Chapter XVI: Part II: Tutor—George—Harry (4)

_Fa._ Yes—but they are _men_ on both sides. Consider now, that the ten thousand sent out of the world in this morning’s work, though they are past feeling themselves, have left probably two persons each, on an average, to lament their loss, parents, wives, or children. Here are then twenty thousand people made unhappy, at one stroke on their account. This, however, is hardly so dreadful to think of, as the condition of the wounded. At the moment we are talking, eight or ten thousand more are lying in agony, torn with shot, or gashed with cuts, their wounds all festering, some hourly to die a most excruciating death, others to linger in torture weeks and months, and many doomed to drag on a miserable existence for the rest of their lives, with diseased and mutilated bodies.

_Os._ This is shocking to think of, indeed!

_Fa._ When you light your candles, then, this evening, _think what they cost_.

_Os._ But everybody else is glad, and seems to think nothing of these things.

_Fa._ True—they do _not_ think of them. If they did, I cannot suppose they would be so void of feeling as to enjoy themselves in merriment when so many of their fellow-creatures are made miserable. Do you not remember, when poor Dickens had his legs broken to pieces by a loaded wagon, how all the town pitied him?

_Os._ Yes, very well. I could not sleep the night after for thinking of him.

_Fa._ But here are thousands suffering as much as he, and we scarce bestow a single thought on them. If any one of these poor creatures were before our eyes, we should probably feel much more than we do now for them altogether. Shall I tell you a story of a soldier’s fortune, that came to my own knowledge?

_Os._ Yes; pray, do.

_Fa._ In the village where I went to school, there was an honest industrious weaver and his wife, who had an only son, named Walter, just come to man’s estate. Walter was a good and dutiful lad, and a clever workman, so that he was a great help to his parents. One unlucky day, having gone to the next market-town with some work, he met with a companion, who took him to the alehouse and treated him. As he was coming away, a recruiting sergeant entered the room, who seeing Walter to be a likely young fellow, had a great mind to entrap him. He persuaded him to sit down again and take a glass with him; and kept him in talk with fine stories about a soldier’s life, till Walter got fuddled before he was aware. The sergeant then clapped a shilling into his hand to drink his majesty’s health, and told him he was enlisted. He was kept there all night, and next morning was taken before a magistrate to be sworn in. Walter had now become sober, and was very sorry for what he had done: but he was told that he could not get off without paying a guinea smart money. This he knew not how to raise; and being likewise afraid and ashamed to face his friends, he took the oath and bounty-money, and marched away with the sergeant, without ever returning home. His poor father and mother, when they heard of the affair, were almost heart-broken; and a young woman in the village, who was his sweetheart, had like to have gone distracted. Walter sent them a line from the first stage, to bid them farewell, and comfort them. He joined his regiment, which soon embarked for Germany, where it continued till the peace. Walter once or twice sent word home of his welfare, but for the last year nothing was heard of him.

_Os._ Where was he then?

_Fa._ You shall hear. One summer’s evening, a man in an old red coat, hobbling on crutches, was seen to enter the village. His countenance was pale and sickly, his cheeks hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke extreme wretchedness. Several people gathered round him, looking earnestly in his face. Among these a young woman having gazed at him a while, cried out, “My Walter!” and fainted away. Walter fell on the ground beside her. His father and mother being fetched by some of the spectators, came and took him in their arms, weeping bitterly. I saw the whole scene, and shall never forget it. At length, the neighbours helped them into the house, where Walter told them the following story:—

“At the last great battle that our troops gained in Germany, I was among the first engaged, and received a shot that broke my thigh. I fell, and presently after our regiment was forced to retreat. A squadron of the enemy’s horse came galloping down upon us. A trooper making a blow at me with his sabre as I lay, I lifted up my arm to save my head, and got a cut which divided all the sinews at the back of my wrist. Soon after the enemy were driven back, and came across us again. A horse set his foot on my side, and broke three of my ribs. The action was long and bloody, and the wounded on both sides were left on the field all night. A dreadful night it was to me you may think! I had fainted through loss of blood, and when I recovered, I was tormented with thirst, and the cold air made my wounds smart intolerably. About noon next day wagons came to carry away those who remained alive; and I, with a number of others, was put into one to be conveyed to the next town. The motion of the carriage was terrible for my broken bones—every jolt went to my heart. We were taken to an hospital, which was crammed as full as it could hold; and we should all have been suffocated with the heat and stench, had not a fever broke out, which soon thinned our numbers. I took it, and was twice given over; however, I struggled through. But my wounds proved so difficult to heal, that it was almost a twelvemonth before I could be discharged. A great deal of the bone in my thigh came away in splinters, and left the limb crooked and useless as you see. I entirely lost the use of three fingers of my right hand; and my broken ribs made me spit blood a long time, and have left a cough and difficulty of breathing, which I believe will bring me to my grave. I was sent home, and discharged from the army, and I have begged my way hither as well as I could. I am told that the peace has left the affairs of my country just as they were before; but who will restore me my health and limbs? I am put on the list for a Chelsea pensioner, which will support me, if I live to receive it, without being a burden to my friends. That is all that remains for Walter now.”

_Os._ Poor Walter! What became of him afterward?

_Father._ The wound in his thigh broke out afresh, and discharged more splinters after a great deal of pain and fever. As winter came on, his cough increased. He wasted to a skeleton, and died the next spring. The young woman, his sweetheart, sat up with him every night to the last; and soon after his death, she fell into a consumption, and followed him. The old people, deprived of the stay and comfort of their age, fell into despair and poverty, and were taken into the workhouse, where they ended their days.

This was the history of _Walter the soldier_. It has been that of thousands more; and will be that of many a poor fellow, over whose fate you are now rejoicing. Such is the _price of a victory_!

GOOD COMPANY.

“Be sure, Frederick, always keep _good company_,” was the final admonition of Mr. Lofty, on dismissing his son to the University.

“I entreat you, Henry, always to choose _good company_,” said Mr. Manly, on parting with his son to an apprenticeship in a neighbouring town.

But it was impossible for two people to mean more differently by the same words.

In Mr. Lofty’s idea, _good_ company was that of persons superior to ourselves in rank and fortune. By this alone he estimated it: and the degrees of comparison, better and best, were made exactly to correspond to such a scale. Thus, if an esquire was _good_ company, a baronet was _better_, and a lord _best of all_, provided that he was not a _poor_ lord, for in that case, a rich gentleman might be at least as good. For as, according to Mr. Lofty’s maxim, the great purpose for which companions were to be chosen was to advance a young man in the world by their credit and interest, those were to be preferred who afforded the best prospects in this respect.

Mr. Manly, on the other hand, understood by _good_ company, that which was improving to the morals and understanding; and by the _best_, that which, to a high degree of these qualities, added true politeness of manners. As superior advantages in education to a certain point accompany superiority of condition, he wished his son to prefer as companions those whose situation in life had afforded them the opportunity of being well educated; but he was far from desiring him to shun connexions with worth and talents, wherever he should find them.

Mr. Lofty had an utter aversion to _low company_, by which he meant inferiors, people of no fashion and figure, shabby fellows whom nobody knows.

Mr. Manly equally disliked _low company_, understanding by it persons of mean habits and vulgar conversation.

A great part of Mr. Manly’s _good_ company was Mr. Lofty’s _low_ company; and not a few of Mr. Lofty’s very _best_ company were Mr. Manly’s very _worst_.

Each of the sons understood his father’s meaning, and followed his advice.

Frederick, from the time of his entrance at the University, commenced what is called a _tuft-hunter_, from the tuft in the cap worn by young noblemen. He took pains to insinuate himself into the good graces of all the young men of high fashion in his college, and became a constant companion in their schemes of frolic and dissipation. They treated him with an insolent familiarity, often bordering upon contempt; but following another maxim of his father, “one must stoop to rise,” he took it all in good part. He totally neglected study as unnecessary, and indeed inconsistent with his plan. He spent a great deal of money, with which his father, finding that it went in _good company_, at first supplied him freely. In time, however, his expenses amounted to so much, that Mr. Lofty, who kept good company too, found it difficult to answer his demands. A considerable sum that he lost at play with one of his noble friends increased the difficulty. If it were not paid, the disgrace of not having discharged a _debt of honour_ would lose him all the favour he had acquired; yet the money could not be raised without greatly embarrassing his father’s affairs.

In the midst of this perplexity, Mr. Lofty died, leaving behind him a large family, and very little property. Frederick came up to town, and soon dissipated in _good company_ the scanty portion that came to his share. Having neither industry, knowledge, nor reputation, he was then obliged to become an humble dependant on the great, flattering all their follies, and ministering to their vices, treated by them with mortifying neglect, and equally despised and detested by the rest of the world.

Henry, in the meantime, entered with spirit into the business of his new profession, and employed his leisure in cultivating an acquaintance with a few select friends. These were partly young men in a situation similar to his own, partly persons already settled in life, but all distinguished by propriety of conduct and improved understandings. From all of them he learned something valuable, but he was more particularly indebted to two of them, who were in a station of life inferior to that of the rest. One was a watchmaker, an excellent mechanic and tolerable mathematician, and well acquainted with the construction and use of all the instruments employed in experimental philosophy. The other was a young druggist, who had a good knowledge of chymistry, and frequently employed himself in chymical operations and experiments. Both of them were men of very decent manners, and took a pleasure in communicating their knowledge to such as showed a taste for similar studies. Henry frequently visited them, and derived much useful information from their instructions, for which he ever expressed great thankfulness. These various occupations and good examples effectually preserved him from the errors of youth, and he passed his time with credit and satisfaction. He had the same misfortune with Frederick, just as he was ready to come out into the world, of losing his father, upon whom the support of the family chiefly depended; but in the character he had established, and the knowledge he had acquired, he found an effectual resource. One of his young friends proposed to him a partnership in a manufactory he had just set up at considerable expense, requiring for his share only the exertion of his talents and industry. Henry accepted the offer, and made such good use of the skill in mechanics and chymistry he had acquired, that he introduced many improvements into the manufactory, and rendered it a very profitable concern. He lived prosperous and independent, and retained in manhood all the friendships of his youth.

THE WANDERER’S RETURN.

It was a delightful evening about the end of August. The sun, setting in a pure sky, illuminated the tops of the western hills, and tipped the opposite trees with a yellow lustre.

A traveller, with sunburnt cheeks and dusty feet, strong and active, having a knapsack at his back, had gained the summit of a steep ascent, and stood gazing on the plain below.

This was a wide tract of champaign country, checkered with villages, whose towers and spires peeped above the trees in which they were embosomed. The space between them was chiefly arable land, from which the last products of the harvest were busily carrying away.

A rivulet wound through the plain, its course marked with gray willows. On its banks were verdant meadows, covered with lowing herds, moving slowly to the milkmaids, who came tripping along with pails on their heads. A thick wood clothed the side of a gentle eminence rising from the water, crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle.

Edward (that was the traveller’s name) dropped on one knee, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, “Welcome, welcome, my dear native land. Many a sweet spot have I seen since I left thee, but none so sweet as thou! Never has thy dear image been out of my memory; and now with what transport do I retrace all thy charms! O, receive me again, never more to quit thee!” So saying, he threw himself on the turf; and having kissed it, rose and proceeded on his journey.

As he descended into the plain, he overtook a little group of children, merrily walking along the path, and stopping now and then to gather berries in the hedge.

“Where are you going, my dears?” said Edward.

“We are going home,” they all replied.

“And where is that?”

“Why, to Summerton, that town there among the trees, just before us. Don’t you see it?”

“I see it well,” answered Edward, the tear standing in his eye.

“And what is your name—and yours—and yours?”

The little innocents told their names. Edward’s heart leaped at the well-known sounds.

“And what is _your_ name, my dear?” said he to a pretty girl, somewhat older than the rest, who hung back shyly, and held the hand of a ruddy, white-headed boy, just breeched.

“It is Rose Walsingham, and this is my younger brother, Roger.”

“Walsingham!” Edward clasped the girl round the neck, and surprised her with two or three very close kisses. He then lifted up little Roger, and almost devoured him. Roger seemed as if he wanted to be set down again, but Edward told him he would carry him home.

“And can you show me the house you live at, Rose?” said Edward.

“Yes—it is just there, beside the pond, with the great barn before it, and the orchard behind.”

“And will you take me home with you, Rose?”

“If you please,” answered Rose, hesitatingly.

They walked on; Edward said but little, for his heart was full, but he frequently kissed little Roger.

Coming at length to a stile from which a path led across a little close, “This is the way to our house,” said Rose.

The other children parted. Edward set down Roger, and got over the stile. He still, however, kept hold of the boy’s hand. He trembled, and looked wildly around him.

When they approached the house, an old mastiff came running to meet the children. He looked up at Edward rather sourly, and gave a little growl; when all at once his countenance changed; he leaped upon him, licked his hand, wagged his tail, murmured in a soft voice, and seemed quite overcome with joy. Edward stooped down, patted his head, and cried, “Poor Captain, what! are you alive, yet?” Rose was surprised that the stranger and their dog should know one another.

They all entered the house together. A good-looking middle-aged woman was busied in preparing articles of cookery, assisted by her grown-up daughter. She spoke to the children as they came in, and casting a look of some surprise on Edward, asked him what his business was.

Edward was some time silent; at length, with a faltering voice, he cried, “Have you forgot me, mother?”

“Edward! my son Edward!” exclaimed the good woman. And they were instantly locked in each other’s arms.

“My brother Edward!” said Molly; and took her turn for an embrace, as soon as her mother gave her room.

“Are you my brother?” said Rose.

“That I am,” replied Edward, with another kiss. Little Roger looked hard at him, but said nothing.

News of Edward’s arrival soon flew across the yard, and in came from the barn his father, his next brother, Thomas, and the third, William. The father fell on his neck, and sobbed out his welcome and blessing. Edward had not hands enough for them all to shake.

An aged, white-headed labourer came in, and held out his shrivelled hand. Edward gave it a hearty squeeze. “God bless you,” said old Isaac; “this is the best day I have seen this many a year.”

“And where have you been this long while?” cried the father. “Eight years and more,” added the mother.

His elder brother took off his knapsack; and Molly drew him a chair. Edward seated himself, and they all gathered round him; the old dog got within the circle and lay at his feet.

“O, how glad I am to see you all again!” were Edward’s first words. “How well you look, mother! but father grows thinner. As for the rest, I should have known none of you, unless it had been Thomas and old Isaac.”

“What a sunburnt face you have got!—but you look brave and hearty,” cried his mother.

“Ay, mother, I have been enough in the sun, I assure you. From seventeen to five-and-twenty I have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth, and I have seen more in that time than most men in the course of their lives.

“Our young landlord, you know, took such a liking to me at school, that he would have me go with him on his travels. We went through most of the countries of Europe, and at last to Naples, where my poor master took a fever and died. I never knew what grief was till then; and I believe the thoughts of leaving me in a strange country went as much to his heart as his illness. An intimate acquaintance of his, a rich young West Indian, seeing my distress, engaged me to go with him in a voyage he was about to make to Jamaica. We were too short a time in England before we sailed, for me to come and see you first, but I wrote you a letter from the Downs.”

“We never received it,” said his father.

“That was a pity,” returned Edward; “for you must have concluded I was either dead or had forgotten you. Well—we arrived safe in the West Indies, and there I stayed till I had buried that master, too; for young men die fast in that country. I was very well treated, but I could never like the place; and yet Jamaica is a very fine island, and has many good people in it. But for me, used to see freemen work cheerfully along with their masters—to behold nothing but droves of black slaves in the fields, toiling in the burning sun, under the constant dread of the lash of hard-hearted task-masters—it was what I could not bring myself to bear; and though I might have been made an overseer of a plantation, I chose rather to live in a town, and follow some domestic occupation. I could soon have got rich there; but I fell into a bad state of health, and people were dying all round me of the yellow fever; so I collected my little property, and though a war had broken out, I ventured to embark with it for England.

“The ship was taken, and carried into the Havana, and I lost my all and my liberty besides. However, I had the good fortune to ingratiate myself with a Spanish merchant whom I had known at Jamaica, and he took me with him to the continent of South America. I visited great part of this country, once possessed by flourishing and independent nations, but now groaning under the severe yoke of their haughty conquerers. I saw those famous gold and silver mines, where the poor natives worked naked, for ever shut out from the light of day, in order that the wealth of their unhappy land may go to spread luxury and corruption throughout the remotest regions of Europe.

“I accompanied my master across the great southern ocean, a voyage of some months, without the sight of anything but water and sky. We came to the rich city of Manilla, the capital of the Spanish settlements in those parts. There I had my liberty restored, along with a handsome reward for my services. I got thence to China; and from China to the English settlements in the East Indies, where the sight of my countrymen, and the sounds of my native tongue, made me fancy myself almost at home again, though still separated by half the globe.

“Here I saw a delightful country, swarming with industrious inhabitants, some cultivating the land, others employed in manufactures, but of so gentle and effeminate a disposition, that they have always fallen under the yoke of their invaders. Here how was I forced to blush for my countrymen, whose avarice and rapacity so often have laid waste this fair land, and brought on it all the horrors of famine and desolation! I have seen human creatures quarrelling like dogs for bare bones thrown upon a dunghill. I have seen fathers selling their families for a little rice, and mothers entreating strangers to take their children for slaves, that they might not die of hunger. In the midst of such scenes I saw pomp and luxury of which our country affords no examples.

“Having remained here a considerable time, I gladly at length set my face homeward, and joined a company who undertook the long and perilous journey to Europe over land. We crossed vast tracts both desert and cultivated; sandy plains parched with heat and drought, and infested with bands of ferocious plunderers. I have seen a well of muddy water more valued than ten camel-loads of treasure; and a few half-naked horsemen strike more terror than a king with all his guards. At length, after numberless hardships and dangers, we arrived at civilized Europe, and forgot all we had suffered. As I came nearer my native land, I grew more and more impatient to reach it; and when I had set foot on it, I was still more restless till I could see again my beloved home.

“Here I am at last—happy in bringing back a sound constitution and a clear conscience. I have also brought enough of the relics of my honest gains to furnish a little farm in the neighbourhood, where I mean to sit down and spend my days in the midst of those whom I love better than all the world besides.”

When Edward had finished, kisses and kind shakes of the hand were again repeated, and his mother brought out a large slice of harvest-cake, with a bottle of her nicest currant-wine, to refresh him after his day’s march. “You are come,” said his father, “at a lucky time, for this is our harvest-supper. We shall have some of our neighbours to make merry with us, who will be almost as glad to see you as we are—for you were always a favourite among them.”

It was not long before the visiters arrived. The young folks ran out to meet them, crying, “Our Edward’s come back—our Edward’s come home! Here he is—this is he;” and so without ceremony they introduced them.

“Welcome!—welcome!—God bless you!” sounded on all sides. Edward knew all the elderly ones at first sight, but the young people puzzled him for awhile. At length he recollected this to have been his schoolfellow, and that his companion in driving plough; and he was not long in finding out his favourite and playfellow Sally, of the next farmhouse, whom he left a romping girl of fifteen, and now saw a blooming full-formed young woman of three-and-twenty. He contrived in the evening to get next her: and though she was somewhat reserved at first, they had pretty well renewed their intimacy before the company broke up.

“Health to Edward, and a happy settlement among us!” was the parting toast. When all were retired, the _Returned Wanderer_ went to rest in the very room in which he was born, having first paid fervent thanks to Heaven for preserving him to enjoy a blessing the dearest to his heart.

The Landlord’s Visit, p. 314

EVENING XXVI.
]

DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT OR, SUNDAY MORNING.

It was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church, and the streets were filled with people moving in all directions.

Here, numbers of well-dressed persons, and a long train of charity children, were thronging in at the wide doors of a large handsome church. There, a smaller number, almost equally gay in dress, were entering an elegant meetinghouse. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic congregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one crossing himself with a finger dipped in holy water as he went in. The opposite side of the street was covered with a train of Quakers, distinguished by their plain and neat attire and sedate aspect, who walked without ceremony into a room as plain as themselves, and took their seats, the men on one side, and the women on the other, in silence. A spacious building was filled with an overflowing crowd of Methodists, most of them meanly habited, but decent and serious in demeanour; while a small society of Baptists in the neighbourhood quietly occupied their humble place of assembly.

Presently, the different services began. The church resounded with the solemn organ, and with the indistinct murmurs of a large body of people following the minister in responsive prayers. From the meeting were heard the low psalm, and the single voice of the leader of their devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened by strains of music, the tinkling of a small bell, and a perpetual change of service and ceremonial. A profound silence and unvarying look and posture announced the self-recollection and mental devotion of the Quakers.

Mr. Ambrose led his son Edwin round all these different assemblies as a spectator. Edwin viewed everything with great attention, and was often impatient to inquire of his father the meaning of what he saw; but Mr. Ambrose would not suffer him to disturb any of the congregation even by a whisper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a greater number of questions to put to his father, who explained everything put to him in the best manner he could. At length says Edwin:—

“But why cannot all these people agree to go to the same place, and worship God the same way?”

“And why should they agree?” replied his father. “Don’t you see that people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dress alike, and eat and drink alike, and keep the same hours, and use the same diversions?”

“Ay—but those are things in which they have a right to do as they please.”

“And they have a right, too, to worship God as they please. It is their own business, and concerns none but themselves.”

“But has not God ordered particular ways of worshipping him?”

“He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshipped, but not the particular form or manner. That is left for every one to choose, according as suits his temper and opinions. All these people like their own way best, and why should they leave it for the choice of another? Religion is one of the things in which _mankind were made to differ_.”

The several congregations now began to be dismissed, and the street was again overspread with persons of all the different sects, going promiscuously to their respective homes. It chanced that a poor man fell down in the street in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His wife and children stood round him crying and lamenting in the bitterest distress. The beholders immediately flocked round, and with looks and expressions of the warmest compassion, gave their help. A Churchman raised the man from the ground by lifting him under the arms, while a Dissenter held his head, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A Roman Catholic lady took out her smelling-bottle, and assiduously applied it to his nose. A Methodist ran for a doctor. A Quaker supported and comforted the woman, and a Baptist took care of the children.

Edwin and his father were among the spectators. “Here,” said Mr. Ambrose, “is a thing in _which mankind were made to agree_.”

THE LANDLORD’S VISIT.—A DRAMA.

Scene—_A room in a farmhouse_. BETTY, _the farmer’s wife_; FANNY, _a
young woman grown up_; _children of various ages differently employed_.

_Enter_ LANDLORD.

_Landlord._ Good morning to you, Betty.

_Betty._ Ah!—is it your honour? How do you do, sir? how are madam and all the good family?

_Land._ Very well, thank you; and how are you, and all yours?

_Bet._ Thank your honour—all pretty well. Will you please to sit down? Ours is but a little crowded place, but there is a clean corner. Set out the chair for his honour, Mary.

_Land._ I think everything is very clean. What, John’s in the field, I suppose?

_Bet._ Yes, sir, with his two eldest sons, sowing and harrowing.

_Land._ Well, and here are two, three, four, six; all the rest of your stock, I suppose.—All as busy as bees!

_Bet._ Ay, your honour! These are not times to be idle in. John and I have always worked hard, and we bring up our children to work too. There’s none of them, except the youngest, but can do something.

_Land._ You do very rightly. With industry and sobriety there is no fear of their getting a living, come what may. I wish many gentlemen’s children had as good a chance.

_Bet._ Lord! sir, if they have fortunes ready got for them, what need they care?

_Land._ But fortunes are easier to spend than to get; and when they are at the bottom of the purse, what must they do to fill it again?

_Bet._ Nay, that’s true, sir; and we have reason enough to be thankful, that we are able and willing to work, and have a good landlord to live under.

_Land._ Good tenants deserve good landlords; and I have been long acquainted with your value. Come, little folks, I have brought something for you.

[_Takes out cakes._

_Bet._ Why don’t you thank his honour?

_Land._ I did not think you had a daughter so old as that young woman.

_Bet._ No more I have, sir. She is not my own daughter, though she is as good as one to me.

_Land._ Some relation, then, I suppose?

_Bet._ No, sir, none at all.

_Land._ Who is she, then?

_Bet._ (_whispering_). When she is gone out, I will tell your honour.—(_aloud._) Go, Fanny, and take some milk to the young calf in the stable.

[_Exit_ Fanny.

_Land._ A pretty modest-looking young woman, on my word!

_Bet._ Ay, sir—and as good as she is pretty. You must know, sir, that this young woman is a stranger from a great way off. She came here quite by accident, and has lived with us above a twelvemonth. I’ll tell your honour all about it if you choose.

_Land._ Pray do—I am curious to hear it. But first favour me with a draught of your whey.

_Bet._ I beg your pardon, sir, for not offering it. Run, Mary, and fetch his honour some fresh whey in a clean basin.

[Mary _goes_.

_Land._ Now, pray, begin your story.

_Bet._ Well, sir—As our John was coming from work one evening, he saw at some distance on the road a carrier’s wagon overturned. He ran up to help, and found a poor old gentlewoman lying on the back much hurt, and this girl sitting beside her, crying. My good man, after he had helped in setting the wagon to rights, went to them, and with a good deal of difficulty got the gentlewoman into the wagon again, and walked by the side of it to our house. He called me out and we got something comfortable for her; but she was so ill that she could not bear to be carried farther. So after consulting a while, we took her into the house, and put her to bed. Her head was sadly hurt, and she seemed to grow worse instead of better. We got a doctor to her, and did our best to nurse her, but all would not do, and we soon found she was likely to die. Poor Fanny, her grand-daughter, never left her day or night; and it would have gone to your honour’s heart, to have heard the pitiful moan she made over her. She was the only friend she had in the world, she said; and what would become of her if she were to lose her? Fanny’s father and mother were both dead, and she was going with her grandmother into the north, where the old gentlewoman came from, to live cheap, and to try to find out some relations. Well—to make my story short, in a few days the poor woman died. There was a little more money about her than would serve to pay her doctor and bury her. Fanny was in sad trouble, indeed. I thought she would never have left her grandmother’s grave. She cried and wrung her hands most bitterly. But I tire your honour.

_Land._ O no! I am much interested in your story.

_Bet._ We comforted her as well as we could; but all her cry was, “What will become of me? Where must I go? Who will take care of me?” So after a while, said I to John, “Poor creature! my heart grieves for her. Perhaps she would like to stay with us—though she seems to have been brought up in a way of living different from ours, too; but what can she do, left to herself in the wide world!” So my husband agreed that I should ask her. When I mentioned it to her, poor thing! how her countenance altered! “O,” said she, “I wish for nothing so much as to stay and live with you! I am afraid I can do but little to serve you, but indeed I will learn to do my best.” Said I: “Do no more than you like; you are welcome to stay and partake with us as long as you please.” Well, sir! she stayed with us; and set about learning to do all kind of our work with such good-will, and so handily, that she soon became my best helper. And she is so sweet-tempered, and so fond of us and the children, that I love her as well as if she was my own child. She has been well brought up, I am sure. She can read, and write, and work with her needle, a great deal better than we can, and when work is over, she teaches the children. Then she is extraordinarily well-behaved, so as to be admired by all that see her.—So your honour has now the story of our Fanny.

_Land._ I thank you heartily for it, my good Betty! It does much credit both to you and Fanny. But pray, what is her surname?

_Bet._ It is—let me see—I think it is Welford.

_Land._ Welford! that is a name I am acquainted with. I should be glad to talk with her a little.

_Bet._ I will call her in then.

[_Enter_ Fanny.

_Land._ Come hither, young woman; I have heard your story, and been much interested by it. You are an orphan, I find.

_Fanny._ Yes, sir; a poor orphan.

_Land._ Your name is Welford?

_Fan._ It is, sir.

_Land._ Where did your parents live?

_Fan._ In London, sir; but they died when I was very young, and I went to my grandmother’s in Surrey.

_Land._ Was she your father’s mother? You will excuse my questions. I do not ask from idle curiosity.

_Fan._ She was, sir; and had been long a widow.

_Land._ Do you know what her maiden name was?

_Fan._ It was Borrowdale, sir.

_Land._ Borrowdale!—And pray, whither were you going when the unfortunate accident happened?

_Fan._ To Kendal in Westmoreland, sir, near which my grandmother was born.

_Land._ Ah! ‘tis the very same—every circumstance corresponds! My dear Fanny (_taking her hand_), you have found a relation when you little thought of it. I am your kinsman. My mother was a Borrowdale, of Westmoreland, and half-sister to your grandmother. I have heard of all your parentage; and I remember the death of your poor father, who was a very honest ingenious artist: and of your mother soon after, of a broken heart. I could never discover what family they left, nor what was become of my kinswoman. But I rejoice I have found you out in this extraordinary manner. You must come and live with me. My wife and daughters will be very glad to receive one whose conduct has done her so much credit.

_Fan._ I am much obliged to you, sir, for your kindness; but I am too mean a person to live as a relation in a family like yours.

_Land._ O no! you will not find us of that sort who despise worthy people for being low in the world; and your language and actions show that you have been well brought up.

_Fan._ My poor grandmother, sir, was so kind as to give me all the education in her power; and if I have not somewhat benefited by her example and instructions, it must have been my own fault.

_Land._ You speak very well, and I feel more attached to you, the more I hear you.—Well, you must prepare to come home with me. I will take care to make proper acknowledgments to the good people here who have been so kind to you.

_Bet._ My dear Fanny, I am heartily glad of your good fortune, but we shall all be sorry to part with you.

_Fan._ I am sure, my dear friend and mistress, I shall be sorry too. You received me when I had no other friend in the world, and you treated me like your own child. I can never forget what I owe you.

_Enter_ John, _and his eldest son_ Thomas.

_John._ Is your honour here?

_Land._ Yes, John; and I have found something worth coming for.

_John._ What is that, sir?

_Land._ A relation, John. This young woman whom you have so kindly entertained, is my kinswoman.

_John._ What—our Fanny?

_Thomas._ Fanny!

_Land._ Yes, indeed. And, after thanking you for your kindness to her and her poor grandmother, I mean to take her home for a companion to my wife and daughters.

_John._ This is wonderful news, indeed! Well, Fanny, I am very glad you have got such a home to go to—you are worthy of it—but we shall miss you much here.

_Bet._ So I have been telling her.

_Thom._ (_aside to_ Fanny). What, will you leave us, Fanny? Must we part?

_Fan._ (_aside to him_). What can I do, Thomas?

_Land._ There seems some unwillingness to part, I see, on more sides than one.

_Bet._ Indeed, sir, I believe there is. We have lived very happily together.

_Thom._ (_aside to Fanny_). I see we must part with you, but I hope—Surely you won’t quite forget us?

_Fan._ (_to him_). You distress me, Thomas. Forget you! O no!

_Land._ Come, I see there is something between the young folks that ought to be spoken about plainly. Do you explain it, Betty.

_Bet._ Why, your honour knows, we could not tell that Fanny was your relation. So, as my son Thomas and she seemed to take a liking to one another, and she was such a clever girl, we did not object to their thinking about making a match of it, as soon as he should be settled in a farm.

_John._ But that must be over now.

_Thom._ Why so, father?

_John._ Why; you can’t think of his honour’s kinswoman.

_Land._ Come, Fanny, do you decide this affair.

_Fan._ Sir, Thomas offered me his service when he thought me a poor friendless girl, and I might think myself favoured by his notice. He gained my good will, which no change of circumstances can make me withdraw. It is my determination to join my lot with his, be it what it may.

_Thom._ My dearest Fanny!

[_Taking her hand._

_Land._ You act nobly, my dear girl, and make me proud of my relation. You shall have my free consent, and something handsome into the bargain.

_Bet._ Heaven bless your honour! I know it would have been a heartbreaking to my poor boy to have parted with her. Dear Fanny!

[_Kisses her._

_Land._ I have a farm just now vacant. Thomas shall take it, and Fanny’s portion shall stock it for him.

_Thom._ I humbly thank your honour.

_John._ I thank you too, sir, for us all.

_Fan._ Sir, since you have been so indulgent in this matter, give me leave to request you to be satisfied with my paying my duty to the ladies, without going to live in a way so different from what I have been used to, and must live in hereafter. I think I can be nowhere better than with my friends and future parents here.

_Land._ Your request, Fanny, has so much propriety and good sense in it, that I cannot refuse it. However, you must suffer us to improve our acquaintance. I assure you it will give me particular pleasure.

_Fan._ Sir, you will always command my most grateful obedience.

_Land._ Well—let Thomas bring you to my house this afternoon, and I will introduce you to your relations, and we will talk over matters. Farewell, my dear! Nay, I must have a kiss.

_Fan._ I will wait on you, sir.

[_Exit Landlord._

_Bet._ My dear Fanny—daughter I may now call you—you cannot think how much I feel obliged to you.

_Thom._ But who is so much obliged as I am?

_Fan._ Do you not all deserve everything from me?

_John._ Well, who could have thought when I went to help up the wagon, that it would have brought so much good luck to us?

_Bet._ A good deed is never lost they say.

_Fan._ It shall be the business of my life to prove that this has not been lost.

ON EMBLEMS.

“Pray, papa,” said Cecilia, “what is an _emblem_? I have met with the word in my lesson to-day, and I do not quite understand it.”

“An emblem, my dear,” replied he, “is a visible image of an invisible thing.”

_Cecilia._ A visible image of—I can hardly comprehend—

_Pa._ Well, I will explain it more at length. There are certain notions that we form in our minds without the help of our eyes or any of our senses. Thus, Virtue, Vice, Honour, Disgrace, Time, Death, and the like, are not sensible objects, but ideas of the understanding.

_Cec._ Yes—We cannot feel them or see them, but we can think about them.

_Pa._ True. Now it sometimes happens that we wish to represent one of these in a visible form; that is, to offer something to the sight that shall raise a similar notion in the minds of the beholders. In order to do this, we must take some action or circumstance belonging to it, capable of being expressed by painting or sculpture, and this is called a _type_ or _emblem_.

_Cec._ But how can this be done?

_Pa._ I will tell you by an example. You know the sessions-house, where trials are held. It would be easy to write over the door in order to distinguish it, “This is the sessions-house;” but it is a more ingenious and elegant way of pointing it out, to place upon the building a figure representing the purpose for which it was erected, namely, to distribute _justice_. For this end the notion of justice is to be _personified_, that is, changed from an idea of the understanding into one of the sight. A human figure is therefore made, distinguished by tokens which bear a relation to the character of that virtue. Justice carefully _weighs_ both sides of a cause; she is therefore represented as holding a _pair of scales_. It is her office to _punish_ crimes; she therefore bears a _sword_. This is then an _emblematical figure_, and the sword and scales are _emblems_.

_Cec._ I understand this very well. But why is she blindfolded?

_Pa._ To denote her impartiality—that she decides only from the merits of the case, and not from a view of the parties.

_Cec._ How can she weigh anything, though, when her eyes are blinded?

_Pa._ Well objected. These are two inconsistent emblems; each proper in itself, but when used together, making a contradictory action. An artist of judgment will therefore drop one of them; and accordingly the best modern figures of Justice have the balance and sword, without the bandage over the eyes.

_Cec._ Is there not the same fault in making Cupid blindfolded, and yet putting a bow and arrow into his hands?

_Pa._ There is. It is a gross absurdity, and not countenanced by the ancient descriptions of Cupid, who is represented as the surest of all archers.

_Cec._ I have a figure of _Death_ in my fable-book. I suppose that is emblematical?

_Pa._ Certainly, or you could not know that it meant Death. How is it represented?

_Cec._ He is nothing but bones, and he holds a scythe in one hand, and an hour-glass in the other.

_Pa._ Well—how do you interpret these emblems?

_Cec._ I suppose he is all bones, because nothing but bones are left after a dead body has lain long in the grave.

_Pa._ True. This, however, is not so properly an emblem, as the real and visible effect of death. But the scythe?

_Cec._ Is not that because death mows down everything?

_Pa._ It is. No instrument could so properly represent the wide-wasting sway of death, which sweeps down the race of animals like flowers falling under the hands of the mower. It is a simile used in the Scriptures.

_Cec._ The hour-glass, I suppose, is to show people their time is come.

_Pa._ Right. In the hour-glass that Death holds, all the sand is run out from the upper to the lower part. Have you never observed upon a monument an old figure, with wings, and a scythe, and with his head bald all but a single lock before?

_Cec._ O yes;—and I have been told it is _Time_.

_Pa._ Well—and what do you make of it? Why is he old?

_Cec._ O! because he has lasted a long while.

_Pa._ And why has he wings?

_Cec._ Because Time is swift, and flies away.

_Pa._ What does his scythe mean?

_Cec._ I suppose it is because he destroys and cuts down everything, like Death.

_Pa._ True. I think, however, a weapon rather slower in operation, as a pick-axe, would have been more suitable to the gradual action of time. But what is his single lock of hair for?

_Cec._ I have been thinking, and cannot make it out.

_Pa._ I thought that would puzzle you. It relates to time as giving _opportunity_ for doing anything. It is to be seized as it presents itself, or it will escape, and cannot be recovered. Thus the proverb says, “Take Time by the forelock.” Well—now you understand what emblems are.

_Cec._ Yes, I think I do. I suppose the painted sugar-loaves over the grocer’s shop, and the mortar over the apothecary’s, are emblems, too?

_Pa._ Not so properly. They are only the pictures of things which are themselves the objects of sight, as the real sugar-loaf in the shop of the grocer, and the real mortar in that of the apothecary. However, an implement belonging to a particular rank or profession is commonly used as an emblem to point out the man exercising that rank or profession. Thus, a crown is considered as an emblem of a king; a sword, or spear, of a soldier; an anchor, of a sailor; and the like.

_Cec._ I remember Captain Heartwell, when he came to see us, had the figure of an anchor on all his buttons.

_Pa._ He had. That was the emblem or badge of his belonging to the navy.

_Cec._ But you told me that an emblem was a visible sign of an invisible thing; yet a sea-captain is not an invisible thing.

_Pa._ He is not invisible as a man, but his profession is invisible.

_Cec._ I do not well understand that.

_Pa._ Profession is a _quality_, belonging equally to a number of individuals, however different they may be in external form and appearance. It may be added or taken away without any visible change. Thus, if Captain Heartwell were to give up his commission, he would appear to you the same man as before. It is plain, therefore, that what in that case he had lost, namely, his profession, was a thing invisible. It is one of those ideas of the understanding which I before mentioned to you as different from a sensible idea.

_Cec._ I comprehend it now.

_Pa._ I have got here a few emblematical pictures. Suppose you try whether you can find out their meaning.

_Cec._ O yes—I shall like that very well.

_Pa._ Here is a man standing on the summit of a steep cliff, and going to ascend a ladder which he has planted against a cloud.

_Cec._ Let me see!—that must be _Ambition_, I think.

_Pa._ How do you explain it?

_Cec._ He is got very high already, but he wants to be still higher; so he ventures up the ladder, though it is only supported by a cloud, and hangs over a precipice.

_Pa._ Very right. Here is now another man, hood-winked, who is crossing a raging torrent upon stepping-stones.

_Cec._ Then he will certainly fall in. I suppose he is one that runs into danger without considering whither he is going?

_Pa._ Yes; and you may call him _Fool-hardiness_. Do you see this hand coming out of a black cloud, and putting an extinguisher upon a lamp?

_Cec._ I do. If that lamp be the lamp of life, the hand that extinguishes it must be _Death_.

_Pa._ Very just. Here is an old, half-ruined building, supported by props; and the figure of Time is sawing through one of the props.

_Cec._ That must be _Old Age_, surely.

_Pa._ It is. The next is a man leaning upon a breaking crutch.

_Cec._ I don’t well know what to make of that.

_Pa._ It is intended for _Instability_; however, it might also stand for _False Confidence_. Here is a man poring over a sundial with a candle in his hand.

_Cec._ I am at a loss for that, too.

_Pa._ Consider—a sundial is only made to tell the hour by the light of the sun.

_Cec._ Then this man must know nothing about it.

_Pa._ True; and his name is therefore _Ignorance_. Here is a walking-stick, the lower part of which is set in the water, and it appears crooked. What does that denote?

_Cec._ Is the stick really crooked?

_Pa._ No; but it is the property of water to give that appearance.

_Cec._ Then it must signify _Deception_.

_Pa._ It does. I dare say you will at once know this fellow who is running as fast as his legs will carry him, and looking back at his shadow.