commendations, and ſo much good advice, that the father and mother conſidered her as the beſt friend they had in the world.

An old lady in the neighbourhood propoſed the marriage on the part of the widow and the father [168] and mother, dazzled with the ſplendor of ſuch an alliance, accepted the propoſition with joy.

He was kneeling one morning at the feet of the dear angel, when a ſervant of the Marchioneſs his mother arrived in great haſte, and with looks as wild as if he had ſeen an apparition: I am come, ſays he, with news very different from what you think of; the Sheriff's officers are in poſſeſſion of my Lord's houſe, they have ſeized his goods, talk of ſecuring his perſon, and, as I have not a moment to loſe, I am going to ſecure my wages.

Don't be in ſuch a hurry, ſays the Marquis, let us ſee a little into this affair.—Do, ſays the widow, run this inſtant, and puniſh the wretches for their inſolence.

He haſted, and found that his father was already carried to priſon, and the ſervants were gone off, each having carried away what he could lay his hands upon. He ſaw his mother totally deſerted, without ſuccour and without comfort, drowned in tears, with nothing left but the remembrance of her fortune, her beauty, her follies, and her faults.

After her ſon had wept with her till the tumult of his mind a little ſubſided, and he was able to ſpeak, he endeavoured to alleviate her diſtreſs by a reflection that had ſoothed his own. Do not let us deſpair, ſays he, the widow whom I was about to marry, is yet more generous than rich; I will anſwer for all that is in her power; I'll fly to her this moment, and bring her hither.

[169]He flew to his miſtreſs, and ſound her tete-a-tete with a handſome young officer.—What is it you, Monſieur de la Janotiere?—ſays ſhe—what in the name of wonder have you to do here? How could you think of leaving your poor mother? Go back to her, for heaven's ſake, and tell her how ſorry I am for her misfortune. I always wiſhed her well; and as my woman is going away, I ſhall not think of another till I have given her the refuſal or the place.—My good lad, ſaid the officer, you ſeem to be well made; if you will enter Into my corps, I will enliſt you upon good terms.

The Marquis, ſtruck ſpeechleſs with rage and indignation, burſt away without reply, to his old tutor, to pour his ſorrows into his boſom, and derive comfort from his advice. The tutor propoſed that he ſhould undertake the education of children. Alas, ſays the Marquis, I know nothing — you have taught me nothing—and that has been the ſource of all my misfortunes.—Write novels, ſays another; it is an excellent expedient to get money.

Sunk deeper in deſpair than ever, his laſt reſource was to a monk who had been his mother's confeſſor. The Monk ran to him in a rapture of ſurprize and joy; Monſieur le Marquis! what do you do here on foot? where is your coach? The unhappy youth replied by giving him an account of the ruin of his family. The Monk became grave, indifferent, and important: my ſon, ſaid he, we may now ſee plainly what heaven intended for you; riches ſerve only to [170] corrupt the heart: heaven has therefore reduced you to beggary; my ſon, adieu! a lady of faſhion is now waiting for me at court.

The poor Marquis, as he ſtood ruminating in the ſtreet, ſtupified with misfortune, ſaw a kind of covered carriage coming rumbling along, followed by waggons heavily laden. In this vehicle ſat a young man, coarſely clad, with a freſh coloured girl by his ſide. Bleſs my ſoul, ſays he, ſurely this is Jeanot! The Marquis ſtarted, looked up, and the driver inſtantly ſtopped. Yes, by my faith, ſaid he, it is even Jeanot himſelf; and inſtantly caught him in his arms. Jeanot was covered with confuſion and tears. You have forſaken me, ſays Colin, but I am determined to love you for all that. Jeanot told him a part of his hiſtory. Come home with me, ſaid Colin, you ſhall tell the reſt at your leiſure; ſalute my little wife; this is ſhe; let us make haſte to dinner.

Pray, ſays Jeanot, what is all this baggage; does it belong to you? Yes, ſays Colin, to me and my wife, we are juſt come out of the country; I am at the head of a great manufactory; I married the daughter of a man who had acquired very conſiderable ſubſtance; we work hard, providence has bleſſed our endeavours, we continue to get forward in the world, are happy in ourſelves, and have it in our power to aſſiſt our friend Jeanot. Be a Marquis no longer; all the great folks in the world are not worth one true friend: you ſhall live with me in the country, you ſhall learn my trade, and be my partner, [117] and we will live chearfully in the obſcure but happy retreat where we were born.

Jeanot heard this propoſal with ſenſations not to be deſcribed; his heart was divided between grief and joy, tenderneſs and ſhame; and, turning to Colin, he ſaid, in a low voice, "when all my gay friends have deſerted me, Colin, whom I injuriouſly neglected, has afforded me that comfort which I did not deſerve."

What a lecture is this for thoſe who are entering into life? The virtue of Colin, called out that virtue which lay hidden in the breaſt of Jeanot, and which all his habits of folly and diſſipation had not deſtroyed. He felt a ſecret repugnance to deſert his father and mother. We will take care of them, ſays Colin. Jeanot at length married Colin's ſiſter, who made him happy; and Jeanot the father, and Jeanot the mother, and Jeanot the ſon, were made ſenſible that happineſs is not to be found in vanity.

DIALOGUE XVII.

MR. EGERTON.

A CERTAIN honeſt peaſant was poſſeſſed of a fine watchful houſe-dog; a friend to his ſervants, no enemy to his gueſts, and the terror of thieves. His fidelity was ſo well known in the neighbourhood, [172] that, after a few ſucceſsleſs attempts, not a ſingle rogue had, for many years, dared to come within the ſphere of this excellent centinel.

One evening, as the good man and his wife ſat round the fire, talking of their oeconomy, "I have been thinking, wife, ſays the farmer, that this great dog of our's is an uſeleſs expence to us: he takes a deal of keeping, his collars and chains coſt money, we ſhall ſoon be obliged to build him a new kennel, our brooms are worn out in keeping him clean, beſide many a truſs of ſtraw that ſerves for his bed; and all this in a place where, for many years paſt, we have neither heard of murder nor theft." "I have long thought of the ſame thing, replied the wife; our girls have other buſineſs than to wait on an idle creature; beſides, here is my little favourite can bark as loud as the largeſt maſtiff."

Sentence was quickly paſſed, and the faithful centinel was put to death; but he was ſcarce covered with earth, before a band of thieves were gathered to conſult on the beſt means to execute their deſign. Night came on; they broke into the houſe, and while the pampered favourite ſlept upon his cuſhion, robbed the farmer of all his money and furniture.

I have no doubt, my children, you all underſtand the moral of this fable, and that you think the peaſant and his wife deſerved their puniſhment. Ingratitude is a vice which, like lying, every body is aſhamed of, and yet almoſt every body practiſes. The fact is, people deceive themſelves in ſumming up the [173] account of reciprocal obligation; they omit ſo many particulars which they ought punctually to remember, and inſert ſo many which it becomes them to forget, that the ballance is but too generally erroneous. It is our duty to be equally exact in debts of gratitude as in thoſe of trade; nay more ſo, for an omiſſion of pecuniary commerce may ſometimes be honourably accommodated, but the ſin of ingratitude can never be expiated.

Philip of Macedon ſent one of his courtiers on a voyage to tranſact an affair of ſome conſequence, but a ſtorm coming on, the courtier was ſhipwrecked, and muſt indubitably have periſhed, had it not been for the hoſpitality of a peaſant who lived on the ſea-ſhore, and who ventured his own life in a ſmall boat, to preſerve that of a diſtreſſed ſtranger. By this peaſant the courtier was taken up, brought to his own houſe, recovered, and treated with the utmoſt humanity; and after ſtaying with him a month, kindly diſmiſſed and furniſhed with money to bear his expences. At his return, the King was made acquainted with the peril he had been in, and the diſtreſs he had undergone, but not with the benefits he had received. Philip, moved with the ſtory, told him he would remember his fidelity, and the dangers he had ſuffered for his ſake. The courtier taking advantage of the King's promiſe, told him he had obſerved a beautiful little farm on the ſea-coaſt, that exactly ſuited his taſte, on the very ſpot where he had been wrecked, and beſought him to beſtow it on him [174] as a monument of his eſcape, and his Majeſty's bounty. Accordingly Philip wrote to Pauſanias, the governor of the province, to put him in poſſeſſion of the deſired farm. The poor peaſant, who had ſo generouſly ſaved the life of this wretch, being robbed of his right, and ſtung with the ingratitude of of the act, immediately made a journey to the court of Philip, applied himſelf to the King, and related his ſtory. Philip amazed and enraged at the ingratitude of his villainous courtier, had him ſeized inſtantly, and marked him in the forehead with theſe words, The UNGRATEFUL GUEST, and reſtored the farm to its proper owner.

MISS FORRESTER.

This courtier was a very wicked man, Sir.

MR. EGERTON.

Very true, my dear Miſs Forreſter, but ingratitude is always wickedneſs.

MR. FORRESTER.

If I had been King Philip, I would have taken off his head, he ſhould never have been ſhip-wrecked again.

MRS. EGERTON.

In my opinion, Sir, his puniſhment was far more ſevere as it was. But come, let us liſten to the ſtory of the Derviſe and Abdallah.

[175]

INGRATITUDE, Or the CANDLESTICK.

A Derviſe, venerable by his age, fell ill in the houſe of a woman who had been long a widow, and lived in extreme poverty in the ſuburbs of Balſora. He was ſo touched with the aſſiduity and zeal with which ſhe had aſſiſted him, that at his departure he ſaid, "I have remarked that you have wherewith to ſubſiſt alone, but that you have not ſufficient to ſhare with your only ſon, the young Abdallah. If you will truſt him to me, I will endeavour to acknowledge, in his perſon, the obligations I am under for your great care of me." The widow received his propoſal with joy; and the Derviſe departed with the young man, informing her, that they ſhould perform a journey which would laſt near two years. They travelled; the Derviſe kept him in affluence, gave him excellent inſtructions, cured him of a dangerous diſeaſe with which he had been attacked; in fine, he took the ſame care of him, as if he had been his own ſon. Abdallah, a hundred times teſtified his gratitude for all his bounties; but the old man always anſwered, "my ſon, it is by actions that gratitude is proved; we ſhall ſee in proper time and place, whether you are as grateful as you profeſs to be."

One day, in a ſolitary place, the Derviſe ſaid to Abdallah, "My ſon, we are now at the end of our [176] journey; I ſhall employ my prayers to obtain from heaven, that the earth may open and make an entrance wide enough to permit thee to deſcend into a place, where thou wilt find one of the greateſt treaſures that the earth incloſes in her bowels. Haſt thou courage to deſcend into this ſubterraneous cave?" Abdallah declared he might depend upon his obedience and zeal. The Derviſe then lighted a ſmall fire, into which he caſt a perſume; then read and prayed for ſome moments, when the earth opened:—"Thou mayeſt now enter, my dear Abdallah. Remember, ſaid the Derviſe, that it is in thy power to do me a great ſervice, and that this is, perhaps, the only opportunity thou canſt ever have of teſtifying thy gratitude. Be not dazzled by the riches thou wilt find there; but think only of ſeizing upon an iron candleſtick with twelve branches, which thou wilt find cloſe to a door, and which is abſolutely neceſſary to me; bring it up to me immediately." Abdallah promiſed, and deſcended boldly into the cave. But forgetting what had been expreſsly recommended to him, whilſt he was filling his veſt and his boſom with gold and jewels, the opening by which he entered, cloſed. He had, however, preſence of mind enough to ſeize upon the iron candleſtick, and though his ſituation was very terrible, he did not abandon himſelf to deſpair, but reflected in what manner he ſhould get out of a place which might become his grave. Apprehending that the cave had cloſed becauſe he had not followed the [177] order of the Derviſe, he recalled to memory the care and goodneſs he had been loaded with, reproached himſelf with his ingratitude, and finiſhed his meditation by humbling himſelf in prayer. At length, after much inquietude and pain, he was fortunate enough to find a narrow paſſage which directed him out; though it was not till he had perſevered for a conſiderable way, that he perceived a ſmall opening covered with briars and thorns, through which he returned to the light of the ſun. He looked on all ſides to diſcover the Derviſe, but in vain. He wiſhed to deliver him the iron candleſtick, and formed a deſign of quitting him, being rich enough with what he had taken out of the cavern, to live in affluence without his aſſiſtance.

Not perceiving the Derviſe, nor remembering any of the places through which he had paſſed, he went on as fortune ſeemed to direct, and was ſoon extremely aſtoniſhed to find himſelf oppoſite to his mother's houſe, from which he imagined he was at a great diſtance. She immediately enquired after the holy Derviſe. Abdallah told her frankly what had happened to him, and the danger he had ran to ſatisfy his ambitious deſires, He afterwards produced to her the riches with which he was loaded. His mother concluded, upon the ſight of them, that the Derviſe deſigned only to make trial of his courage and obedience; and that they had a right to the happineſs which fortune had poured upon them. Doubtleſs, added ſhe, ſuch was the intention of the [178] holy Derviſe. Whilſt, with avidity, they contemplated upon theſe treaſures, whilſt dazzled with their luſtre, and forming a thouſand projects, they vaniſhed from before their eyes. Then it was that Abdallah moſt ſincerely reproached himſelf with ingratitude and diſobedience; and, obſerving that the iron candleſtick had reſiſted the enchantment, or rather that the puniſhment is juſt which thoſe deſerve who do not execute what they promiſe, he ſaid, proſtrating himſelf,—"What I deſerve has happened to me; I have loſt what I had deſigned to keep, and the candleſtick which I intended to deliver up, remains with me: it is a proof, that this rightly belongs to him, and that the reſt was unjuſtly acquired." He finiſhed with theſe words, and placed the candleſtick in the midſt of their little houſe.

When night came on, without reflecting upon it, he placed a light in this candleſtick. Immediately they ſaw a Derviſe, who turned round for an hour, and diſappeared, after having thrown them an aſper*. This candleſtick had twelve branches: Abdallah, who had been now meditating all day upon what he had ſeen in the night, was willing to know what would happen the next night, if he ſhould put a light into each branch; he did ſo, and twelve derviſes appeared at the inſtant. Theſe turned round alſo for an hour, and each of them threw an aſper, as they diſappeared. He repeated every night the ſame ceremony; which had always [179] the ſame ſucceſs; but he never could make it ſucceed more than once in twenty-four hours. So trifling a ſum was enough for ſubſiſtence: there was a time when they would not have deſired more to be made happy; but it was not conſiderable enough to change their fortune.—It is dangerous for the imagination to be fixed upon the idea of riches. The ſight of what he flattered himſelf he ſhould poſſeſs, and the projects he had formed, had left ſuch profound traces in his mind, as nothing could efface. Reflecting on the ſmall advantage he drew from the candleſtick, he reſolved to carry it back to the Derviſe, in hopes that he might obtain of him the treaſure he had ſeen, or at leaſt recover the riches which had vaniſhed, by reſtoring to him what he had teſtified ſo earneſt a deſire for. Remembering his name, and that of the city where he inhabited, he departed immediately for Magrebi, carrying with him the candleſtick; taking care to light it every night, as by that means he was furniſhed with neceſſaries on the road, without being obliged to implore the compaſſion of the faithful. When he arrived at Magrebi, his firſt care was to enquire at what houſe, or in what convent Abounadar lodged. Every body was able to tell him his habitation. He repaired thither directly, and found fifty porters at his gate, each with a golden-headed ſtaff in his hands. The court of his palace was filled with domeſtics and ſlaves; in fine, no reſidence of a Prince could expoſe to view greater magnificence. Abdallah, ſtruck with [180] aſtoniſhment and admiration, feared to proceed. Certainly, thought he, I either explained myſelf wrong, or thoſe to whom I addreſſed myſelf deſigned to make a jeſt of me, becauſe I am a ſtranger. This the habitation of a Derviſe! It is that of a King! In this embarraſſment a perſon approached him, and ſaid, Abdallah, thou art welcome; my maſter, Abounadar, has long expected thee. He was then conducted to a magnificent pavilion, where the Derviſe was ſeated. Abdallah, ſtruck with the ſplendor which he beheld on all ſides, would have proſtrated himſelf at his feet, but Abounadar prevented him; and, when he would have made a merit of reſtoring the candleſtick, "Thou art ungrateful, ſaid he; doſt thou imagine that I am to be impoſed on? I am not ignorant of thy thoughts. Hadſt thou known the value of this candleſtick, never wouldſt thou have brought it to me! I ſhall make thee ſenſible of its true uſe." Immediately he placed a light in each of its branches; and when the twelve derviſes had turned round for ſome time, gave each of them a touch with a cane, and in a moment they were converted into twelve heaps of ſequins*, diamonds, and other precious ſtones. "This, ſaid he, is the proper uſe to be made of this marvellous candleſtick. As to me, I never deſired it, but as a curioſity in my cabinet; as a taliſman compoſed by a Sage whom I revere; and I am pleaſed to expoſe it ſometimes to thoſe who come to viſit me. To prove [181] to thee that curioſity was the motive of my ſearch for it, here are the keys of my magazines, open them, and judge of my treaſures; tell me if the moſt inſatiable miſer would not be ſatisfied with them." Abdallah obeyed him; he examined twelve magazines of great extent, and they produced new deſires. The regret of having reſtored the candleſtick, without finding out the uſe of it, pierced the heart of Abdallah. Abounadar ſeemed not to perceive it; loaded him with careſſes, kept him ſome days in his houſe, and commanded that he ſhould be treated as himſelf. At the eve of the day which he had fixed for his departure, he ſaid to him, "Abdallah, my ſon, I believe, by what has happened to thee, thou art cured of the frightful vice of ingratitude; however, I owe thee a mark of my affection, for having undertaken ſo long a journey, with a view of bringing me what I deſired; thou mayeſt depart, I ſhall detain thee no longer. Tomorrow, at the gate of my palace, thou ſhalt find one of my horſes to carry thee; I make thee a preſent of it, as well as of a ſlave who ſhall conduct thee home; and two camels loaded with ſuch gold and jewels, as thou ſhalt chuſe for thyſelf out of my treaſures." Abdallah anſwered with all that an avaritious heart could expreſs, when its paſſion was ſatisfied; and retired to reſt till the morning arrived, which was fixed for his departure.

During the night he was ſtill agitated, without being able to think of any thing but the candleſtick, [182] and what it had produced. "I had it, ſaid he, long in my power; Abounadar, without me, had never been the poſſeſſor of it. What riſks did I not run in the ſubterraneous vault? Why does he now poſſeſs this treaſure of treaſures? Becauſe I had the probity, or rather the folly, to bring it back to him. He profits by my labours, and the danger I have incurred in ſo long a journey. And what does he give me in return? Two camels loaded with gold and jewels; in one moment the candleſtick will furniſh him with ten times as much. It is Abounadar who is ungrateful: What injury ſhall I do him in taking away this candleſtick? None certainly; he is rich: and what are my poſſeſſions?" Such ideas determined him, at length, to make every poſſible attempt to ſeize upon the candleſtick. It was not difficult, for Abounadar had truſted him with the keys of his magazines. He knew where the candleſtick was placed. He ſeized upon it, hid it in the bottom of one of the ſacks, which he filled with the gold and other treaſure he was allowed to take, and ſecured that, as well as the reſt, upon one of his camels. He had no other anxiety now than for his departure; and after having haſtily bid adieu to the generous Abounadar, delivered him his keys, and departed with the horſe, the ſlave, and the two camels.

When he was at ſome diſtance from Balſora, he ſold his ſlave, reſolving not to retain the witneſs of his former poverty, nor of the ſource of his preſent [183] riches. He bought another, and arrived without obſtacle at his mother's. His firſt care was to place the lading of his camels and the candleſtick in the moſt private room of the houſe; and, in the impatience to feed his eyes with ſuch opulence, he placed lights immediately in the candleſtick: the twelve derviſes appearing, he ſtruck each of them with a cane with all his ſtrength, leſt he ſhould be failing in the laws of the taliſman: but he had not remarked, that Abounadar, when he ſtruck them, had the cane in his left-hand. Abdallah, by a natural motion, made uſe of his right hand; and the derviſes, inſtead of becoming heaps of riches, immediately drew each from beneath his robes a formidable club, with which they ſtruck him repeatedly, and leaving him half dead, diſappeared with all his treaſure, camels, horſe, ſlave, and the candleſtick.

Thus was Abdallah puniſhed for unreaſonable ambition, which perhaps might have been pardonable, if it had not been accompanied by an ingratitude as wicked as it was audacious.

*
A ſmall ſilver coin.
*
A Turkiſh gold coin.
FANNY.

Lord, Mamma, what a fooliſh man that Abdallah was! but it is a very pretty ſtory though.

MRS. EGERTON.

Yes, my dear, and I have another very pretty ſtory for you, as you ſhall hear. It is of a Turk, who was as remarkable for his generous gratitude, [184] as the perſons whoſe hiſtory you have heard were for the contrary.

GRATITUDE: Or the Story of PIETRO CORNARO, and the grateful TURK.

SIGNIOR Pietro Cornaro, an accompliſhed young gentleman of an ancient family, and of conſiderable fortune in the city of Ferrara in Italy, was induced to travel through the provinces of his celebrated country, that he might ſatisfy curioſity, and enrich his mind with ſuch acquirements, as would diſtinguiſh him, and his acquiſitions, from perſons leſs qualified and leſs ambitious of true renown. He arrived at Leghorn, and took up lodgings at an inn. Happening to be placed in an apartment that opened to the public ſtreet, he would often walk about his room, and by looking frequently upon the ſtreet, divert himſelf agreeably with curious obſervations on whatever paſſed before him. It is a cuſtom of this town to give leave to the Turks, who ſerve them as ſlaves, to ply as porters, or betake themſelves to any other drudgery, obliging them to pay their maſters a certain proportion of what they earn, and permitting them to keep the overplus for their own neceſſities. Directly oppoſite to Cornaro's chamber was a bench, on which he often obſerved a Turkiſh ſlave, thoughtful and dejected, leaning penſively his head upon his hand, and dropping now and [185] then a ſilent tear, which he endeavoured ſecretly to wipe away with his knot of ropes, the wretched badge of his unfortunate employment. The frequent repetition of this mournful practice ſtruck the compaſſionate Italian; who, earneſtly deſirous to become acquainted with the reaſon of his ſorrow, ſent at laſt a meſſenger to bring him to his apartment; and proceeded to demand the manner of his being taken, and how long he had continued in a ſtate of ſlavery. With wringing hands and elevated eyes, which ſeemed to blame his ſtars for his unpitied miſery, the diſconſolate Mahometan began his tale; and watered his complaints with ſhowers of tears. "I am, ſays he, an honeſt Muſſulman, neither the friend of war or rapine, but become a prey to both. In an unlucky viſit made to ſee an aged father, then in health and peace at Cyprus, now perhaps laid cold and breathleſs, was I taken by the Chriſtians, made a ſlave, and reduced to what you now behold."

Theſe ſad complaints were followed by a ſincere and full account of every accident which had concurred to reduce him to this ſlavery. He informed his kind enquirer, that he had ſorrowfully ſpent four tedious years in that condition, and had left three wives, two ſons, now men, and nine ſmall children, to deplore his loſs; who were wholly deſtitute of the means whereby to know his preſent condition. The pitying breaſt of Signior Pietro, framed for tender and compaſſionate emotions, melted generouſly with ſympathetic diſtreſs, to find the wretched and forlorn [186] ſituation of this complaining Muſſulman; and after aſking his name, and other queſtions, gave him money, and diſmiſſed him, bidding him hope for ſuccour.

The diſconſolate Turk returned to the unwelcome practice of his daily labours. The benevolent Pietro ſeriouſly reflecting on this unfortunate man's ſorrow, and conſidering that the will of Providence, or ſome unſuſpected turn of fortune, might one day make the caſe his own, might teach him, by the bitter proof of ſad experience, how to pity others' miſeries, reſolved to do a noble act of Chriſtian charity; and making intereſt with the governor, found means to get the Turk releaſed, for the ranſom of about one hundred and forty-five ducats. Never could more welcome and ſurpriſing news rejoice the gladdened heart of a human ſufferer, than that which brought the happy Turk the news of his delivery. With rapid tranſports of ungoverned joy, he fell upon his knees, embraced the feet of his adored redeemer, and with numerous vows of heart-felt gratitude, entreated Signior Pietro to inform him how he might return, twofold, that friendly ſum, which had ſo effectually purchaſed his liberty. The generous Italian told him he expected no return; yet if his ſoul was noble, and would urge him to be grateful, he aſked only the ſolemn promiſe, that he would, when arrived in Turkey, redeem from ſlavery ſome Chriſtian, whom he might think deſerving of it, and ſend him back, to viſit once again his native country. The redeemed Turk, ſupplied with cloaths [187] and all things neceſſary, embarked on board an Engliſh veſſel bound for Aſia, and returned to his habitation. About three months after the Mahometan's departure from Leghorn, Signior Pietro, having been the greateſt part of that time at Venice, became enamoured of a beautiful young lady, called Maria Margarita Delfino, who had for ſeveral years reſided in that town, under the care of a ſubſtantial merchant, youngeſt brother to her father, who with her ſiſters, and the major part of her relations, lived at Malta. Nothing could perſuade the amorous Italian from a violent expreſſion of his growing paſſion; he ſolicited her uncle with inceſſant importunities, and at laſt engaged him to permit him to addreſs her upon this condition, that he ſhould accompany his niece and him to Malta, there to obtain her father's approbation of his perſon and condition. This was promiſed, and he continued four months, daily viſiting the object of his affection, till he gained entirely her conſent to marry him, when ſhe ſhould be authoriſed by her father's orders. They embarked on board a veſſel bound for Malta, and belonging to that iſland, which they were almoſt arrived in ſight of, when a Turkiſh galley met them, made undiſtinguiſhed prize of all her cargo, and conſigning Signior Pietro, with his miſtreſs and her uncle to ſlavery, landed them at Smyrna, together with the valuable prize in which they were taken. I forgot to mention, that the three companions in this miſerable ſtate had changed [188] their cloaths for coarſe and rougher habits, when they ſaw the danger they were falling into; that, being ſo diſguiſed, they might expect a ranſom at a ſmaller charge, than otherwiſe would ſerve; ſo that being taken with the common people, they were like them, in chains, conducted to the public market, where ſlaves are bought and ſold as ſheep or oxen. Signior Pietro and the young lady's uncle were tied together, and placed, with many more, to wait the purchaſe of the higheſt bidder. Oppoſite to them the poor unhappy lady ſtood, half dead with fear and anguiſh, with a numerous crowd of Chriſtian women, young and old, expecting every moment to be bought, and torn away from any hopes of ever ſeeing her lover and relations. At laſt a young and graceful Turk came up to the diſconſolate Maria, and bargaining immediately with the proper officer, paid the money; then throwing over her a veil he had brought on purpoſe, took her from the reſt, and carried her away with an uncommon ſatisfaction. Many a complaining look did the deſpairing lady give her friends, who anſwered her with all the mournful marks of ſilent lamentation, and were now (eſpecially the lover) ſo confounded with their miſery, that they ſtood like ſtatues, looking ſtedfaſtly on the ground, taking little notice of the many purchaſers, who walked about from place to place to view the perſons of the wretched captives.

[189]While they ſtood thus fixed in contemplation on the tranſitory bleſſings of this mortal life, there came a Turk from ſtall to ſtall, enquiring earneſtly of every officer what quality and country their ſlaves were of; and examining particularly the ſlaves themſelves, he at laſt came to Signior Pietro, who hanging down his head, the Turk ſtooped forward to look upon his face; a courteſy not often practiſed by thoſe barbarous people, who, when a ſlave refuſes to hold up his face, will generally take them roughly by the chin, as when a jockey looks into a horſe's mouth. The Turk no ſooner ſaw the face, but ſtarting back in great ſurpriſe, he raiſed his arms and eyes towards heaven, and tranſported at the ſtrange diſcovery, cried out aloud, "I thank thee, holy prophet, thou haſt guided well my lucky footſteps." The grieved Italian looking up at this ſurpriſing exclamation, ſaw before his eyes the very man whom, in Leghorn, he had ſo kindly freed from ſlavery. No pen can deſcribe the raptures he conceived at this happy meeting; ſwift embraces followed their ſurpriſe, and when the wonder of the Turk gave him leave to ſpeak again, he thus addreſſed himſelf to Signior Pietro: "I promiſed thee, ſaid he, thou beſt of Chriſtians, that I would certainly redeem from ſervitude ſuch ſlave as I ſhould judge ſhould more than any elſe deſerve that bleſſing; and now, thanks to Mahomet! in thee have I diſcovered him." Inſtantly he ordered the officer who guarded him to ſend ſome [190] perſon for his ranſom, and to conduct him directly to his own houſe. The overjoyed Italian heard with pleaſure the return of his gratitude; but told him, "If he would be doubly kind, he might redeem his friend who ſuffered with him, and they would find ſome ſpeedy means to reimburſe his charges." The propoſition was embraced as ſoon as offered, and a perſon being ſent to take the money, received immediately the ranſom he demanded, and returning to market, left the gentlemen to the care of their redeemer. The Turk's two ſons, when told of the accident by which their father met the man to whom he owed his liberty, expreſſed ſincere and grateful joy, and bid them welcome with inexpreſſible civility. After having heard the manner of their being taken, and their ſorrowful complaint for the loſs of an unhappy virgin, whom they ſo ardently loved, the eldeſt of the two ſons cried out with earneſtneſs, "Now, by the religion of our holy prophet, and his people, my father's houſe contains this very virgin!" He proceeded to inform them, that he had bought that morning a young Chriſtian ſlave, to wait upon his mother and his father's other wives; that ſhe had given the ſame account as they had done of the particulars of her captivity; that ſhe was then above, among the women, and he would, for ſatisfaction, fetch her down that very moment. It is eaſy to imagine the diſorder of their boſoms, poſſeſſed alternately by hope and fear, till doubt gave way to certainty, and [191] they beheld the perſon they had ſo lately loſt, conducted to their arms by him to whom the laws of Turkey gave her as a lawful purchaſe.

They ſtaid a week with their landlord, who would not reſt till he had ranſomed two men ſervants, and a maid who waited on the lady: theſe, together with as many of the goods and cloaths as he could purchaſe from the Turk who took them, he beſtowed again on their lawful owners, gave them a conſiderable ſum of money, and contrived to get them a paſſage on board a veſſel of Marſ [...]iller, then bound to Malta. Signior Pietro, the young lady, and her uncle, frequently endeavoured to oblige this honeſt Turk to take their bills, or find ſome other method to ſecure his money, but he perſiſted in a poſitive refuſal of all their proffers, telling Signior Pietro the debt was paid before it was contracted; and would often lay his hand devoutly on his boſom, and with a zealous ſigh repeat this proverb, "The God of Heaven has given us plenty, that we may give Him what need requires." When they arrived at Malta, Signior Pietro ſoon obtained the conſent of the young lady's father, and their nuptials were quickly after celebrated.

DIALOGUE XVIII.

[192]
MRS. EGERTON.

YOU remember, my dear Fanny, that you and your ſiſter had a little argument this morning, at breakfaſt, concerning what children are happieſt and beſt, thoſe who are indulged in every thing they deſire, or thoſe who are kept in awe, and obliged to obey. Your ſiſter, who is older, and conſequently has more knowledge than you, told you, that it would, perhaps, be better for a child to ſuffer under a tyrannical parent, than be permitted to proceed in irregularities and pettiſh humours, which children, if they were not taught otherwiſe, would all do. Now, you ſhall hear the hiſtory of Charlotte and Maria Woodland.

INDULGENCE: Or the TWO SISTERS.

IT is a remark made by almoſt every one, that it is the unhappineſs of human nature never to be ſatisfied. Philoſophers ſay this propenſity is the ſpring of action, therefore neceſſary. They add, likewiſe, that there is not that diſproportion in the happineſs of rich and poor, wiſe and fooliſh, &c. &c. as is generally imagined: nay, many have been [193] bold enough to aſſert, that content is more frequently found with poverty and folly, than with their oppoſites. It is not our purpoſe to enquire, by a dry inveſtigation of the ſubject, into the truth or falſehood of theſe opinions, but to leave the reader to make what applications he pleaſes from the following tale; wherein, if we are not miſtaken, he will perceive the bad effects of falſe education built upon falſe hopes, and the neceſſity of enuring the youthful mind, even from the cradle, to croſſes. —Would not any man laugh to ſee a petit maitre attempting to carry the ſide of an ox, like a porter? How then can we expect a weak enervated mind to ſupport thoſe worſt of loads, poverty and contempt?

Mr. and Mrs. Woodland, the parents of our heroines, were once ſervants in the ſame family, which being a nobleman's, where they continually beheld the utmoſt luxury, and what is called politeneſs and good breeding, they ſoon acquired a ſufficient degree of contempt for their origin, and their former acquaintance. Having ſaved ſome money, they married, quitted their ſervice, and betook themſelves to buſineſs. Here Mrs. Woodland, who, of the two, had the moſt violent ideas of gentility, inſiſted upon going into a genteel buſineſs, where they might have cuſtomers that underſtood good manners, and would pay a proper reſpect to people that knew how to bemean themſelves; for, ſaid ſhe, I can never condeſcend to ſtand behind a counter [194] curtſeying and ſerving out farthing candles and halfpenny-worths of tobacco to every dirty wretch that comes in. Accordingly they opened a lace-ſhop, which being well ſituated, anſwered their expectations to the utmoſt.

Charlotte Woodland was their firſt child, and the only one they had in eight years after their marriage.—Every expence was run into for the dreſs and education of this girl. She was pretty, and her parents thought her a cherub. She had a ready tongue, and they were continually repeating her ſmart ſayings and witty anſwers. She learnt an oath from her father, and vulgarity from her mother, before ſhe was three years old; and her exploits were told and retold to every one that viſited her mamma.

As they were mutually reſolved that their daughter ſhould not labour under that want of polite education, which they had frequent occaſion to lament in themſelves, they ſent her at ſix years old to a boarding-ſchool, where ſhe pickt up French phraſes without knowing any thing of the language, and run over the keys of a harpſichord without time, tune, or ſentiment. She, however, could draw patterns for her aprons and ruffles, acquired every new ſtitch with alacrity, and danced with more eaſe than the generality of her ſchool-fellows; ſhe was vain as well as handſome, and therefore bent all her thoughts upon the means of decorating her perſon.

[195]Her parents, for the firſt eight or ten years of her life, had very great ſucceſs in trade; enough, had they been prudent, to have made what is uſually called a pretty fortune. It was a pity that they had conceived ſo violent a contempt for every thing that was low and vulgar. Mrs. Woodland could not exiſt without ſubſcribing to the Opera, Pantheon, &c. &c. becauſe every body did ſo. She hated horrid Engliſh cottons, and filthy Spital-field tabbies: India chintz and French luſtrings were ſo elegant! She was ready to faint at the idea of Buckinghamſhire lace; crown quadrille gave her the vapours; and being black-balled at the Coterie, threw her into hyſterics for ſix weeks.

Mr. Woodland, though at firſt very attentive to buſineſs, ſoon fell into the mode of keeping his horſe and his miſtreſs, and in time became acquainted with the box and dice.

Laboured deſcriptions are diſguſting; the reader's imagination will eaſily ſuggeſt to him the effects of this mutually fooliſh conduct. Mr. Woodland, in the thirteenth year after he began buſineſs, became a bankrupt. Every one was amazed: the reputation of the ſhop, and the appearance he had ſo long ſupported, had deceived the world.

Happy for their ſecond daughter, was this affliction. Affected manners, the epithets of adulation, and the proud airs of imagined conſequence, had not yet vitiated the tender mind of Maria; who obtained an advantage in the death of her mother. [196] Parents with bad habits and ill regulated paſſions, are a misfortune rather than a bleſſing to thoſe who, by obſerving, learn to imitate them. Maria was peculiarly fortunate. A widow lady with a ſmall income, and without children or relations, whom chance had made acquainted with the family, obſerved the natural ſweetneſs of Maria's temper, and the acuteneſs of her underſtanding, and took a fancy to her. This lady was the reverſe of Mrs. Woodland; elegance and affability had baniſhed pride and affectation. She had ſtudied in the ſchools of adverſity, and had learnt the heavenly leſſons of humility and humanity.—Reader—if ever thou ſhouldſt have children, God ſend them ſuch an inſtructor.

Be not anxious to hear trifling incidents. Behold Maria in the nineteenth year of her age, with manners that might charm wiſdom herſelf, beauty ſufficient to aſtoniſh a Reynolds, and married to a huſband ſuch as thou wouldſt wiſh, hadſt thou an angel for thy child. Surely when a pair like this are companions, the road of matrimony is paved with pleaſures. If thy wiſhes outrun thy wants, if thy temper is pettiſh, and thy heart proud, if thou halt not the art of making thyſelf beloved, think of Clermont and Maria with a ſigh, and endeavour to reform.

Different was the deſtiny of the unfortunate Charlotte. Uſed to the flattery of inferiors, the ſword of neglect wounded ſorely the pride of fallen ſuperiority. [197] Her father, unable to place her to advantage in the world, or maintain her in the ſchool, took her home. He now ſoon diſcovered the bad effects of the preſent falſe mode of education. Hardly able to provide the moſt ſcanty pittance, his daughter became a burthen inſtead of an aſſiſtant. Ill qualified for domeſtic duties, the uncleanlineſs of the temple proclaimed the indolence of the prieſteſs. —Oh ye fooliſh parents, why will you take ſo much pains to teach your children ſuch affected antics! Why will you encourage them to curl the noſe at the ſight of an unwaſhed ſaucepan, or to ſhiver at the touch of cold water! Muſt the happineſs of life be ſacrificed to the whiteneſs of the hand? or why ſhould the making a pie baniſh them from the ſociety of the rational? Make them glaſs cages at once, and ſay to unpoliſhed induſtry, "Behold what thou ſhouldſt be!"

But how ſhould the ſcholars be wiſe or virtuous, when the teachers, generally ſpeaking, are fooliſh and vicious?

Charlotte was unhappy at the change of her ſituation, and enjoyed only thoſe moments when ſhe had leiſure to hang ſome of that finery upon her, which former opulence had provided. Girls are in this age more frequently undone by falſe pride, than eaſy belief, and are in greater danger from the ſupercilious airs of a mother, than the proteſtations of a lover. Vanity is almoſt univerſally the predominant paſſion of youth. This was the rock on which Charlotte [198] ſtruck; nor need we be ſurpriſed, when we conſider the tempeſt which former flattery and preſent indigence had raiſed to overſet ſo weak a veſſel.

Among the acquaintance of her father's fortunate days, was Mr. Benfield, a man of property, and married. His principles varied with his paſſions, which reigned too abſolutely; for though he made frequent profeſſions of, and had great inclinations to virtue, yet were they the maſters of his reaſon, whenever they had a ſhare in the conflict. He had been ſeveral times with Mr. Woodland, to viſit his daughter while at the boarding-ſchool, and thought her very handſome; nay, had often told her ſo, and was therefore one of her greateſt favourites. When misfortune had overwhelmed her father, the idea of obtaining her for a miſtreſs being not entirely improbable, laid faſt hold upon his imagination. His daily viſits were conſtrued by the father into acts of the ſincereſt friendſhip. He aſſiſted Woodland with his purſe, and that corroborated the teſtimony. His toying with Charlotte was thought to be the effect of former freedoms while ſhe was a child, and conſidered rather as a condeſcenſion than a deſign. In ſhort, he was continually ſpoken of by the father, as the only virtuous man he had ever known, and and who alone knew how to diſtinguiſh merit in diſtreſs.

Men, even of moderate abilities, whoſe minds are intent upon the accompliſhment of ſo favourable a project, can find plauſible arguments to deceive and [199] miſlead girls; who have had leſs trifling educations than was the lot of Charlotte. Benfield would often ſeat her upon his lap, kiſs her hand in rapture, ſometimes ſnatch one from her lips, tell her of her beauty, call her divine, then with a ſigh ſay how happy he ſhould have been, had heaven bleſt him with ſuch a wife. Liberties which at firſt are alarming to virtue, by repetition become familiar, and the lover who firſt touches the mole upon his miſtreſs's neck, and afterwards begs permiſſion to kiſs it, might not be long, perhaps, before he would take the ſame freedom with the one upon her knee.

When the paſſions are warm, the mind is weak. Arguments, which to an unbiaſſed ſpectator immediately diſcover their own futility, appear with all the force of truth, when they endeavour to prove what we moſt earneſtly wiſh could be proved. Charlotte liſtened with avidity, while Benfield talked to her of a ſtate of nature, and of the inefficacy of marriage to bind affections, as well as the unreaſonableneſs of it in conſtraining thoſe to cohabit, who were always unhappy in each other's company. She began to think that a noble maxim, which ſays, "they only are truly married, who love each other, and live together without being obliged to do ſo." She paid particular attention to Benfield, when he told her it was far better for her to live without the ceremony of marriage, with one who paſſionately loved her, and would maintain her, not only above want, but in affluence, than to be tied to another [200] who might not have ſenſe to diſcover her merit, riches to keep her from indigence, not love ſufficient to uſe her with humanity.

The rude man is by no means ſo dangerous to virtue as the plauſible. Benfield prevailed, and Charlotte was ſeduced. He ſtole her from her father, placed her in lodgings, and treated her at firſt with all the enthuſiaſm of love. She, unhappy girl, unacquainted with the caprice and mutability of paſſion, imagined that the little endearments were never to abate. She felt not her own growing indifference, but was quick at the diſcovery of her lover's. Neglect produces bickerings; diſguſt hatred;—ſeparation enſues.

Keeper ſucceeded keeper, till vice became familiar. But why ſhould I torture the reader with relations which make the imagination gloomy? Can the depraved life of a miſerable proſtitute afford ſatisfaction either to the hearer or the relater? Such did the poor unfortunate Charlotte ſink into. Who that has the feelings of a man can ſtray through the ſtreets of this city, and ſee ſuch numberleſs young creatures, whoſe beautiful features are deformed by the practice of ſin and the want of ſhame, and not feel the blood cold at his heart. Who then that is worthy to be called a man, would endeavour to encreaſe the number of theſe, who, of all the miſerable, are the moſt miſerable!

Gentle reader, let me have power over thy imagination for a moment! Trace with me the unhappy [201] Charlotte through thoſe ſinks of ſin, the bagnio and the brothel: cloathed by an infamous unfeeling wretch, who receives the hire of her proſtitution: abandoned when corroding diſeaſe hath ſtolen the ſleekneſs of her ſkin, and the marrow of her bones! Behold the anguiſh of guilt preying upon her mind, and the inclemencies of the ſky upon her body! If thou art a female, tremble and avoid;—if a man, pity the ſufferer, and deteſt ſeduction!

In the ſituation I have deſcribed, was Charlotte found at midnight, freezing upon a ſtep, by the maſter of the family, who happened to be detained till that late hour. He was not a man of marble; and he enquired with eagerneſs and pity, if ſhe had no place to go to that could, in ſome meaſure, ſcreen her from the miſeries ſhe was thus expoſed to. She faintly replied, no! but that ſhe believed ſhe ſhould not long need aſſiſtance from hard-hearted man, for that if her feelings informed her right, ſhe was dying. He knocked with precipitation at the door, and was aſked by a voice, ſweet as melody, and mild as pity, "Is it you, my love?" His affirmation gained him inſtant admittance. He took the light, rang the bell for his ſervants, and, with the help of his wife, aſſiſted Charlotte into the houſe. "Here is a poor wretch, my dear, whom I found ſtarving at the door, who tells me ſhe believes ſhe is dying."—"God help her—ſhe ſhall not die in the ſtreet," anſwered ſhe with her eyes gliſtening—"Let us ſet her towards [202] the fire, my love, and give her a cordial that may revive her ſpirits—good God!" continued ſhe, "I think I ſhould know that face—ſurely it is not"—"Who, Maria? do not alarm yourſelf, my love:"—"You are right," anſwered Charlotte, "it is the wicked, the unfortunate Charlotte Woodland, your ſiſter—come in her laſt moments to ſhew her own guilt and ſufferings, and to admire your mercy and your virtues. Oh! pity her—Forgive her if you can!"

Merciful God! exclaimed Maria—and ſunk into the arms of her huſband.

FANNY.

Oh, poor Charlotte! But mamma, I ſhall never be like her.

MRS. EGERTON.

No, my dear, God forbid you ever ſhould: you have been differently educated.

MR. EGERTON.

I have often told you, my dears, and I cannot too often repeat it, that you will have no excuſe if you ſhould not behave well, becauſe no means have been neglected to inſtruct you. The ſins of Charlotte [203] may find forgiveneſs from the follies of her parents. Judge for yourſelves whether you can make the ſame apology. By ſaying this I do not mean to court your applauſe; we have done nothing more than our duty. The duties of a parent are ſo numerous, and demand ſuch an unremitting attention, that, indeed, I never can hope to fulfil them perfectly. However, my children, I hope we have omitted none of the great eſſentials, none that can ſanctify the plea of ignorance for crimes, or for capital errors. In proportion as you have been made acquainted with right and wrong, ſo will it be expected that you ſhould act; according to the adage—"Where much is given much is required."

Many neglect their duty only becauſe they do not know it; that, my children, we will endeavour ſhall not be the caſe with any of you. Polemo was one of the moſt abandoned youths of Athens: he ſeemed to delight not only in vice, but its infamy likewiſe. As he was returning one morning after ſun-riſe from a nocturnal revel, he ſaw the gate of Xenocrates, the philoſopher, ſtanding open, in whoſe ſchool there were then aſſembled a number of grave and learned men. Shameleſs, and full of wine, ſmeared with ointments, a garland on his head, and cloathed in looſe and indecent robes, he rudely entered the aſſembly with an air of ridiculous gravity; ſat himſelf down, and began purpoſely to offend them with his drunken follies. All preſent were irritated at his behaviour, Xenocrates alone excepted. He [204] with the ſame undiſturbed and ſerene dignity left the ſubject he was ſpeaking upon, and began to diſcourſe on temperance and modeſty in ſo animated and forcible a tone, that Polemo, ſtruck with a ſenſe of the abſurdity and indecency of his own conduct, and aſhamed of his affected feſtivity, caſt the crown from his brows, drew his arms beneath his cloak, and aſſumed a deportment ſuitable to the humiliating circumſtances of his ſituation. He afterwards became one of the moſt celebrated philoſophers of that age. From this we may ſafely infer, he would never have been guilty of ſuch diſgraceful improprieties, had he before been better taught.

I am now going to recommend a duty intimately connected with what we have been reading and ſaying; which is Induſtry. It is the unhappineſs of wealthy people to imagine, at leaſt much too often, that they have no other avocations in this world, but the purſuit of pleaſure and the decoration of their perſons, both of which, when carried to the leaſt exceſs, become criminal. I would have you underſtand, my children, that though you are born to fortunes, you are not born to indolence. It is the duty of the rich at leaſt to be active; not to mention, that to be idle is to be unhappy. Liſten to ſhe following allegory.

AS Induſtry was going abroad early to his labour, and climbing, with great patience, a lofty mountain over which he was obliged to paſs, he eſpied on the [205] ſummit a beautiful nymph employed in ſearching for uncommon flowers, and often viewing with great attention the wide extended ſcenes that were ſtretched around her. Her eyes were piercing as the beams of the evening ſtar, with a certain twinkling wantonneſs in them that heightened the reſemblance. Her features were irregular, yet not leſs pleaſing than thoſe of a more perfect beauty. She had a moſt agreeable wildneſs in her air, her dreſs, her countenance; and ſomething ſo ſpeakably inquiſitive in the latter, that almoſt every feature ſeemed to aſk a queſtion. Upon the approach of Induſtry ſhe fell into immediate diſcourſe with him, and aſked him, almoſt in the ſame breath, who he was, where he lived, whither he was going, and what there was in the neighbourhood worth ſeeing. Induſtry, ever accuſtomed to make the beſt of his time, anſwered the laſt queſtion firſt. He told her that there was nothing ſo well worth ſeeing as a beautiful pleaſure-houſe in the adjacent wood, and offered to conduct her to it. The nymph, whoſe name was Curioſity, eagerly followed him, and by the numberleſs queſtions ſhe put to him as they paſſed, diſcovered an inſatiable thirſt after knowledge. Induſtry, who liked the humour of the nymph, failed not to make every poſſible advantage of this; and though ſhe found herſelf deceived in ſome points, when ſhe arrived at the wood, yet ſhe was gratified in ſo many others, that ſhe could not help loving her deceiver, and yielding to every propoſal of his that might tend [206] to her information. In conſequence of this converſation, Curioſity, in due time, brought forth a ſon, who, by order from the Sylvan Deities, was named Travel. He was favoured by all the gods, and in his youth was frequently inſtructed by them in viſions. As he grew up he diſcovered in his temper his mother's thirſt of knowledge, and his father's activity; he never ſtaid longer in any place than, bee-like, to collect the ſweets that he found there. Pleaſure and Wiſdom were his companions, and his attendants were Plenty and Variety. By obſerving the manners and cuſtoms of various nations, he became polite and unprejudiced; and by comparing their laws, and various modes of worſhip and government, he learned to be juſt and politic, and to ſerve the gods acceptably. In a large city, where much was to be ſeen, he had recourſe for accommodations to the houſe of a gentleman who was known to take a pleaſure in entertaining travellers. The name of this perſon was Idleneſs. He was a corpulent good-natured man. If he had but proviſion for the day, and a companion to laugh away the hours, which were otherwiſe tedious to him, he was contented. He never interfered in the intereſt of others, nor felt the emotions either of friendſhip or enmity. He would not, on any account, go two furlongs from his own door, but uſed to ſay, pleaſure and trouble were ſuch inveterate enemies, that they could not poſſibly meet upon the ſame occaſion; he was much entertained with the converſation of Travel, and conceiving [207] a deſign to diſſuade him from rambling any more, that he might keep him with him, "My friend, ſaid Idleneſs, I am amazed at your ſtrange diſpoſition. Who, like you, would for ever wander about, in ſearch of pleaſure, and not ſtand ſtill a moment to enjoy it? Why will you expoſe yourſelf to perpetual dangers, and needleſs difficulties, and undergo abroad a thouſand inconveniencies which you would never meet with at home? Why ſhould you, who are a free man, ſubmit to the arbitrary government of a ſea captain; more boiſterous than the element on which he commands: or to the no leſs abſolute ſway of an itinerant coachman?" "Truce with your queries, ſaid Travel, till I have propoſed an equal number; and then, if you pleaſe, we will balance the account. How can you waſte your time, and impair your health by refuſing to give your body and mind that due exerciſe nature ſo loudly calls for? How can you confine that arduous curioſity, which was implanted in the ſoul to urge you on to unbounded knowledge, within the narrow limits of a ſingle city or province? Are you really ſo deſtitute of courage as to be over-awed by viſionary dangers and trivial inconveniencies?" Here ended the diſpute; Idleneſs would not be at the pains to urge further arguments, nor, if he had, would Travel have ſtaid to hear them.

MR. EGERTON.

I will continue the ſubject, by reading you a little eſſay, which I once wrote in anſwer to a friend of [208] mine, who ſeemed to be of opinion, that it was rational, and almoſt virtuous, for men to be idle till they could have their property wholly to themſelves: that is, he looked upon the taxes paid to civil and eccleſiaſtical eſtabliſhments not only to be enormous, but ſhamefully miſapplied. Though this aſſertion has too many glaring and notorious facts in its ſupport to leave any room for controverſy on that head, yet I never could think my friend's inference a juſt one. What I have ſaid was, however, but a ſlight and haſty ſketch, and will be more ſuitable as a leſſon to my children, than an anſwer to the arguments of my friend. The beſt part of it is the fable with which it concludes, and from which I would have you draw the moral which is intended, namely, that the application of induſtry ſhould be to great and proper objects, otherwiſe it becomes either trivial, ridiculous, or criminal.

INDUSTRY: An ESSAY.

The general importance of induſtry to ſociety is a thing ſo ſelf-evident, that it ſtands in need of no arguments to convince mankind of its truth. Individuals are neither happy in themſelves, nor uſeful to others, till they are induſtrious. Idleneſs reſembles an excreſcence painful in itſelf, and diſguſting to the beholders; and which the poſſeſſor wiſhes to cut away, but wants reſolution. Some men, like benevolent philoſophers, and true friends to the rights of [209] mankind, wiſh for abſolute freedom, that men may be encouraged to induſtry by having their property ſole, and undivided, to their own uſe; that they may not be ſhackled by the degrading recollection of dependence, nor deterred by the rapacity of power; that is, by thoſe men who formally ſeize upon, and lawfully rob you of, a certain part of your property, which they appropriate, too frequently, to the moſt deſtructive purpoſes: namely, to that of enſlaving you ſtill farther.

That there are wicked governments, nay, that there are no good governments, and that there are wicked men in the beſt of governments, may readily be admitted. That a ſociety formed upon the liberal principles theſe philoſophers ſo juſtly admire, would be the only rational one among equals is likewiſe granted: but the fact is, men are not equal, and this inequality precludes the poſſibility of abſolute freedom. The cunning man outwits the ſimple, the ſtrong ſubdues the weak; the man whoſe paſſions are inordinate, wilfully enſlaves himſelf to him who can gratify them, and he who has had the misfortune to have had a fooliſh, or a weak father, becomes, unhappily, the inheritor of ſlavery. This ſlavery, however, is only partial: in the very worſt of governments, the motives to induſtry are ſufficiently powerful and beneficial to incite men to action. Engliſhmen, in particular, have, upon compariſon, great reaſon to bleſs that chance which placed them on this ſpot rather than the generality of [210] others; rather, perhaps, than any other upon earth. Property is, here, ſo far ſecured, that no depredations can be committed, but authorized and legal ones: and, though it muſt be confeſſed that theſe are numerous, yet the aggregate is not ſufficient, by any means, to damp the ſpirit of induſtry. No titled villain lays his rapacious talons on the widow's mite; no tyrant faſtens his diſgraceful badge upon her offspring; no ferocious Boyar or Vaivod enumerates the huſbandman among the other animals that graze upon what he unjuſtly calls his land. We are protected, not only from the ravages of individuals, but from the ravages of nations; and the exactions we ſuffer make our part of the contribution to the general expence. That theſe contributions are continually perverted cannot be denied; but, till we can find men who do not love themſelves better than the reſt of mankind, this muſt ever be the caſe. I do not mean to inſinuate, that we ſhould reſt contented under impoſition, however ſanctified by the hoary head of cuſtom, or enforced by the iron hand of law: no, let us emancipate ourſelves by every worthy means, let us caſt off every diſgraceful, galling chain; let us beware that it does not become heavier, and more galling; but, it is the perſevering effort of induſtry only that can effect this: and, as paſſions, affections, and weakneſſes, prevent us from any thing like perfection, do not let us torment ourſelves, and ſlacken our labours, by meditating on, and hoping for, ideal bleſſings, [211] which the nature and inequality of man forbid to be realized. I ſpeak as I think, as I feel, but with every deference and reſpect to the arguments of thoſe who hold contrary opinions.

Let us amuſe ourſelves, for a moment, by imagining the poetical origin, and actions of induſtry.

In the early ages of the world, before men multiplied and ſpread over the face of the earth, and, by their irregularities, baniſhed the beneficent Deities from their ſociety, the Sylvan God of the Oaks, called Perſeverance, became in love with Agility, the nymph of the rocks; and though he was neither young, beautiful, or beloved, yet, by his inceſſant importunities, he at length prevailed. The nymphs of ancient, as well as modern times, have often yielded to importunity. The child Induſtry was the offspring of this amour. He was the beloved of his parents, for he partook of thoſe qualities for which each was the moſt eſteemed. He was ſtrong and active, with an ugly countenance, and broad hands; he was not very tall, but his body was well proportioned, and his large limbs proclaimed duration. The ſports of his infancy were peculiar. He ſometimes amuſed himſelf with inventing inſtruments of houſewifery and agriculture, and for other uſeful and domeſtic purpoſes; and, it is ſaid, his mother one day ſurprized him when he had juſt finiſhed the firſt rude ſketch of a ſpinning-wheel, and was diverting himſelf with turning it round, and obſerving its effects. The loom, likewiſe, is ſaid [212] to have been one of the early efforts of his imagination; and which procured him everlaſting honour and praiſe among men. He preſently became a conſtant and ſtudious obſerver of cauſe and effect; and made regiſters of his obſervations, at firſt, by notching the trees, afterwards by hieroglyphics, and, laſt of all, by various and amazingly intricate combinations of characters, which yet, by his exceſſive aſſiduity, became tolerably ſimple, and quite intelligible. This, however, was the effect of inceſſant and undeſcribable labour; for it is ſaid by ſome, that, till he came among men, and inſtructed them, they had no regular method of conveying their ideas; that they had no language, but gabbled a few inarticulate and unintelligible ſounds, expreſſive of rage and fear, and ſome of the ſtronger paſſions, from which he produced his ſyſtem. Long, however, before this, he diſcovered, by his penetration, the metals that lay hid and buried in the bowels of the earth; and that had lain there from time immemorial. He brought forth iron from a ſtone, and made of it the axe, the hoe, the ſaw, and a thouſand curious and uſeful implements. He obſerved the ſwine, that uſed to root up the ground for the acorn, the pignut, and other delicacies: he ſaw the green verdure follow their tracks, and the young blade ſhoot where they had ſoiled: from whence he learned the uſe of the plough and the manure. Nothing was too vile to eſcape his attention, nor was any thing too incomprehenſible to elude his enquiries. He preſently [213] became ſo renowned, by the beneficial effects of his reſearches and labours, that he was deified, placed with the gods, and worſhipped under various ſymbols by the ſons of men. In the mean time his labours overſpread the face of the earth: he not only built habitations for men, defended them from wild beaſts, took care of their ſeed time and harveſt, and taught them the common arts of life, but he, alſo, inſtructed them in the occult properties of nature. He ſhewed them to heal their wounds by the green herb, to exterminate poiſon, and to calculate the courſe of the ſtars. For their pleaſure and convenience he built cities, palaces, and temples. Mauſoleums, pyramids, and towers, roſe from the hard entrails of the rock. Mountains were levelled, rivers obeyed the courſe of his directing arm, and caſtles floated upon the great waters, and defied their fury.

Happy had it been for men, had he been as prudent in his amours as his father; but, alas! he became enamoured with that proſtitute Luxury. Faſcinated by her ſeducing charms, and led aſtray by her ſpecious ſophiſms, his labours have degenerated, have become deſtructive, and, inſtead of his former ſtupendous works, he is, at preſent, a Man-milliner, ſtains tooth-picks, weaves gauze ribbands, and metamorphoſes ſecond-hand ſarſnet, and twice-died Perſian, into artificial flowers.

DIALOGUE XIX.

[214]
MR. EGERTON.

THE ſubject of yeſterday, my children, is ſo conſequential to happineſs, that I cannot avoid renewing it, in order to point out ſome more of its duties and advantages, and impreſs them ſtill ſtronger on your memories. Perſeverance is the leading characteriſtic of induſtry. By perſeverance, men of moderate parts have accompliſhed what had before been deemed impoſſible. Liſten to the rapidity, the aſtoniſhingly preciſe agreement of ideas, in a band of muſicians; look at the exact and mechanical preciſion with which one man at the head of an army regulates the actions of ten, twenty, or of a hundred thouſand, and you will be convinced of the powers of perſeverance.

A country gentleman had an eſtate of two hundred a year, which he kept in his own hands till he found himſelf ſo much in debt, that he was obliged to ſell one half to ſatisfy his creditors, and lett the remainder to a farmer for one-and-twenty years. Before the expiration of his leaſe, the farmer aſked the gentleman, when he came one day to pay his rent, whether he would ſell the land he occupied? Why; will you buy it? ſaid the gentleman;—if you will part with it, [215] and we can agree, replied the farmer. That is exceedingly ſtrange, ſaid the gentleman. Pray tell me how it happens that I could not live upon twice as much land, for which I paid no rent, and that you, after regularly paying me a hundred a year for the half, are able, in a few years, to purchaſe it? The reaſon is plain, anſwered the farmer; you ſat ſtill, and ſaid go; I got up, and ſaid come; you laid in bed, and enjoyed your eaſe; I roſe in the morning, and minded my buſineſs.

Hear another anecdote, more ſingular, but of the ſame nature. When collection was making to build the hoſpital of Bedlam, thoſe who were employed to gather the money, came to a ſmall houſe, the door of which was half open; from the entry they overheard an old man ſcolding his ſervant maid, who, having made uſe of a match to kindle the fire, had afterwards indiſcreetly thrown it away, without reflecting that the match, having ſtill the ſulphur at the other end might be of further ſervice. After diverting themſelves awhile with liſtening to the diſpute, they knocked, and preſented themſelves before the old gentleman. As ſoon as they told him the cauſe of their viſit, he went into a cloſet, from whence he brought four hundred guineas, and reckoning the money in their preſence, put it into their bag. The collectors being aſtoniſhed at this generoſity, which they little expected, could not help teſtifying their ſurpriſe, and told the old fellow what they had heard. "Gentleman, ſaid he, your ſurpriſe [216] is occaſioned by a thing of very little conſequence; I keep houſe, and ſave or ſpend money my own way, the one furniſhes me with the means of doing the other, and both equally gratify my inclinations. With regard to benefactions and donations, always expect moſt from prudent people who keep their accounts."

Few things truly great or good, my children, can be performed but by a perſevering induſtry. Noble minds, with ſuch aſſiſtance, are makers of their own fortune. There is ſcarcely any knowledge, any art, or any dignity unattainable to thoſe who poſſeſs underſtanding, induſtry and perſeverance. An attention to little things, with a capability of great ones, are the leading features of the character I deſcribe. When Sir Walter Raleigh firſt came to London to ſeek his fortune, he was poor and unknown, yet well-dreſſed, carrying all his riches upon his back; for his hopes and views were comprehenſive. Happening one day to ſee Queen Elizabeth walking till ſhe came to a dirty place, at which ſhe ſeemed to make ſome ſcruple of ſtepping over, he immediately pulled off his new pluſh cloak, and ſpread it for her to tread on. The gallantry of this action, and the obliging unembaraſſed air with which it was performed, were a certain introduction to the court of Elizabeth. When he firſt began to be noticed, he wrote upon a glaſs window, in the eye of the Queen:— [217]Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.’

Elizabeth obſerving it, wrote underneath, ‘If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all.’

Sir Walter was not really afraid, this was only an artifice. Every body knows how great a man he afterwards became.

When the Spartans had treacherouſly ſeized on the caſtle called Cadmaea, and by that means enſlaved the Thebans, Archias, one of the governors in the Spartan intereſt, was ſitting at a feaſt. He received letters which he was deſired to open and read immediately, for they contained information of the greateſt importance; but Archias being full of mirth, and heated with wine, threw them by, and ſaid, laughing, "buſineſs to-morrow." This negligence coſt him his life, for that very evening Pelopidas, Charon, and others, having formed a reſolution to free their country, ſlew him, and many more, who were in the Spartan intereſt, which ſcarcely could have happened had Archias read the letters, they being ſent purpoſely to inform him of his danger. "Buſineſs to-morrow" became ever after a ſatirical proverb in Greece.

I tell you theſe anecdotes, my children, to ſhew you the conſequences of negligence, and the benefits ariſing from perſeverance, vigilance, and induſtry; [218] and I cannot better inſtruct you to what purpoſes theſe great and neceſſary properties ought to be applied, than by referring you to the fable of Mirza.

SOCIAL DUTY, Or MIRZA.

MR. EGERTON.

IT pleaſed the mighty ſovereign Abbas Caraſcan, from whom the Kings of the earth derive honour and dominion, to ſet Mirza his ſervant over the province of Tauris. In the hand of Mirza, the balance of diſtribution was ſuſpended with impartiality; and under his adminiſtration the weak were protected, the learned received honour, and the diligent became rich: Mirza, therefore, was beheld by every eye with complacency, and every tongue pronounced bleſſings upon his head. But it was obſerved that he derived no joys from the benefits which he diffuſed; he became penſive and melancholy; he ſpent his leiſure in ſolitude; in his palace he ſat motionleſs upon a ſopha; and when he went out, his walk was ſlow, and his eyes were fixed upon the ground: he applied to the buſineſs of ſtate with reluctance; and reſolved to relinquiſh the toils of government, of which he could no longer enjoy the reward.

He therefore obtained permiſſion to approach the throne of his ſovereign; and being aſked what was [219] his requeſt, he made this reply, "May the Lord of the world forgive the ſlave whom he has honoured, if Mirza preſume again to lay the bounty of Abbas at his feet. Thou haſt given me the dominions of a country, fruitful as the gardens of Damaſcus: and of a city, glorious above all others, except that only which reflects the ſplendor of thy preſence. But the longeſt life is a period ſcarce ſufficient to prepare for death. All other buſineſs is vain and trivial, as the toil of emmets in the path of the traveller, under whoſe foot they periſh for ever; and all enjoyment is unſubſtantial and evaneſcent, as the colours of the bow that appear in the interval of a ſtorm. Suffer me, therefore, to prepare for the approach of eternity; let me give up my ſoul to meditation; let ſolitude and ſilence acquaint me with the myſteries of devotion; let me forget the world, and by the world be forgotten, till the moment arrives in which the veil of eternity ſhall fall, and I be found at the bar of the Almighty."—Mirza then bowed himſelf to the earth, and ſtood ſilent.

By the command of Abbas it is recorded, that at theſe words he trembled upon that throne, at the footſtool of which the world pays homage: he looked round upon his nobles, but every countenance was pale, and every eye was upon the earth. No man opened his mouth; and the King firſt broke ſilence after it had continued near an hour.

"Mirza! terror and doubt are come upon me: I am alarmed, as a man who ſuddenly perceives that [220] he is near the brink of a precipice, and is urged forward by an irreſiſtible force; but yet I know not whether my danger is a reality or a dream.—I am as thou art, a reptile on the earth; my life is a moment; and eternity, in which days, and years, and ages are nothing, eternity is before me, for which I alſo ſhould prepare: but by whom then muſt the faithful be governed? By thoſe only who have no fear of judgment? By thoſe alone whoſe life is brutal, becauſe like brutes, they do not conſider that they ſhall die? Or who, indeed, are the faithful? Are the buſy multitudes that crowd the city, in a ſtate of perdition? And is the cell of the derviſe alone the gate of paradiſe? To all, the life of a derviſe is not poſſible: to all therefore it cannot be a duty. Depart to the houſe which has in the city been prepared for thy reſidence; I will meditate the reaſon of thy requeſt; and may he who illuminates the mind of the humble, enable me to determine with wiſdom!"

Mirza departed; and on the third day, having received no commands, he again requeſted an audience, and it was granted. When he entered the royal preſence, his countenance appeared more chearful; he drew a letter from his boſom, and having kiſſed it, he preſented it with his right-hand.

"My Lord, ſays he, I have learned by this letter, which I received from Coſrou the Iman, who now ſtands before thee, in what manner life may be beſt improved. I am enabled to look back with pleaſure, and forward with hope; and I ſhall now rejoice ſtill [221] to be the ſhadow of thy power at Tauris, and to keep thoſe honours which I ſo lately wiſhed to reſign."—The King, who had liſtened to Mirza with a mixture of ſurpriſe and curioſity, immediately gave the letter to Coſrou, and commanded that it ſhould be read. The eyes of the court were at once turned on the hoary ſage, whoſe countenance was ſuffuſed with an honeſt bluſh; and it was not without ſome heſitation that he read theſe words:

"To Mirza, whom the wiſdom of Abbas our mighty Lord has honoured with dominion, be everlaſting health! When I heard thy purpoſe to withdraw the bleſſings of thy government from the thouſands of Tauris, my heart was wounded with the arrow of affliction, and my eyes became dim with ſorrow. But who ſhall ſpeak before the King, when he is troubled? and who ſhall boaſt of knowledge, when he is diſtreſſed by doubt? To thee I will relate the events of my youth, which thou haſt renewed before me; and thoſe truths which they taught me, may the prophet multiply to thee.

"Under the inſtruction of the phyſician Aluazer, I obtained an early knowledge of his art. To thoſe who were ſmitten with diſeaſes, I could adminiſter plants, which the ſun had impregnated with the ſpirits of health. But the ſcenes of pain, languor, and mortality, which were perpetually riſing before me, made me often tremble for myſelf. I ſaw the grave open at my feet: I determined, therefore, to contemplate only the regions beyond it, and to deſpiſe [222] every acquiſition that I could not keep. I conceived an opinion, that as there was no merit but in voluntary poverty, and ſilent meditation, thoſe who deſired money were not proper objects of bounty; therefore money was deſpiſed. I buried mine in the earth; and renouncing ſociety, I wandered into a wild and ſequeſtered part of the country; my dwelling was a cave, by the ſide of a hill; I drank the running water from the ſpring, and eat ſuch fruits and herbs as I could find. To increaſe the auſterity of my life, I frequently watched all night, ſitting at the entrance of the cave with my face to the eaſt, reſigning myſelf to the ſecret influences of the prophet, and expecting illuminations from above. One morning, after my nocturnal vigil, juſt as I perceived the horizon glow at the approach of the ſun, the power of ſleep became irreſiſtible, and I ſunk under it. I imagined myſelf ſtill ſitting at the entrance of my cell; that the dawn increaſed; and that as I looked earneſtly for the firſt beam of day, a dark ſpot appeared to intercept it. I perceived that it was in motion; it increaſed in ſize as it drew near, and at length I diſcovered it to be an eagle. I ſtill kept my eye ſteadfaſtly upon it, and ſaw it alight at a ſmall diſtance, where I now deſcried a fox, whoſe fore-legs appeared to be broken. Before this fox the eagle laid part of a kid, which it had brought in its talons, and then diſappeared. When I awaked I laid my fore-head upon the ground, and bleſſed the prophet for the inſtruction of the morning. [223] I reviewed my dream, and ſaid thus to myſelf, "Coſrou, thou haſt done well to renounce the tumult, the buſineſs, and the vanities of life; but thou haſt as yet only done it in part; thou art ſtill every day buſied in the ſearch of food, thy mind is not wholly at reſt, neither is thy truſt in Providence complete. What art thou taught by this viſion? If thou haſt ſeen an eagle commiſſioned by heaven to feed a fox that is lame, ſhall not the hand of heaven alſo ſupply thee with food, when that which prevents thee from procuring it to thyſelf, is not neceſſity, but devotion? I was now ſo confident of a miraculous ſupply, that I neglected to walk out for my repaſt, which, after the firſt day, I expected with an impatience that left me little power of attending to any other object: this impatience, however, I laboured to ſuppreſs, and perſiſted in my reſolution; but my eyes at length began to fail me, and my knees ſmote each other; I threw myſelf backward, and hoped my weakneſs would ſoon increaſe to inſenſibility. But I was ſuddenly rouſed by the voice of an inviſible being, who pronounced theſe words:— "Coſrou, I am the angel who, by the command of the Almighty, have regiſtered the thoughts of thy heart, which I am now commiſſioned to reprove. While thou waſt attempting to become wiſe above that which is revealed, thy folly perverted the inſtructions which was vouchſafed thee. Art thou diſabled as the fox? Haſt thou not rather the powers of the eagle? Ariſe, let the eagle be the object of [224] thy emulation. To pain and ſickneſs be thou again the meſſenger of eaſe and health. Virtue is not reſt but action. If thou doſt good to man, as an evidence of thy love to God, thy virtue will be exalted from moral to divine; and that happineſs which is the pledge of paradiſe, will be thy reward upon earth."

"At theſe words I was not leſs aſtoniſhed than if a mountain had been overturned at my feet. I humbled myſelf in the duſt; I returned to the city; I dug up my treaſure; I was liberal, yet I became rich. My ſkill in reſtoring health to the body, gave me frequent opportunities of curing the diſeaſes of the ſoul. I put on the ſacred veſtments; I grew eminent beyond my merit; and it was the pleaſure of the King that I ſhould ſtand before him. Now, therefore, be not offended; I boaſt of no knowledge that I have not received: as the ſands of the deſart drink up the drops of rain and the dew of the morning, ſo do I alſo, who am but duſt, imbibe the inſtructions of the prophet. Believe then that it is he who tells thee, all knowledge is prophane which terminates in thyſelf; and by a life waſted in ſpeculation, little even of this can be gained. When the gates of paradiſe are thrown open before thee, thy mind ſhall be irradiated in a moment; here thou canſt little more than pile error upon error; there thou ſhalt build truth upon truth. Wait therefore for the glorious viſion; and in the mean time emulate the eagle. Much is in thy power; and, therefore, [225] much is expected of thee. Though the Almighty alone can give virtue, yet, as a Prince, thou mayeſt ſtimulate thoſe to beneficence, who act from no higher motive than immediate intereſt. Thou canſt not produce the principle, but mayeſt enforce the practice. The relief of the poor is equal, whether they receive it from oſtentation or charity; and the effect of example is the ſame, whether it be intended to obtain the favour of God, or man. Let thy virtue be thus diffuſed; and if thou believeſt with reverence, thou ſhalt be accepted above. Farewell. May the ſmile of him who reſides in the heaven of heavens, be upon thee! And againſt thy name in the volume of his will, may happineſs be written!"

The King, whoſe doubts, like thoſe of Mirza, were now removed, looked up with a ſmile that communicated the joy of his mind. He diſmiſſed the Prince to his government; and commanded theſe events to be recorded, to the end that poſterity may know, "That no life is pleaſing to God, but that which is uſeful to mankind!"

MR. EGERTON.

The active ſpirit of induſtry, when properly exerted, is replete with every ſocial virtue; yet even this neceſſary, this great quality, when perverted, becomes the ſcourge of humanity.

The Sultan Mahmoud was ambitious of fame, and intent on actions which he deemed worthy of princes; [226] that is, of conquering kingdoms, waſting provinces, and exterminating mankind with fire and ſword. He had a Viſier, who was a man renowned for his ſagacity. This Viſier was ſaid to be well-ſkilled in the language of birds and beaſts. As he was one day converſing with Mahmoud, they ſaw two owls; pray, ſaid the Sultan to the Viſier, what is the preſent ſubject of converſation between thoſe owls? Commander of the Faithful, anſwered the Viſier, thy ſervant would gladly interpret their diſcourſe, but he is fearful of the frowns of majeſty, which are dreadful even as the ſword of the angel of death. By the beard of Mahomet, ſaid the Sultan, no harm ſhall happen to thee; inform me of what they are ſpeaking. They are ſpeaking, ſaid the Viſier, concerning the marriage of their children. The one ſays, he will not ſuffer his ſon to marry the daughter of the other, but on condition of his giving her fifty ruined villages for her portion. This has been very readily agreed to, "bleſſed, ſay they, be the ſword of Mahmoud, and may his days be multiplied, for while he reigns, we ſhall never want ruined villages." Mahmoud, ſays the fabuliſt, was wiſe, and ſaw his error; neither did he any more ſlay men, deſtroy their cities, and diſturb the peace of nations.

MRS. EGERTON to MR. EGERTON.

When, my dear, you were ſpeaking concerning perſeverance, you reminded me of an account [227] which I ſaw ſome time ſince, of a German ſhepherd, who, under the moſt diſcouraging impediments, taught himſelf the rudiments of philoſophy and abſtruſe ſcience. Here it is, do you read it, Charles, it will ſhew you what this aforeſaid perſeverance and induſtry enabled him to perform without teachers; and will hint to you, my children, how much you may do with the ſame application, and the aſſiſtance you continually receive.

PERSEVERANCE: Or the HISTORY of Profeſſor DU VAL.

M. DU VAL, profeſſor of hiſtory and geography in the academy of Luneville, is the ſon of a peaſant, and born in Burgundy, but came into Lorrain when a child, and was employed as a ſhepherd's boy, at a village near Nancy. His thirſt after knowledge appeared in his very childhood, and, having no other means of gratifying it, he made a collection of ſnakes, frogs, &c. amuſed himſelf with examining theſe creatures, and was continually aſking the neighbouring peaſants why thoſe animals were formed in ſuch a particular manner? but the anſwers he received were generally ſuch, as left him leſs ſatisfied than he was before. He once happened to ſee, in the hand of a country boy, Aeſop's Fables with cuts, which made him ſtill more deſirous of learning than before. He could not read; and the boy, [228] who was capable of gratifying his curioſity, was ſeldom in a humour to explain the animals, &c. repreſented in the cuts. In this diſtreſs, he determined to make himſelf maſter of the introduction to knowledge, however great the difficulties that attended it might prove. Accordingly he ſaved whatever money he could get, and gave it to other boys who were older than himſelf, for teaching him to read. Having, with incredible diligence, attained his end, he happened to meet with an almanack, in which the twelve ſigns of the zodiac were delineated. Theſe he looked for ſo conſtantly, and with ſuch attention, in the heavens, that at laſt he imagined that he actually traced ſuch figures there; and though he was miſtaken in this and ſeveral other particulars, yet many of his obſervations were ſuch as few others are found capable of, even after receiving regular inſtructions.

As he once paſſed by a print-ſhop at Nancy, he obſerved in the window a map of the world. This opened a field for new ſpeculations; and, having purchaſed it, he employed many hours every day in peruſing it. At firſt he took the degrees on the equator for French leagues; but upon conſidering that, in coming from Burgundy to Lorrain, he had travelled many ſuch leagues, though on his map that diſtance ſeemed to take up a very little ſpot, he was convinced of the impoſſibility of his firſt conjecture. But it muſt have been with incredible labour, and at the ſame time is a ſignal proof of his extraordinary [229] genius, that he acquired a thorough knowledge of theſe and many other ſignatures on the ſeveral maps; which, as often as his purſe could afford it, he afterwards procured.

His inclination for ſilence and retirement, made him weary of living among the noiſy peaſant boys; and induced him to viſit ſome hermits who had their cells in a wood, about half a league from Luneville. He undertook to wait on them, and to tend ſix or eight cows which they kept. Theſe hermits were, however, groſsly ignorant; but Du Val had an opportunity of reading ſeveral books he found in their cells, and of getting many difficulties, that occurred to him, ſolved by perſons who came to viſit them. All the money he could ſcrape together in his mean circumſtances, was laid out in books and maps; and obſerving, on ſome of the latter, the arms of ſeveral princes, as griffins, ſpread eagles, lions with two tails, and other monſters, he enquired of a foreigner, whether there were any ſuch creatures in the world? being informed that theſe figures belonged to a particular ſcience called heraldry, he minuted down this word, before unknown to him, and hurrying with all ſpeed to Nancy, bought a book of heraldry, and by that book, without any other help, he became maſter of the fundamental principles of that ſcience.

In this courſe of life Du Val continued till he arrived at his one-and-twentieth year, when, in the autumn of 1717, he was diſcovered watching his charge in the wood, and ſitting under a tree with [230] his maps and books about him, by Baron Pſutchner. This gentleman was then governor to the young Prince of Lorrain, who happened to hunt that way. The Baron thought a herdſman, with ſun-burnt lank hair, dreſſed in a coarſe linen frock, with a heap of maps about him, ſo extraordinary a ſight, that he informed the Prince of it, who immediately rode towards the place, and put ſeveral queſtions to Du Val about his way of living. Du Val ſhewed by his anſwers, that he was already maſter of the grounds of ſeveral ſciences. Upon which the Prince offered to take him into his ſervice, and told him that he ſhould go to court. Du Val, who had read in ſome books of morality, that the air of a court was infectious to virtue; and had alſo obſerved when he had been at Nancy, that the lacqueys of great men were a riotous, debauched, quarrelſome ſort of people, frankly anſwered, "That he choſe rather to look after his herd, and continue to lead a quiet life in the wood, with which he was thoroughly ſatisfied, than to wait on the Prince; but added, that if his highneſs would give him an opportunity of reading curious books, and of making himſelf maſter of more learning and knowledge, he was ready to follow him or any body elſe." The Prince was highly pleaſed with his anſwer; and, when he returned to court, prevailed on the Duke his father, to ſend this extraordinary herdſman to the Jeſuits College at Pont-a-Mouſſon. When be had finiſhed his ſtudies at that ſeat of learning, [231] the Duke permittted him to take a journey into France for his further improvement; and, ſoon after his return, gave him a profeſſorſhip in the academy of Luneville, with a penſion of 700 livres a year, alſo made him his own librarian, which is worth 1000 livres a year more, beſides a handſome apartment.

He is of a moſt engaging modeſty and politeneſs, and, far from being aſhamed of his former low condition, takes a pleaſure in relating the ſucceſſive and gradual riſe of new ideas in his mind, and the pleaſing tranquillity and uninterrupted content he enjoyed in a ſituation, in all appearance, mean and deſpicable. He ſtill keeps an apartment in the hermitage, from whence the Duke raiſed him to his preſent condition; and, to perpetuate his memory of the tranſaction, has had his picture drawn, in which he is repreſented juſt as he was, when diſcovered by Baron Pſutchner, under a tree, with a landſcape of the place, and the Prince talking to him; this piece he has obtained leave to hang up in the Duke's library.

NANCY.

Here is a humourous eſſay, mamma, which Miſs Forreſter has pointed out to me, that I think will divert us, if you will pleaſe to hear it. We could not tell whether the writer meant to teach any particular duty; however, I dare ſay, my father will draw inſtruction as well as amuſement from it, and ſhew us its moral intention.

MRS. EGERTON.
[232]

Well, my dear, pray let us hear it.

HEALTH: Or the VICAR.

GOING to viſit an old friend at his country ſeat laſt week, I found him at backgammon with the Vicar of the pariſh. My friend received me with the heartieſt welcome, and introduced the Doctor to my acquaintance. This gentleman, who ſeemed to be about fifty, and of a florid and healthy conſtitution, ſurveyed me all over with great attention, and, after a ſlight nod of the head, ſat himſelf down without opening his mouth. I was a little hurt at the ſupercilious behaviour of this divine; which my friend obſerving told me very pleaſantly, that I was rather too old to be intitled to the Doctor's complaiſance; for that he ſeldom beſtowed it, but upon the young and vigorous: But, ſays he, you ſhall know him better ſoon, and you will find him altogether as odd a character, as he is a worthy one. The Doctor made no reply to this raillery, but continued ſome time with his eyes fixed upon me, and at laſt, ſhaking his head, and turning to my friend, aſked if he would play out the other hit. My friend excuſed himſelf from engaging any more that evening, and ordered a bottle of wine, with pipes and tobacco, to be ſet on the table. The Vicar filled [233] his pipe, and drank very cordially to my friend, ſtill eyeing me with a ſeeming diſlike, and neither drinking my health, nor ſpeaking a ſingle word to me. As I have long accuſtomed myſelf to drink nothing but water, I called for a bottle of it, and drank glaſs for glaſs with them; which upon the Doctor's obſerving, he ſhook his head at my friend, and, in a whiſper loud enough for me to hear, ſaid, 'Poor man, it is all over with him, I ſee.' My friend ſmiled, and anſwered, in the ſame audible whiſper, 'No, no, Doctor, he intends to live as long as either of us.' He then addreſſed himſelf to me on the occurrences of the town, and engaged me in a very chearful converſation, which laſted till I withdrew to reſt; at which time the Doctor roſe from his chair, drank a bumper to my health, and, giving me a hearty ſhake by the hand, told me I was a very jolly old gentleman, and that he wiſhed to be better acquainted with me, during my ſtay in the country.

I roſe early in the morning, and found the Doctor in the breakfaſting room. He ſaluted me with great civility, and told me he had left his bed and home ſooner than uſual, to have the pleaſure of taking a walk with me. 'Your friend, ſays he, is but lately recovered from an attack of the gout, and will hardly be ſtirring, till we have gone over his improvements.' I accepted the propoſal, and we walked through a very elegant garden into the moſt beautiful fields that can be imagined; which as I ſtopped to admire, the Doctor began thus: 'Theſe are, indeed, very [234] delightful grounds; and I wiſh, with all my heart, that the owner of them was leſs troubled with the gout, that I might hold him in more reſpect.'— 'Reſpect! Doctor,' ſaid I, interrupting him, 'Does a painful diſtemper, acquired by no act of intemperance, leſſen your reſpect?' 'It does indeed, and I wiſh, in this inſtance, I could help it; for I am under many obligations to your friend. There is another very worthy gentleman in the neighbourhood, who preſented me to this vicarage; he has the misfortune to labour under an inveterate ſcurvy, which, by ſubjecting him to continual head-achs, muſt, of courſe, ſhorten his days; and ſo I never go near him.'

I was going to interrupt the Doctor again, when a coach and ſix drove by us along the road, and in it a gentleman, who let down the glaſs, and made the Doctor a very reſpectful bow; which inſtead of returning, he looked off with a ſtately air, and took no notice of him. This inſtance of his behaviour, together with the converſation that had paſſed between us, raiſed my curioſity to a very high degree, and ſet me upon aſking him who the gentleman was. 'Sir,' ſays he, 'that unfortunate object is a man of eight thouſand a year eſtate; and, from that conſideration, he expects the return of a bow from every man he meets. But I, who know him, know alſo that [...] dying of an aſthma; and as (bleſſed be God for it) I am in perfect health, I do not chuſe to put myſelf on a level with ſuch a [235] perſon. Health is the only valuable thing on earth; and, while I am in poſſeſſion of that, I look upon myſelf as a much greater man than he. With all his fortune, he would rejoice to be the poor Vicar of ***, with my conſtitution. I pull off my hat to no ſuch perſons. Believe me, he has not many months to live.

I made no reply to this converſation of the Vicar, and he went on thus: 'You are an old man, Sir, and, I believe, were a little fatigued with your journey laſt night, which I miſtook for infirm health, and therefore was wanting in the civilities that I ſhould otherwiſe have ſhewn you; but your converſation afterwards proved you to be a very hearty man, and I ſaw you reſolved to continue ſo by your temperance; for which I honour you, and, as I told you then, ſhall be glad of your acquaintance. It is true, you are old, and therefore my inferior; but you are healthy and temperate, and not beneath the notice of much younger men.'

In this manner we talked on, till we came to a hedge, where ſome labouring men were repairing the ſences. My companion accoſted them with the utmoſt complaiſance and good nature: 'Ay,' ſays he, turning to me, 'theſe are men worth mixing with. You ſee their riches in their looks. Have you any of your lords in town that have ſuch poſſeſſions? I know none of theſe lords,' ſays he, 'myſelf, but I am told they are all ſo ſickly and diſeaſed, that a man in health would ſcorn to pull off his hat [236] to them.' He then entered into a familiar converſation with the men, and, after throwing them ſix-pence to drink, paſſed on.

There now overtook us in the lane a company of ſportſmen, ſetting out for the chace. Moſt of them ſaluted the Doctor, as they paſſed; but he took no notice of any of them, except one, whom he ſhook hands with over the hedge, and told him he intended taking a dinner with him the next day. 'That gentleman, ſays he, is worth as much health as any man in England; he hunts only by way of exerciſe, and never takes a leap where there is the leaſt danger. But, as for the reſt, they are flying over every hedge and gate in their way, and, if they eſcape broken necks in the morning, they are deſtroying themſelves more effectually by intemperance in the evening. No, no, theſe are no companions for me; I hope, with the bleſſing of Heaven, to outlive a ſcore of them.'

We came, ſoon after, to a little neat houſe upon the road, where, the Doctor told me, lived a very agreeable widow lady, to whom he had formerly paid his addreſſes. 'She had at that time,' ſays he,' as large a fortune of health, as any woman in the county; but ſhe has ſince mortgaged it to the apothecary for ſlops, and I have taken my leave of her. She was determined to be a widow, and ſo married an officer, who got his head knocked off at Fontenoy. Theſe are a ſort of men that I make no acquaintance with; they hold their lives on too precarious a tenure.' [237] 'But they are uſeful members of ſociety,' ſaid I, 'and command our eſteem.' 'That may be, Sir,' returned the Doctor, 'and ſo are the miners in our coal pits, who are every hour in danger of being buried alive. But there is a ſubordination of degree, which ought ſtrictly to be obſerved; and a man in ill health, or of a dangerous profeſſion, ſhould not think himſelf on a level with people of ſound conſtitutions and leſs hazardous employments.'

I was determined to interrupt the Doctor no more; and he went on thus: 'You may poſſibly think me an odd kind of a man; but I am no enemy to people of bad conſtitutions, nor ever withhold my bounty from them, when their neceſſities demand it; but, though I am doing them all the ſervices in my power, I cannot conſent to lower myſelf ſo far as to make them my companions. It is more in the power of the phyſician to confer rank, than the King; for the gifts of fortune are nothing; health is the only riches that a man ought to ſet a value on; and, without it, all men are poor, let their eſtates be what they will. If I differ from the common opinion in this particular, I do alſo in another. The tradeſman or mechanic, who has acquired an eſtate by his induſtry, is ſeldom reckoned a gentleman; but it was always my ſentiment, that a man, who makes his own conſtitution, has more merit in him, than he that was born with it; the one is the work of chance, the other of deſign; and it is for this reaſon that I am ſeen ſo often with your friend; for, [238] though the gout is generally an impoveriſhing diſtemper, yet temperance and regularity may in time ſubdue it; whereas the gentleman, who drove by us with his ſix horſes, has an incurable aſthma, which renders him, with his large eſtate, as poor as the beggar who is dying under a hedge. The more you think of theſe things, the more you will be of my opinion. A poor man in health is a companion for a king; but a lord without it is a poor man indeed: And why ſhould he expect the homage of other people, when the very meaneſt of his domeſtics would refuſe to change places with him.'

My companion was ſtopped ſhort in his harangue by our arrival at my friend's houſe. We found him in good health and ſpirits, which greatly heightened the Vicar's complaiſance; and, as I took care to conceal from him the complaints and infirmities of old age, I paſſed a very agreeable week, and was ſo much in his good graces, that, at my departure, he preſented me with Dr. Turlington's balſam, and a paper of Dr. James's powder: 'There,' ſays he, 'they may rob you of your money, if they pleaſe; but, for bruiſes and fevers, you may ſet them at defiance.'

On my return home, I made many ſerious reflections on this whimſical character; and, in the end, could not help wiſhing, that, under certain limitations, the ſentiments of the Vicar were a little more in faſhion. Health is certainly the riches of life; and, if men were to derive their rank from that [239] alone, it would, in all probability, make them more careful to preſerve it. Society might be benefited by it in another reſpect, as it would tend to keep complaining people at home, who are the perpetual diſturbers of all companies abroad.

MR. EGERTON.

Notwithſtanding the whimſical turn which is given to this gentleman, I think his mode of eſtimating riches is exceedingly juſt. With reſpect to what is called wealth, every perſon muſt feel how inferior that is to a ſound and good conſtitution; and even great virtues and abilities, without health, are uſeleſs to ſociety. The moral, therefore, is ſtrong and obvious, namely, that it is a duty we owe to ſociety, to be careful of our health.

We are obliged to Miſs Forreſter for pointing out to us ſo ingenious and uſeful an eſſay.

DIALOGUE XX.

MR. EGERTON.

YOU know, my children, we are preparing to leave the peaceful retirement of the country, a little while, for town; there to ſee, and be ſeen; [240] there to remark the buſy purſuits of men, in their chace after pleaſure, wealth, fame, titles, or whatever elſe ſeems to them moſt deſirable. When we are there, I ſhall endeavour, as I have before done, to turn theſe living leſſons to your advantage; but as the preſent is the laſt converſation we ſhall enjoy in this place till our return, I will ſpeak to you upon the ſubject which appears moſt immediately uſeful; I mean Decorum, and the guarded manner in which young people, who are not ſufficiently aware of what are, and what are not improprieties, ought to behave.

Levity, though it ſometimes is productive of gaiety, and the agreeably ſallies which are ſo enlivening to converſation, has frequently, likewiſe, incurred the moſt poignant diſtreſs, and involved its poſſeſſors in irretrievable miſery and misfortune. There are two ſorts of levity equally to be avoided; a levity of tongue, and a levity of conduct: to indulge in either is dangerous, for they are equally difficult to ſubdue, when once habit has made them familiar. The loquacious barber of Athens is a ſtrong inſtance of this truth.

A barber who kept a ſhop at the extremity of the city of Athens, was the firſt who heard of the defeat of the Athenians, in Sicily, from a ſlave who had fled from the field of battle. This barber, impatient to be the man who ſhould firſt divulge the news, inſtantly left his ſhop, and ran into the city, telling every body what he had heard. Theſe diſagreeable [241] tidings preſently occaſioned a great tumult, and the people flocking to the market-place, ſurrounded the barber, and demanded how he came to the knowledge of this defeat; to which he could give no ſatisfactory anſwer, nor produce the leaſt ſhadow of proof in ſupport of his aſſertion, he having, in his eagerneſs to be the firſt narrator, forgot even ſo much as to enquire the name of the ſlave who had told him. This exaſperated the people, who were very willing to believe the whole to be a lye of the barber's own invention, and, in their anger, they hurried him away, and ſtretched him upon the rack for an incendiary. In the mean time, however, a confirmation of the account arrived, and the people, eager to hear the particulars, ran and forgot the poor barber, leaving him upon the wheel; where he remained till the evening, when, at laſt, ſomebody recollecting him, he was taken down. No ſooner was he releaſed, than, inſtead of thinking about the pain he had ſuffered, or the cure of his hurts, he began to enquire the particulars of the battle, how many were priſoners, how many had eſcaped, whether the General was killed, and in what manner he died.

FANNY.

Dear papa, I have often heard how curious the women are! but do you think women are as fond of news, and tattling, as this barber?

MR. EGERTON.
[242]

Well bred and prudent women never are, my dear. But there are many men beſide the barber of Athens, who have been greatly injured by the incontinence and levity of their tongues. You may learn this from the following hiſtory, which a certain young gentleman has given the world of his own imprudence.

YOUTHFUL LEVITY: Or the Neceſſity of knowing your COMPANY.

TO be courteous to all, but familiar with few, is a maxim which I once deſpiſed, as originally proceeding from a mean and contracted mind, the frigid caution of weakneſs and timidity. A tame and indiſcriminate civility I imputed to a dread of the contempt or the petulance of others, to fears from which the wit and the gentleman are exempted by a conſciouſneſs of their own dignity, by their power to repreſs inſolence, and ſilence ridicule; and a general ſhyneſs and reſerve I conſidered as the reproach of our country, as the effect of an illiberal education, by which neither a polite addreſs, an eaſy confidence, or a general acquaintance with public life, is to be acquired. This opinion, which continued to flatter the levity and pride that produced it, was ſtrengthened by the example of thoſe whoſe manner, in the diffidence of youth, I wiſhed to imitate, who entered [243] a mixed company with an air of ferene familiarity, accoſted every man like an old acquaintance, and thought only of making ſport for the reſt of any with whom their caprice ſhould happen to be offended, without regard to their age, character, or condition.

But I now wiſh, that I had regulated my conduct by the maxim which I deſpiſed, for I ſhould then have eſcaped a misfortune which I can never retrieve; and the ſenſe of which I am now endeavouring to ſuſpend, by relating it to you as a leſſon to others, and conſidering my loſs of happineſs as an acquiſition of wiſdom.

While I was in France with a travelling tutor, I received a letter which acquainted me, that my father, who had been long declining, was dead; and that it was neceſſary I ſhould immediately return to England, to take poſſeſſion of his eſtate, which was not inconſiderable, though there were mortgages upon it to near half its value.

When I arrived, I found a letter which the old gentleman had written and directed to me with his own hand. It contained ſome general rules for my conduct, and ſome animadverſions upon his own: he took notice of the incumbrance under which he left me the paternal inheritance, which had deſcended through many generations, and expreſſed the moſt earneſt deſire, that it might yet be tranſmitted intire to poſterity: with this view, he ſaid, he had negotiated a marriage between me and the only daughter [244] of his old friend, Sir George Homeſtead of the North, an amiable young lady, whoſe alliance would be an honour to my family, and whoſe fortune would much more than redeem my eſtate.

He had given the knight a faithful account of his affairs; who, after having taken ſome time to conſider the propoſal and conſult his friends, conſented to the match, upon condition that his daughter and I ſhould prove agreeable to each other, and my behaviour ſhould confirm the character which had been given of me. My father added, that he hoped to have lived till this alliance had taken place; but as Providence had otherwiſe determined, he intreated, as his laſt requeſt, that as ſoon as my affairs ſhould be ſettled and decency would permit, I would make Sir George a viſit, and neglect nothing to accompliſh his purpoſe.

I was touched with the zeal and tenderneſs of parental affection which was then directing me to happineſs, after the heart that felt it had ceaſed to beat, and the hand that expreſſed it was mouldering in the duſt. I had ſeen the lady, not indeed ſince we were children; but I remembered that her perſon was agreeable, and her temper ſweet: I did not, therefore, heſitate a moment, whether my father's injunction ſhould be obeyed. I proceeded to ſettle his affairs; I took an account of his debts and credits, viſited the tenants, recovered my uſual gaiety, and at the end of about nine months ſet out for Sir George's ſeat in the North; having before opened [245] an epiſtolary correſpondence, and expreſſed my impatience to poſſeſs the happineſs which my father had ſo kindly ſecured.

I was better pleaſed to be well mounted, than to loll in a chariot, or be jumbled in a poſt-chaiſe; and I knew that Sir George was an old ſportſman, a plain hearty blade, who would like me better in a pair of buckſkin breeches on the back of a good hunter, than in a trimmed ſuit and a gaudy equipage: I, therefore, ſet out on horſeback with only one ſervant, and reached Stilton the firſt night.

In the morning, as I was mounting, a gentleman, who had juſt got on horſeback before me, ordered his ſervant to make enquiry concerning the road, which I happened to overhear, and told him with great familiarity, that I was going the ſame way, and if he pleaſed we would travel together: to this he conſented, with as much frankneſs, and as little ceremony; and I ſet forward, greatly delighted that chance had afforded me a companion.

We immediately entered into converſation, and I ſoon found that he had been abroad: we extolled the roads and the policy of France, the cities, the palaces, and the villas; entered into a critical examination of the moſt celebrated ſeats in England, the peculiarities of the building and ſituation, croſsways, market-towns, the impoſition of innkeepers, and the ſports of the field; topics by which we mutually recommended ourſelves to each other, as we had both opportunities to diſcover equal knowledge, and [246] to diſplay truth with ſuch evidence as prevented diverſity of opinion.

After we had rode about two hours, we overtook another gentleman, whom we accoſted with the ſame familiarity that we had uſed to each other; we aſked him how far he was going and which way, at what rate he travelled, where he put up, and many other queſtions of the ſame kind. The gentleman, who appeared to be near fifty, received our addreſs with great coolneſs, returned ſhort and indirect anſwers to our enquiries, and, often looking with great attention on us both, ſometimes put forward that he might get before us, and ſometimes checked his horſe that he might remain behind. But we were reſolved to diſappoint him; and, finding that his reſerve increaſed, and he was viſibly diſpleaſed, we winked at each other, and determined the old put ſhould afford us ſome ſport. After we had rode together upon very ill terms more than half an hour, my companion with an air of ceremonious gravity aſked him, if he knew any houſe upon the road where he might be accommodated with an agreeable girl. The gentleman, who was, I believe, afraid of giving us a pretence to quarrel, did not reſent this inſult any otherwiſe than by making no reply. I then began to talk to my companion as if we had been old acquaintances, reminding him that the gentleman extremely reſembled a perſon whom we had once ſeen coming out of a bagnio with a certain old acquaintance of ours; and, indeed, that his preſent [247] reſerve made me ſuſpect him to be the ſame; but that as we were willing to forget the affair, we hoped he would be ſo too, and that we ſhould have the pleaſure of dining together at the next inn. The gentleman was ſtill ſilent; but as his perplexity and reſentment viſibly increaſed, he proportionably increaſed our entertainment, which did not, however, laſt long, for he ſuddenly turned down a lane; upon which we ſet up a horſe laugh that continued till he was out of hearing, and then purſuing our journey, we talked of the adventure, which afforded us converſation and merriment for the reſt of the day.

The next morning we parted, and in the evening I arrived at Homeſtead Hall. The old knight received me with great affection, and immediately introduced me to his daughter, whom I now thought the fineſt woman I had ever ſeen. I could eaſily diſcover, that I was not welcome to her merely upon her father's recommendation, and I enjoyed by anticipation the felicity which I conſidered as within my reach. But the pleaſing ſcene, in which I had ſuffered my imagination to wander, ſuddenly diſappeared as by the power of enchantment. Without any viſible motive, the behaviour of the whole family was changed, my aſſiduities to the lady were repreſſed, ſhe was never to be found alone, the knight treated me with a cold civility, I was no longer a party in their viſits, nor was I willingly attended even by the ſervants. I made many attempts to diſcover [248] the cauſe of this misfortune, but without ſucceſs; and one morning, when I had drawn Sir George into the garden by himſelf, and was about to urge him upon the ſubject, he prevented me by ſaying, that his promiſe to my father, for whom he had the higheſt regard, as I well knew, was conditional; that he had always reſolved to leave his daughter a free choice, and that ſhe had requeſted him to acquaint me, that her affections were otherwiſe engaged, and to entreat that I would, therefore, diſcontinue my addreſſes. My ſurprize and concern at this declaration, were ſuch as left me no power to reply; and I ſaw Sir George turn from me and go into the houſe, without making any attempt to ſtop him, or to obtain a further explanation. Afterwards, indeed, I frequently expoſtulated, entreated, and complained; but, perceiving that all was ineffectual, I took my leave, and determined that I would ſtill ſolicit by letter; for the lady had taken ſuch poſſeſſion of my heart, that I would joyfully have married her, though I had been ſure that her father would immediately have left all his fortune to a ſtranger.

I meditated on my epiſtolary project all the way to London, and before I had been three days in town I wrote a long letter to Sir George, in which I conjured him, in the ſtrongeſt terms, to account for the change in his behaviour; and inſiſted, that, on this occaſion, to conceal the truth, was in the higheſt [249] degree diſhonourable to himſelf, and injurious to me.

To this letter, after about ten days, I received the following anſwer:

SIR,

It is with great reluctance that I reveal the motives of my conduct, becauſe they are much to your diſadvantage. The incloſed is a letter which I received from a worthy gentleman in this county, and contains a full anſwer to your enquiries, which I had rather you ſhould receive in any hand than in mine.

I am your humble ſervant, GEO. HOMESTEAD.

I immediately opened the paper incloſed, in which, with the utmoſt impatience, I read as follows:

SIR,

I ſaw a perſon with your family yeſterday at the races, to whom, as I was ſoon after informed, you intend to give your daughter. Upon this occaſion, it is my indiſpenſible duty to acquaint you, that if his character is to be determined by his company, he will inevitably entail diſeaſes and beggary upon his poſterity, whatever be the merit of his wife, or the affluence of his fortune. He overtook me on the road from London a few weeks ago, in company with a wretch, who by their diſcourſe appeared to [250] be his old and familiar acquaintance, and whom I well remember to have been brought before my friend Juſtice Worthy, when I was accidentally at his houſe, as the keeper of a brothel in Covent Garden. He has ſince won a conſiderable ſum with falſe dice at the maſquerade, for which he was obliged to leave the kingdom, and is ſtill liable to a proſecution. Be aſſured that I have perfect knowledge of both; for ſome incidents, which it is not neceſſary to mention, kept me near them ſo long on the road, that it is impoſſible I ſhould be miſtaken.

I am, Sir, your's, &c. JAMES TRUEMAN.

The moment I had read this letter, the riddle was ſolved. I knew Mr. Trueman to be the gentleman, whom I had concurred with a ſtranger, picked up by accident, to inſult without provocation on the road. I was in a moment covered with confuſion; and though I was alone, could not help hiding my face with my hands. I abhorred my folly, which appeared yet more enormous every time it was reviewed.

I courted the ſociety of a ſtranger, and a ſtranger I perſecuted with inſult: thus I aſſociated with infamy, and thus my aſſociate became known. I hoped, however, to convince Sir George, that I had no knowledge of the wretch whoſe infamy I had ſhared, except that which I acquired from the letter of his friend. But before I had taken proper meaſures [251] for my juſtification, I had the mortification to hear, that the lady was married to a neighbouring gentleman, who had long made his addreſſes, and whom Sir George had before rejected in the ardor of his friendſhip for my father.

How narrow is the path of rectitude, and how much may be loſt by the ſlighteſt deviation!

MR. EGERTON.

You ſee, my children, how cautious you ought to be in your behaviour, and how circumſpect in your choice of companions.

MRS. EGERTON.

The ſtory of Flavilla upon this ſubject, is a tragical, and a juſt picture of the dreadful effects which the want of ſtrict regard to propriety and appearances may produce; and to which, my children, I intreat you to liſten with more than common attention.

LEVITY OF CONDUCT: Or the Story of FLAVILLA.

FLAVILLA, juſt as ſhe had entered her fourteenth year, was left an orphan to the care of her mother, in ſuch circumſtances as diſappointed all the hopes which her education had encouraged. Her father, who lived in great elegance upon the ſalary of a place at court, died ſuddenly without having [252] made any proviſion for his family, except an annuity of one hundred pounds, which he had purchaſed for his wife with part of her marriage portion; nor was he poſſeſſed of any property, except the furniture of a large houſe in one of the new ſquares, an equipage, a few jewels, and ſome plate.

The greater part of the furniture and the equipage were ſold to pay his debts; the jewels, which were not of great value, and ſome uſeful pieces of the plate, were reſerved; and Flavilla removed with her mother into lodgings.

But notwithſtanding this change in their circumſtances, they did not immediately loſe their rank. They were ſtill viſited by a numerous and polite acquaintance; and though ſome gratified their pride by aſſuming an appearance of pity, and rather inſulted than alleviated their diſtreſs by the whine of condolence, and a minute compariſon of what they had loſt with what they poſſeſſed; yet from others they were continually receiving preſents, which ſtill enabled them to live with genteel frugality; they were ſtill conſidered as people of faſhion, and treated by thoſe of a lower claſs with diſtinct reſpect.

Flavilla thus continued to move in a ſphere to which ſhe had no claim; ſhe was remarkably tall for her age, and was celebrated not only for her beauty but her wit: theſe qualifications ſhe conſidered, not only as ſecuring whatever ſhe enjoyed by the favour of others, but as a pledge of poſſeſſing them in her own right by an advantageous marriage.

[253]There was a faſhionable levity in her carriage and diſcourſe, which her mother, who knew the danger of her ſituation, laboured to reſtrain, ſometimes with anger, and ſometimes with tears, but always without ſucceſs. Flavilla was ever ready to anſwer, that ſhe neither did or ſaid any thing of which ſhe had reaſon to be aſhamed; and therefore did not know why ſhe ſhould be reſtrained, except in mere courteſy to envy, which it was an honour to provoke; or to ſlander, which it was a diſgrace to fear. In proportion as Flavilla was more flattered and careſſed, the influence of her mother became leſs; and though ſhe always treated her with reſpect from a point of good breeding, yet ſhe ſecretly deſpiſed her maxims, and applauded her own conduct.

Flavilla at eighteen was a celebrated toaſt; and among other gay viſitants who frequented her tea-table, was Clodio, a young Baronet, who had juſt taken poſſeſſion of his title and eſtate. There were many particulars in Clodio's behaviour, which encouraged Flavilla to hope that ſhe ſhould obtain him for a huſband; but ſhe ſuffered his aſſiduities with ſuch apparent pleaſure, and his familiarities with ſo little reſerve, that he ſoon ventured to diſcloſe his intention, and make her, what he thought, a very genteel propoſal of another kind: but whatever were the artifices with which it was introduced, or the terms in which it was made, Flavilla rejected it with the utmoſt indignation and diſdain. Clodio, who, notwithſtanding his youth, had long known and [254] often practiſed the arts of ſeduction, gave way to the ſtorm, threw himſelf at her feet, imputed his offence to the phrenzy of his paſſion, flattered her pride by the moſt abject ſubmiſſion and extravagant praiſe, intreated her pardon, aggravated his crime, but made no mention of atonement by marriage. This particular, which Flavilla did not fail to remark, ought to have determined her to admit him no more: but her vanity and her ambition were ſtill predominant, ſhe ſtill hoped to ſucceed in her project. Clodio's offence was tacitly forgiven, his viſits were permitted, his familiarities were again ſuffered, and his hopes revived. He had long entertained an opinion that ſhe loved him, in which, however, it is probable, that his own vanity and her indiſcretion concurred to deceive him; but this opinion, though it implied the ſtrongeſt obligation to treat her with generoſity and tenderneſs, only determined him again to attempt her ruin, as it encouraged him with a probability of ſucceſs. Having therefore reſolved to obtain her as a miſtreſs, or at once to give her up, he thought he had little more to do, than to convince her that he had taken ſuch a reſolution; juſtifying it by ſome plauſible ſophiſtry, and to give her ſome time to deliberate upon a final determination. With this view he went a ſhort journey into the country; having put a letter into her hand at parting, in which he acquainted her, "That he had often reflected, with inexpreſſible regret, upon her reſentment of his conduct in a late inſtance; but [255] that the delicacy and the ardour of his affection were inſuperable obſtacles to his marriage: that where there was no liberty, there could be no happineſs: that he ſhould become indifferent to the endearments of love, when they could no longer be diſtinguiſhed from the officiouſneſs of duty: that while they were happy in the poſſeſſion of each other, it would be abſurd to ſuppoſe they would part; and if this happineſs ſhould ceaſe, it would not only enſure but aggravate their miſery to be inſeparably united: that this event was leſs probable, in proportion as their cohabitation was voluntary; but that he would make ſuch proviſion for her upon the contingency, as a wife would expect upon his death."

Flavilla had too much underſtanding, as well as virtue, to deliberate a moment upon this propoſal. She gave immediate orders that Clodio ſhould be admitted no more. But his letter was a temptation to gratify her vanity, which ſhe could not reſiſt; ſhe ſhewed it firſt to her mother, and then to the whole circle of her female acquaintance, with all the exultation of a hero who expoſes a vanquiſhed enemy at the wheels of his chariot in a triumph; ſhe conſidered it as an indiſputable evidence of her virtue, as a reproof to all who had dared to cenſure the levity of her conduct, and a licence to continue it without apology or reſtraint.

It happened that Flavilla, ſoon after this accident, was ſeen in one of the boxes at the play-houſe, by Mercator, a young gentleman who had juſt returned [256] from his firſt voyage, as captain of a large ſhip in the Levant trade, which had been purchaſed for him by his father, whoſe fortune enabled him to make a genteel proviſion for five ſons, of whom Mercator was the youngeſt, and who expected to ſhare his eſtate, which was perſonal, in equal proportions at his death.

Mercator was captivated with her beauty, but diſcouraged by the ſplendor of her appearance, and the rank of her company. He was urged, rather by curioſity than hope, to enquire who ſhe was; and he gained ſuch a knowledge of her circumſtances, as relieved him from deſpair.

As he knew not how to get admiſſion to her company, and had no deſign upon her virtue, he wrote in the firſt ardour of his paſſion to her mother; giving a faithful account of his fortune and dependence, and entreating that he might be permitted to viſit Flavilla as a candidate for her affection. The lady, after having made ſome enquiries, by which the account that Mercator had given her was confirmed, ſent him an invitation, and received his firſt viſit alone. She told him, that as Flavilla had no fortune, and as a conſiderable part of his own was dependent upon his father's will, he ought, therefore, to obtain his conſent, before any other ſtep was taken. To this counſel, ſo ſalutary, Mercator was heſitating what to reply, when Flavilla came in, an accident which he was now only ſolicitous to improve. Flavilla was not diſpleaſed either with his perſon or his [257] addreſs. The frankneſs and gaiety of her diſpoſition ſoon made him forget that he was a ſtranger. A converſation commenced, during which they became yet more pleaſed with each other; and having thus ſurmounted the difficulty of a firſt viſit, he thought no more of the mother, as he believed her auſpices were not neceſſary to his ſucceſs.

His viſits were often repeated, and he became every hour more impatient of delay. A thought of his father would now and then, indeed, intervene; but being determined to gratify his wiſhes at all events, he concluded with a ſagacity almoſt univerſal on theſe occaſions, that of two evils, to marry without his conſent, was leſs than to marry againſt it; and one evening, after the lovers had ſpent the afternoon by themſelves, they went out in a kind of frolic, which Mercator had propoſed in the vehemence of his paſſion, and to which Flavilla had conſented in the giddineſs of her indiſcretion, and were married at May-Fair chapel.

In the firſt interval of recollection after this precipitate ſtep, Mercator conſidered, that he ought to be the firſt to acquaint his father of the new alliance which had been made in his family: but as he had not fortitude enough to do it in perſon, he expreſſed it in the beſt terms he could conceive by a letter; and requeſted that he might be permitted to preſent his wife for the parental benediction, which alone was wanting to complete his felicity.

[258]The old gentleman, whoſe character I cannot better expreſs than in the faſhionable phraſe which has been contrived to palliate falſe principles and diſſolute manners, had been a gay man, and was well acquainted with the town. He had often heard Flavilla toaſted by rakes of quality, and had often ſeen her at public places. Her beauty and her dependence, the gaiety of her dreſs, the multitude of her admirers, the levity of her conduct, and all the circumſtances of her ſituation, had concurred to render her character ſuſpected; and he was diſpoſed to judge of it with yet leſs charity, when, as ſhe had offended him by marrying his ſon, whom he conſidered as diſgraced and impoveriſhed, and whoſe misfortune, as it was irretrievable, he reſolved not to alleviate, but increaſe: a reſolution by which fathers, who have fooliſh and diſobedient ſons, uſually diſplay their own kindneſs and wiſdom. As ſoon as he read Mercator's letter, he execrated him for a fool, who had been gulled by the artifices of a looſe woman, to ſcreen her from public infamy, by fathering her children, and ſecuring her from a priſon by appropriating her debts. In his anſwer, which he wrote only to gratify his reſentment, he told him, that "if he had taken Flavilla into keeping, he would have overlooked it; and if her extravagance had diſtreſſed him, he would have ſatisfied his creditors; but that his marriage was not to be forgiven; that he ſhould never have a ſhilling of his money; and that he was determined to ſee him no more."

[259]Mercator, who was more provoked by this outrage than grieved at his loſs, diſdained to reply; and believing that he had now moſt reaſon to be offended, could not be perſuaded to ſolicit a reconciliation.

He hired a genteel apartment for his wife of an upholſterer, who, with a view to let lodgings, had taken and furniſhed a large houſe, near Leiceſter-fields; and in about two months, he left her, and made another voyage.

He had received viſits of congratulation from her numerous acquaintance, and had returned them as a pledge of his deſire that they ſhould be repeated. But a remembrance of the gay multitude, which, while he was at home, had flattered his vanity, as ſoon as he was abſent, alarmed his ſuſpicions. He had, indeed, no particular cauſe of jealouſy; but his anxiety aroſe merely from a ſenſe of the temptations to which ſhe was expoſed, and the impoſſibility of his ſuperintending her conduct.

In the mean time Flavilla continued to flutter round the ſame giddy circle in which ſhe had ſhone ſo long; the number of her viſitants rather increaſed than diminiſhed; the gentlemen attended with yet greater aſſiduity; and ſhe continued to encourage their civilities by the ſame indiſcreet familiarity: She was one night at the maſquerade, another night at an opera; ſometimes at a route; ſometimes rambling in parties of pleaſure in ſhort excurſions from [260] town; ſhe came home at midnight, in the morning, and ſometimes ſhe was abſent ſeveral nights together.

This conduct was the cauſe of much ſpeculation and uneaſineſs to the good man and woman of the houſe. At firſt they ſuſpected that Flavilla was no better than a woman of pleaſure; and that the perſon who had hired the lodgings for her as his wife, and had diſappeared upon pretence of a voyage to ſea, had been employed to impoſe upon them, by concealing her character, in order to obtain ſuch accommodations for her as ſhe could not ſo eaſily have procured had it been known: But as theſe ſuſpicions made them watchful and inquiſitive, they ſoon diſcovered, that many ladies by whom ſhe was viſited, were of good character and faſhion. Her conduct, however, ſuppoſing her to be a wife, was ſtill inexcuſable, and ſtill endangered their credit and ſubſiſtence: hints were often dropped by the neighbours to the diſadvantage of her character; and an elderly maiden lady, who lodged in the ſecond floor, had given warning: the family was diſturbed at all hours in the night, and the door was crouded all day with meſſengers and viſitants to Flavilla.

One day, therefore, the miſtreſs of the houſe took an opportunity to remonſtrate, though in the moſt diſtant and reſpectful terms, and with the utmoſt diffidence and caution. She told Flavilla, "That ſhe was a fine young lady, that her huſband was abroad, that ſhe kept a great deal of company, and that the world was cenſorious: ſhe wiſhed that leſs [261] occaſion for ſcandal was given; and hoped to be excuſed the liberty ſhe had taken. Flavilla might be ruined by thoſe ſlanders which could have no influence upon the great, and which, therefore, the great were not ſolicitous to avoid."

This addreſs, however ambiguous, and however gentle, was eaſily underſtood, and fiercely reſented. Flavilla, proud of her virtue, and impatient of controul, would have deſpiſed the counſel of a philoſopher, if it had implied an impeachment of her conduct: before a perſon ſo much her inferior, therefore, ſhe was under no reſtraint; ſhe anſwered with a mixture of contempt and indignation, "That thoſe only who did not know her, would dare to take any liberty with her character; and warned her to propagate no ſcandalous report at her peril." Flavilla immediately roſe from her ſeat, and the miſtreſs of the houſe departed without reply, though ſhe was ſcarce leſs offended than her lodger, and from that moment ſhe determined, when Mercator returned, to give warning.

Mercator's voyage was proſperous, and, after an abſence of about ten months, he came back. The woman, to whom her huſband had left the whole management of the lodgings, and who perſiſted in her purpoſe, ſoon found an opportunity to put it in execution. Mercator, as his part of the contract had been punctually fulfilled, thought he had ſome cauſe to be offended, and inſiſted to know her reaſons for compelling him to leave her houſe. Theſe ſhe was [262] very unwilling to give; and as he perceived that ſhe evaded his queſtion, he became more ſolicitous to obtain an anſwer. After much heſitation, which, perhaps, had a worſe effect than any tale which malice could have invented, ſhe told him, that "The lady kept a great deal of company, and often ſtaid out very late; that ſhe had always been uſed to quiet and regularity; and was determined to let her apartment to ſome perſon in a more private ſtation."

At this account Mercator changed countenance; for he inferred from it juſt as much more than truth as he believed it to be leſs. After ſome moments of ſuſpence, he conjured her to conceal nothing from him, with an emotion which convinced her that ſhe had already ſaid too much. She then aſſured him, "That he had no reaſon to be alarmed; for that ſhe had no exception to his lady, but thoſe gaieties which her ſtation and the faſhion ſufficiently authorized." Mercator's ſuſpicions, however, were not wholly removed; and he began to think he had found a confidante whom it would be his intereſt to truſt: he, therefore, in the weakneſs of jealouſy, confeſſed, that, "He had ſome doubts concerning his wife, which it was of the utmoſt importance to his honour, and his peace to have reſolved: he entreated her that he might continue in the apartment another year; that, as he ſhould again leave the kingdom in a ſhort time, ſhe would ſuffer no incident, which might confirm either his hopes or his fears, to eſcape her notice in his abſence; and that [263] at his return ſhe would give him ſuch an account as would at leaſt deliver him from the torment of ſuſpence, and determine his future conduct."

Mercator, however, concealed his ſuſpicions from his wife; and, indeed, in her preſence they were forgotten. Her manner of life he began ſeriouſly to diſapprove; but being well acquainted with her temper, in which great ſweetneſs was blended with a high ſpirit, he would not embitter the pleaſure of a ſhort ſtay by altercation, chiding, and tears: but when her mind was melted into tenderneſs at his departure, he claſped her in an extacy of fondneſs to his boſom, and intreated her to behave with reſerve and circumſpection; "Becauſe," ſaid he, "I know that my father keeps a watchful eye upon your conduct, which may, therefore, confirm or remove his diſpleaſure, and either intercept or beſtow ſuch an increaſe of our fortune as will prevent the pangs of ſeparation, which muſt otherwiſe ſo often return, and in a ſhort time unite us to part no more." To this caution ſhe had then no power to reply; and they parted with mutual proteſtations of unalterable love.

Flavilla, ſoon after ſhe was thus left in a ſort of widowhood a ſecond time, found herſelf pregnant; and within ſomewhat leſs than eight months after Mercator's return from his firſt voyage, ſhe happened to ſtumble as ſhe was going up ſtairs, and being immediately taken ill, was brought to bed before the next morning.

[264]It was now neceſſary that the vigils of whiſt and the tumults of balls and viſits ſhould, for a while, be ſuſpended; and in this interval of languor and retirement Flavilla firſt became thoughtful. She often reflected upon Mercator's caution when they laſt parted, which had made an indelible impreſſion upon her mind, though it had produced no alteration in her conduct: notwithſtanding the manner in which it was expreſſed, and the reaſon upon which it was founded, ſhe began to fear that it might have been ſecretly prompted by jealouſy.—The birth, therefore, of her firſt child in his abſence, at a time ſo premature, was an accident which greatly alarmed her: but there was yet another, for which it was ſtill leſs in her power to account, and which, therefore, alarmed her ſtill more.

It happened that ſome civilities which ſhe received from a lady who ſat next her at an opera, and whom ſhe had never ſeen before, introduced a converſation which ſo much delighted her, that ſhe gave her a preſſing invitation to viſit her: this invitation was accepted, and in a few days the viſit was paid. Flavilla was not leſs pleaſed at the ſecond interview, than ſhe had been at the firſt; and without making any other enquiry concerning the lady than where ſhe lived, took the firſt opportunity to wait upon her. The apartment in which ſhe was received was the ground floor of an elegant houſe, at a ſmall diſtance from St. James's palace. It happened that Flavilla was placed near the window; [265] and a party of the horſe-guards riding through the ſtreets, ſhe expected to ſee ſome of the royal family, and haſtily threw up the ſaſh. A gentleman who was paſſing by at the ſame inſtant, turned about at the noiſe of the window, and Flavilla no ſooner ſaw his face than ſhe knew him to be the father of Mercator. After looking firſt ſteadfaſtly at her, and then glancing his eye at the lady whom ſhe was viſiting, he affected a contemptuous ſneer, and went on. Flavilla, who had been thrown into ſome confuſion, by the ſudden and unexpected ſight of a perſon, who, ſhe knew, conſidered her as the diſgrace of his family, and the ruin of his child, now changed countenance, and haſtily retired to another part of the room: ſhe was touched both with grief and anger at this ſilent inſult, of which, however, ſhe did not then ſuſpect the cauſe. It is, indeed, probable, that the father of Mercator would no where have looked upon her with complacency; but as ſoon as he ſaw her companion, he recollected that ſhe was the favourite miſtreſs of an old courtier, and that this was the houſe in which he kept her in great ſplendor. It happened that Flavilla, ſoon after this accident, diſcovered the character of her new acquaintance; and never remembered by whom ſhe had been ſeen in her company, without the utmoſt regret and apprehenſion.

She now reſolved to move in a leſs circle, and with more circumſpection. In the mean time her little boy grew very faſt; and it could no longer be [266] known by his appearance, that he had been born too ſoon. His mother frequently gazed on him with overflowing eyes; and though her pleaſures were now become domeſtic, yet ſhe feared leſt that which had produced, ſhould deſtroy them. After much deliberation, ſhe determined that ſhe would conceal the child's age from its father; believing it prudent to prevent a ſuſpicion, which, however ill founded, it might be difficult to remove, as her juſtification would depend wholly upon the teſtimony of her dependents; and her mother's and her own would neceſſarily become doubtful, when every one would have reaſon to conclude, that it would ſtill have been the ſame, ſuppoſing the contrary to have been true.

Such was the ſtate of Flavilla's mind, and her little boy was ſix months old, when Mercator returned. She received him with joy indeed, but it was mixed with a viſible confuſion; their meeting was more tender, but on her part leſs chearful; ſhe ſmiled with inexpreſſible complacency, but at the ſame time the tears guſhed from her eyes, and ſhe was ſeized with an univerſal tremor. Mercator caught the infection; and careſſed firſt his Flavilla, and then his boy, with an exceſs of fondneſs and delight that before he had never expreſſed. The ſight of the child made him more than ever wiſh a reconciliation with his father; and having heard, on his firſt landing, that he was dangerouſly ill, he determined to attempt, immediately, to ſee him; promiſing that he would return to ſupper. He had, [267] in the midſt of his careſſes, more than once enquired the age of his ſon, but the queſtion had been always evaded; of which, however, he took no notice, nor did it produce any ſuſpicion.

He was now haſting to enquire after his father; but as he paſſed through the hall, he was officiouſly laid hold of by his landlady. He was not much diſpoſed to enquire how ſhe had fulfilled his charge; but perceiving by her looks that ſhe had ſomething to communicate, which, at leaſt in her own opinion, was of importance, he ſuffered her to take him into her parlour. She immediately ſhut the door, and reminded him, that ſhe had undertaken an office with reluctance, which he had preſſed upon her; and that ſhe had done nothing in it to which he had not bound her by a promiſe; that ſhe was extremely ſorry to communicate her diſcoveries; but that he was a worthy gentleman, and, indeed, ought to know them. She then told him, "That the child was born within leſs than eight months after his laſt return from abroad; that it was ſaid to have come before its time, but that having preſſed to ſee it, ſhe was refuſed." This, indeed, was true, and confirmed the good woman in her ſuſpicion; for Flavilla, who had ſtill reſented the freedom which ſhe had taken in her remonſtrance, had kept her at a great diſtance; and the ſervants, to gratify their miſtreſs, treated her with the utmoſt inſolence and contempt.

At this relation Mercator turned pale. He now recollected that his queſtion concerning the child's [266] [...] [267] [...] [268] birth had been evaded: and concluded, that he had been ſhedding tears of tenderneſs and joy over a faithleſs wife, and an illegitimate child, who had robbed him of his patrimony, his honour and his peace. He ſtarted up with the furious wildneſs of ſudden phrenzy; but ſhe, with great difficulty, prevailed upon him not to leave the room. He ſat down and remained ſome time motionleſs, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands locked in each other. In proportion as he believed his wife to be guilty, his tenderneſs for his father revived: and he reſolved, with yet greater zeal, to proſecute his purpoſe of immediately attempting a reconciliation.

In this ſtate of confuſion and diſtreſs, he went to the houſe, where he learned that his father had died early in the morning, and that his relations were then aſſembled to read his will. Fulvius, a brother of Mercator's mother, with whom he had always been a favourite, happening to paſs from one room to another, heard his voice. He accoſted him with great ardour of friendſhip; and ſoothing him with expreſſions of condolence and affection, inſiſted to introduce him to the company. Mercator tacitly conſented; he was received at leaſt with civility by his brother, and ſitting down among them, the will was read. He ſeemed to liſten like the reſt; but was, indeed, muſing over the ſtory which he had juſt heard, and loſt in the ſpeculation of his own wretchedneſs. He awakened as from a dream, when the voice of the perſon who had been reading was ſuſpended; and finding that he could no longer contain [269] himſelf, he ſtarted up, and would have left the company.

Of the will which had been read before him, he knew nothing; but his uncle believing that he was moved with grief and reſentment at the manner in which he had been mentioned in it, and the bequeſt only of a ſhilling, took him into another room; and, to apologize for his father's unkindneſs, told him, "that the reſentment which he expreſſed at his marriage, was every day increaſed by the conduct of his wife, whoſe character was now become infamous, for that ſhe had been ſeen at the lodgings of a certain woman of bad character, with whom ſhe appeared to be well acquainted." This account threw Mercator into another agony; from which he was, however, at length recovered by his uncle, who, as the only expedient by which he could retrieve his misfortune, and ſooth his diſtreſs, propoſed that he ſhould no more return to his lodgings, but go home with him; that he would himſelf take ſuch meaſures with his wife, as would ſcarce fail of inducing her to accept a ſeparate maintenance, to aſſume another name, and trouble him no more. Mercator, in the bitterneſs of his affliction, conſented to his propoſal, and they went away together.

Mercator, in the mean time, was expected by Flavilla with the moſt tender impatience. She had put her little boy to bed, and decorated a ſmall room in which they had uſed to ſup, and which ſhe had ſhut up in his abſence; ſhe counted the moments as they paſſed, and liſtened to every carriage and every [270] ſtep that ſhe heard. Supper was now ready: her impatience was increaſed; terror was at length mingled with regret, and her fondneſs was only buſied to afflict her; ſhe wiſhed, ſhe feared, ſhe accuſed, ſhe apologized, and ſhe wept. In the height of theſe eager expectations and this tender diſtreſs, ſhe received a billet which Mercator had been perſuaded by his uncle to write, in which he upbraided her in the ſtrongeſt terms, with abuſing his confidence; "of this, he ſaid, he had now obtained ſufficient proof to do juſtice to himſelf, and was determined to ſee her no more."

To thoſe whoſe hearts have not already acquainted them with the agony which ſeized Flavilla upon the ſight of this billet, all attempts to deſcribe it would be not only ineffectual but abſurd. Having paſſed the night without ſleep, and the next day without food, diſappointed in every attempt to diſcover what was become of Mercator, and doubting, if ſhe were to find him, whether it would be poſſible to convince him of her innocence; this violent agitation of her mind, produced a ſlow fever, which, before ſhe conſidered it as a diſeaſe, ſhe communicated to the child while ſhe cheriſhed it at her boſom, and wept over it, as an orphan whoſe life ſhe was ſuſtaining with her own.

After Mercator had been abſent about ten days, his uncle, who perſuaded him to accompany ſome friends to a country ſeat, at the diſtance of near ſixty miles, went to his lodgings in order to diſcharge the rent, and try what terms he could make [271] with Flavilla, whom he hoped to intimidate with threats of a divorce; but when he came, he found Flavilla ſinking very faſt under her diſeaſe, and the child dead. The woman of the houſe, into whoſe hands ſhe had juſt put her watch, and ſome ornaments as a ſecurity for her rent, was ſo touched with her diſtreſs, and ſo firmly perſuaded of her innocence by the manner in which ſhe had addreſſed her, and the calm ſolemnity with which ſhe abſolved thoſe by whom ſhe had been traduced, that as ſoon as ſhe had diſcovered Fulvius's buſineſs, ſhe threw herſelf on her knees, and intreated, that if he knew where Mercator was to be found, he would urge him to return, that, if poſſible, the life of Flavilla might be preſerved, and the happineſs of both be reſtored by her juſtification. Fulvius, who ſtill ſuſpected appearances, or at leaſt was in doubt of the cauſe that had produced them, would not diſcover his nephew; but after much entreaty and expoſtulation, at laſt engaged upon his honour for the conveyance of a letter. The woman as ſoon as ſhe obtained his promiſe, ran up and communicated it to Flavilla; who, when ſhe had recovered from the ſurprize and tumult which it occaſioned, was ſupported in her bed, and in about half an hour, after many efforts, and many intervals, wrote a ſhort billet, which was ſealed and put into the hands of Fulvius.

Fulvius immediately incloſed and diſpatched it by the poſt, reſolving that in a queſtion ſo doubtful and of ſuch importance, he would no further interpoſe. [272] Mercator, who the moment he caſt his eye upon the letter, knew both the hand and ſeal; after pauſing a few moments in ſuſpence, at length tore it, open, and read theſe words:

"Such has been my folly, that, perhaps, I ſhould not be acquitted of guilt in any circumſtances, but thoſe in which I write. I do not, therefore, but for your ſake, wiſh them otherwiſe than they are. The dear infant, whoſe birth has undone me, now lies dead at my ſide, a victim to My indiſcretion and Your reſentment. I am ſcarce able to guide my pen. But I moſt earneſtly intreat to ſee you, that you may at leaſt have the ſatisfaction to hear me atteſt my innocence with the laſt ſigh, and ſeal our reconciliation on my lips, while they are yet ſenſible of the impreſſion."

Mercator, whom an earthquake would leſs have affected than this letter, felt all his ſenſibility revive in a moment, and reflected with unalterable anguiſh upon the raſhneſs of his reſentment. At the thought of his diſtance from London, he ſtarted as at a dagger in his heart: he lifted up his eyes to heaven, with a look that expreſſed at once an accuſation of himſelf, and a petition for her; and then ruſhing out of the houſe, without taking leave, or ordering a ſervant to attend him, he took poſt-horſes at a neighbouring inn, and in leſs than ſix hours was in Leiceſter-fields. But notwithſtanding his ſpeed, he arrived too late; Flavilla had ſuffered the laſt agony, and her eyes could behold him no more. Grief and diſappointment, remorſe and deſpair now totally ſubverted [273] his reaſon. It became neceſſary to remove him by force from the body; and, after a confinement of two years, he died diſtracted.

May every woman on whoſe memory compaſſion ſhall record theſe events, tremble to aſſume the levity of Flavilla; perhaps, it is not in the power of any man, in Mercator's circumſtances, to be leſs jealous than Mercator.

MR. EGERTON.

This, my children, is a melancholy relation, and has affected you. Reflect on the leſſon it teaches, and be more prudent than Flavilla. For the preſent, we will give ſome relief to this picture, by reading a very ingenious letter: it is the ſpirit of levity, diſplayed in amiable and lovely colours, and reflects great honour on the heart and head of the lady who wrote it.

AMIABLE LEVITY: A LETTER from the late Miſs TALBOT, To a new-born child *.

YOU are heartily welcome, my dear little couſin, into this unquiet world; long may you continue in it, in all the happineſs it can give; and beſtow enough on all your friends, to anſwer fully the impatience with which you have been expected. May you grow up to have every accompliſhment, that [274] your good friend the * biſhop of Derry can already imagine in you; and in the mean time, may you have a nurſe with a tuneable voice, that may not talk an immoderate deal of nonſenſe to you.

You are, at preſent, my dear, in a very philoſophical diſpoſition; the gaieties and follies of life have no attraction for you: its ſorrows you kindly commiſerate; but, however, do not ſuffer them to diſturb your ſlumbers; and find charms in nothing but harmony and repoſe. You have as yet contracted no partialities, are entirely ignorant of party diſtinctions, and look with a perfect indifference on all human ſplendor. You have an abſolute diſlike to the vanities of dreſs; and are likely for many months to obſerve the Biſhop of Briſtol's firſt rule of converſation, ſilence; though tempted to tranſgreſs it by the novelty and ſtrangeneſs of all the objects round you. As you advance farther in life, this philoſophical temper will, by degrees, wear off: the firſt object of your admiration will probably be a candle; and thence, (as we all of us do) you will contract a taſte for the gaudy and the glaring, without making one moral reflection upon the danger of ſuch falſe admiration, as leads people, many a time, to burn their fingers. You will then begin to ſhew great partiality for ſome very good aunts, who will contribute all they can towards ſpoiling you; but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma, who [275] will teach you, by her example, all ſorts of good qualities; only let me warn you of one thing, my dear, and that is, do not learn of her to have ſuch an immoderate love of home; for it is quite contrary to all the privileges of this polite age; nor to give up ſo entirely all thoſe pretty graces of whim, flutter, and affectation, which ſo many charitable poets have declared to be the prerogative of our ſex: ah! my poor couſin, to what purpoſe will you boaſt this prerogative, when your nurſe tells you, with a pious care, to ſow the ſeeds of jealouſy and emulation as early as poſſible, that you have a fine little brother come to put your noſe out of joint. There will be nothing to be done then, I believe, but to be mighty good, and prove what, believe me, admits of very little diſpute, (though it has occaſioned abundance) that we girls, however people give themſelves airs of being diſappointed, are by no means to be deſpiſed: let the men unenvied ſhine in public, it is we muſt make their homes delightful to them; and, if they provoke us, no leſs uncomfortable. I do not expect you my dear, to anſwer this letter yet-a-while; but, as I dare ſay, you have the greateſt intereſt with your papa, will beg you to prevail upon him, that we may know by a line, (before his time is engroſſed by another ſecret committee) that you and your mamma are well. In the mean time I will only aſſure you, that all here rejoice in your exiſtence extremely: and that I am,

My very young correſpondent, moſt affectionately your's, C. T.
*
A grand daughter of Lord Chancellor Talbot.
*
Dr. Rundle.
Dr. Secker; afterwards Archbiſhop of Canterbury; with whom Miſs Talbot lived.
MR. EGERTON.
[276]

I have now, my dear children, only a few words to add. We are going, for a little while, from a happy retirement, where truth and peace and innocence delight to dwell, into the regions of pleaſure, folly, and ambition. Let not your eyes be dazzled with falſe glare, nor your hearts tempted with imaginary delights. Drink not too deep at the faſcinating fountain of pleaſure, left you ſhould either be inebriated or ſurfeited. It is true, your preſent danger is not very great; you will have faithful and intereſted directors, whoſe care and caution will counterbalance the impetuous ſallies of youthful imagination; but beware of contracting a love for fancied pleaſures, which you will behold ſo many purſuing with thoughtleſs impetuoſity, and who ſtop not in their career, till ſuddendly impeded by poverty, diſeaſe, or unſuſpected ruin. Remember the ſerene, the chearful joys you have ſo often been partakers of in this place, and let not your paſſions hurry you away from the calm and permanent content, which reaſon and reflection never fail to give. When you go into public, be willing to be pleaſed, but not infatuated. In ſhort, my children, remember the examples you have ſo often read of in this happy room: think on the inevitable conſequences of good and bad, of wiſe and fooliſh conduct: forget not how deeply intereſted are the mother who has done and ſuffered ſo much for you, and the father whoſe labours have been unceaſing to make you truly virtuous and beneficent members of ſociety—forget not, [277] I ſay, my dear, dear children, how much it is in your power to heap bleſſings or curſes, to render happy or miſerable, parents, of whoſe dear and tender affection you have had ſo many and ſuch indiſputable proofs. You will yourſelves, I hope, hereafter, become happy parents; you will then know the force of parental anxieties, and parental joys. I cannot deſcribe them; endeavour to imagine what they are from the following ſtory.

PARENTAL FEELINGS: Or the ABENAKEE INDIAN.

DURING the laſt war in America, a band of ſavages having ſurpriſed and defeated a party of the Engliſh, ſuch of thoſe who were not actually killed on the ſpot, had very little chance of getting away from enemies who were much quicker of foot than they, and who, purſuing them with unrelenting fury, uſed thoſe whom they overtook with a barbarity, even in thoſe countries, almoſt without example.

A young Engliſh officer, preſſed by two ſavages who were making at him with uplifted hatchets, without the leaſt hope of eſcaping death, thought of nothing but ſelling his life as dear as he could. At the inſtant, an old ſavage, armed with his bow, drew near him, in order to pierce him with the arrow; when taking aim at him, all on a ſudden drops his point, and runs to throw himſelf between the young Engliſhman and the two Barbarians, who were going to maſſacre him. Theſe drew back out of reſpect to the motions of the old man, who, with [278] ſigns of peace, took the officer by the hand, after removing his apprehenſions by friendly geſtures, and carried him home with him to his hut. There he treated him with humanity and gentleneſs, more like his companion than his ſlave. He taught him the Abenakee language, and the coarſe arts in uſe among thoſe people, and they lived well ſatisfied with each other. One only point of the old man's deportment gave the young officer uneaſineſs; he frequently obſerved the ſavage fixing his eyes upon him, and, after looking long and ſteadfaſtly at him, ſhedding tears.

On the return of ſpring, the Abenakees took the field again, and proceeded in queſt of the Engliſh.

The old man, who had ſtill vigour enough to bear the fatigues of war, went along with his countrymen; not forgetting to take his priſoner with him. They made a march of above two hundred leagues, through the trackleſs wilds and foreſts of that country, till at length they came within view of a plain in which they diſcovered an Engliſh camp. This the old man ſhewed to his young companion, at the ſame time attentively eyeing him, and marking his countenance; "There (ſays he) are thy brothers waiting to give us battle. What ſayeſt thou? I preſerved thee from death. I have taught thee to build canoes; to make bows and arrows; to catch the deer of the foreſt; to wield the hatchet; and our whole art of war. What waſt thou when I took thee home to my dwelling? Thy hands were as the hands of a mere child, they could ſerve thee [279] but little for thy defence, and yet leſs for providing thee means of ſuſtenance. Thy ſoul was in the dark: thou wert a ſtranger to all neceſſary knowledge. To me thou oweſt life—the means of life— every thing. Couldſt thou then be ungrateful enough to go over to join thy countrymen, and to lift the hatchet againſt us?"

The young Engliſhman anſwered, that he could not but feel a juſt repugnance to carrying arms againſt thoſe of his own nation, but that he would never turn them againſt the Abenakees, whom, ſo long as he ſhould live, he would conſider as his brothers.

At this the dejected ſavage hung his head, and lifting up his hands covered his face with them, in a deep meditation. After remaining ſome time in this attitude, he looked earneſtly at the Engliſh officer, and ſaid to him with a mixture of grief and tenderneſs, "Haſt thou a father?"—"He was alive, anſwered the young man, when I left my country."—"Oh, unhappy man!" ſaid the ſavage. —After a moment's pauſe, adding, "Doſt thou not know that I too was once a father?—Alas! I am no longer one. No: I am no longer a father! I ſaw my ſon fall. He fought by my ſide: I ſaw him die like a man, covered with wounds as he fell! But I revenged him."

He pronounced theſe words with the moſt pathetic emphaſis, and ſhuddered; his breaſt heaved with pain, and he was choaked with inward groans, which he endeavoured to ſtifle. His eyes looked wild, but [280] no tear fell. By degrees the violence of his agitations ceaſed, and he grew calm. Turning towards the eaſt, he pointed to the riſing ſun, and ſaid, "Seeſt thou yon beauteous luminary, that ſun in all its ſplendor? Does the ſight of it afford thee pleaſure?"—"Undoubtedly, anſwered the officer, who can behold ſo fine a ſky without delight?"—"And yet to me, ſaid the ſavage, it no longer affords any!" Then caſting his eye on a buſh in full flower, "See! ſaid he, young man, doth not that gay appearance of flowers give thee a ſort of joy to look at?" "It does," replied the officer. "And yet, ſaid the old man, it delighteth not me!" adding, with impetuoſity, "depart—haſte,—fly to yon camp of thy friends. Get thee home to thy Father, that he may ſtill behold with pleaſure the riſing of the ſun, and the flowers of the ſpring."

THE END.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4346 The family picture or domestic dialogues on amiable and interesting subjects By Thomas Holcroft pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-6189-C