Chapter III: Part 3

Here the cottager called to his wife, and told her to bring a jug of their ale. Mr. Jackson drank some of it, and confessed that it was admirably calculated to make peace among his neighbours in the village, especially when administered by so able a hand, who knew how to extract friendship from the very means that often produce strife and disaffection.

By this time the storm was entirely abated, Nature had put off her gloomy aspect, and the returning sun began to enliven every thing. Mr. Jackson took a friendly leave, and promised to see them again in a few days. On his return home, "Who would not," said he to himself, "prefer the healthful age of this good cottager, happy in his own esteem and the love of others, to the vanity of those great men, who make no other use of their abundance, than to set examples of luxury and dissipation, who make light of public scorn and hatred, and whom the very grave will not protect from infamy and execration!"

_The Indolent Beauty._

We too often see beauty contaminated by vanity, and a fine genius by indolence. Bella was the only daughter of a tender and affectionate mother, whose virtue and discretion were a source of happiness to her family, and a credit to her sex. Bella, on her arrival at six years of age, afforded every symptom of a good heart, complaisance, affability, and a tolerable share of understanding. This was the glaring part of the picture; for the shade afforded a strange attachment to indolence, and a disgust to every species of refined education.

Though her mother possessed all the talents necessary for an excellent instructress, yet she had never before any opportunity of reducing them to practice, and an only child was not perhaps the most proper object for her experience in the science of juvenile education. It should ever be one important point with parents, never to give up a command they have once laid on their children, but punctually to insist on its performance. The observation of this rule would frequently save a great deal of uneasiness to both parents and children.

Her mother could not think of applying even the most tender correction, and the use of threatenings only added to her own uneasiness. She hoped, as her daughter grew older, she would become more sensible of her indolence and inattention to business, and, as she ripened in years, would proportionably increase in sense and judgment; but the older the twig grew the less pliant it became, and what might have been accomplished in its younger state, was by time become almost impracticable.

Bella, however, when she arrived at eight years of age, showed very little inclination to make any alteration in her conduct; the little creature's idleness rather increased than diminished, and she began to be troublesome even to herself. Her mother now conceived the plan of putting down on paper, every evening, the value of such things as she had lost or spoiled in the course of the day, in consequence of her carelessness and invincible indolence.

Her mother had flattered herself that Bella, when she came to know the value of money, would act in a more prudent manner; but she read over the account with the utmost indifference, and considered the sums there mentioned as too insignificant for her notice and attention. A pretended head-ache was almost her constant excuse to avoid her attendance on her masters; and thus, though naturally sincere, she began to accustom herself to deviate from the truth.

Bella had reached her thirteenth year, without the least appearance of alteration in her conduct, and the lost and broken account, kept by her mother, was increased to a large sum. One irregularity, if not timely checked, brings on others; and thus Bella to indolence soon added inconsistence. She presently grew tired of every thing; her harpsichord, which was one week her favourite instrument, was the next discarded with disgust, to make room for the guitar; and this, in a short time after, for something else. She had masters to teach her geography, French, and Italian; writing, accounts, dancing, drawing, and music. These added to her mother's long catalogue of expences, contributed but little to her improvement.

It is natural to suppose, that when the follies of youth are not early corrected, they will, like pernicious weeds, thrive so fast as to check the growth of every thing that is valuable in the same soil. Hence it happened, that after three years more had elapsed, the lovely Bella, instead of growing wiser by age, as her mother had vainly expected, became more indolent, whimsical, and capricious. All the money paid to her masters was thrown away, she learned nothing, and was in fact little more than an _ignorant beauty_: a character I most sincerely wish is not applicable to any of my fair readers, since nothing can be more dangerous, pernicious, and derogatory to female reputation.

At this period of her folly, a young gentleman of fortune and character, whom I shall call by the name of Honestus, among other company, visited the parents of Bella. He was struck with her charms, and immediately conceived some thought of paying his addresses to that capricious beauty; but, when he learned what was her character, he declined all thoughts of forming such a connection.

The tender mother did not fail to represent this disappointment to her daughter, who was then of an age capable to receive remonstrances of that nature. To her natural disposition for indolence she had now added pride, the forerunner of all evils to a female mind. Instead of properly feeling the reproaches of a tender mother, she haughtily replied, "It is true, I have lost a great deal of time, and have not improved myself much from the lessons of my masters; but what need have I of learning, when my parents are so rich, and you yourself acknowledge I am so pretty?"

As soon as Bella had attained her eighteenth year, she began to think herself happy in being no longer incommoded with the visits of her teachers; so, when a young lady arrives at that age, she is supposed to be accomplished in point of education, and has nothing else to do but to apply herself to the application of those rules she learned from her masters. Alas! this was not the case of the lovely Bella: she had learned nothing but those principles which never fail to be pernicious to the youthful mind.

That morning, which on its opening appeared to her so delightful and brilliant, was soon enveloped in dark and heavy clouds. Her mother entered her chamber with a countenance that convinced Bella something was amiss. After an awful pause, she thus addressed her daughter: "My dear child, you are this day eighteen years of age; but I fear your education is far short of what it now ought to be. I fear the indulgences I have granted you have made you too vain of yourself, and have fatally induced you to believe, that you had less occasion for an education than others. Will beauty make you lovely? separated from the graces of the mind, it will not so much as please. Are you not always uneasy in yourself, and constantly dissatisfied with others? Besides, rich as you imagine your father to be, are you sure that, while we are now speaking, he is not a ruined and undone man?"

The last words awakened in the bosom of Bella all the alarms which an unexpected disappointment to ambition is capable of feeling. Her mother got up, and left the room without saying any thing more.

The apprehensions of Bella on this occasion were but too well founded; for, in a few days after this conversation, her father stopped payment. This imprudent gentleman, not contented with a fortune of six thousand pounds a year, engaged in a very hazardous undertaking, which, happening to fail, brought on a bankruptcy. He had all his life been the child of fortune, and therefore made but a poor pupil in the school of adversity: he took this matter so to heart, that in spite of all the care and attention of his wife and daughter, he soon bid adieu to the cares of this world, and fled for repose to the next. He died perfectly sensible, exhorting those around him, never to give way to the emotions of avarice and rapacity, since these first brought him to ruin, and then to his grave.

His wife undoubtedly felt this shock severely, though she supported it with Christian fortitude. She had a small jointure, which the creditors could not, nor did they wish to touch. Having performed the duties of the last funeral rites to her husband, she and her daughter retired to a private situation in the west of England, where every necessary article of life was cheaper than in the metropolis.

Bella, however, behaved with all the propriety that could be expected from a repenting daughter, and made every effort she was capable of to console her unhappy mother. She would frequently reproach herself with her past negligence, and reckon up the vast sums of money that had been squandered away upon her to so little purpose.

Bella had valued herself much on the fortune she supposed herself born to; but it pleased Providence to deprive her of it. She had, however, her beauty still left to boast of; but even of this she was soon to be deprived. Be cautious, my youthful readers, how you place too great a confidence in the possession of wealth and beauty, since they are fleeting as the wind, and as unsteady as the vessel on the troubled billows of the ocean. Fortify your minds with religion and virtue, and a proper knowledge of the useful sciences; the storms and hurricanes of Fortune may then attack you, but you will always safely withstand their rage, and deride their fury.

One evening, while she was bewailing her past neglect, and vowing a reform for the future, she was seized with a head-ache, and being otherwise very ill, she went to bed. The next morning a violent fever seized her, and a physician being sent for, her disorder was declared to be that which is frequently so fatal to female beauty.

It was one of the most unpromising kind; the doctors could say but little, and the mother was driven to despair. Day after day, and night after night, her mother never left her bed-side, but was constantly with her, in a state of uncertainty, worse than that of death itself. The afflicted Bella became delirious, the disorder made a rapid progress, and her eyes were soon excluded from the light.

Though this circumstance is not uncommon in this fatal disorder, and therefore did not at first create any alarm in her mother, yet at last it increased to such a dangerous height, that the physicians were no longer able to dissemble matters, and candidly confessed their apprehensions, that her daughter would be blind all her life. Judge, if you can, what must be the feelings of a tender mother on so trying a calamity!

However, youth got the better of her disorder, very contrary to the expectation of her mother, the physicians, and every one around her; she also recovered her sight, but there were left terrible marks on her face of the devastation it had there made. As soon as she was able to walk about the room, she looked in the glass, and then exclaimed: "Ah! what is become of that lovely face, of which the proud Bella so lately boasted? Has cruel fortune robbed her of all she boasted, of all she valued herself for but a month ago, her fortune and her beauty? I am justly punished, and I will patiently submit."

Bella, thus instructed by misfortune, soon conquered her indolence, and all her former imperfections; a sudden revolution took place, and her very nature seemed to be reformed. Her mother's conversation now became delightful to her, and she began to sit down to study with unwearied attention. Reading, music, and drawing were her daily amusements; and so great were her improvements therein, that she soon made up for the time she had before thrown away in the most shameful indolence.

Her beauty was indeed vanished, but the improvements she made in her mind procured her more friends than she was ever before able to acquire by the charms of her person. Her shape was still truly elegant, and her eyes and countenance were still expressive of the vivacity of her heart. She was no longer expensive in her dress, though she was always neat and fashionable.--Though her visitors did not look upon her with that astonishment as formerly, yet they soon became captivated with the charms of her mind and the politeness of her conversation.

Two years had passed away in this retired situation, when Honestus, who had long before ceased to think of making a partner of Bella, on account of her capricious and indolent temper, being on some business in that quarter, called on the mother and daughter to see them. He was introduced into a parlour elegantly furnished, and adorned with pictures. "Is not this," said the lady, "a neat apartment? Every thing you here see, and these drawings in particular, are the works of my daughter."

Honestus was much surprised at hearing what he considered as a tale, and his looks expressed his incredulity. He turned round, and stedfastly gazing on the face of Bella, was equally astonished at seeing her so changed. "Is this the lovely creature," said he to himself, "with whose beauty I was once so much enraptured, and whom I forsook on account of her pride, vanity, and indolence!"

Out of politeness he entered into conversation with her, and found in her a most pleasing alteration: before she was a beauty without sense; now she had lost the charms of her face, but had found those of the mind, which are infinitely the most to be valued.

Honestus passed day after day in the company of Bella, whose conversation was so pleasing and attracting, that he began to feel himself uneasy when she was out of his sight. In order, therefore, that he might enjoy the pleasure of her company without interruption, he offered her his hand for life. "You certainly deserve her," said her mother, "since you refused her in the bloom of her beauty, when her fortune too afforded the most splendid promises, and now admire her when they are both for ever vanished."

Though the fortune of Honestus was not very splendid, yet it was sufficient, with the assistance of his trade, to keep up a genteel appearance, and to provide decently for a family, should such be the consequence of their marriage. They soon quitted this rural retreat and returned to London, where they now live in the enjoyment of all those pleasures which conjugal love, friendship, and virtue are capable of producing.

Let my youthful readers reflect on what they have here read, and they will then become sensible how vain and momentary, how fickle and inconstant are the possession of riches and beauty. They are like habitations built on the sands of the ocean, which are perpetually liable to be swept away by the violence of winds and floods. I mean not, that fortune and beauty are to be spised, I mean only that they should be used properly, and that the possessor of them should not vainly imagine, that they will supply the place of education, industry, benevolence, charity, and virtue.

_An Oriental Tale._

Time, the devourer of all things, has permitted me to be the spectator of a long series of events. The colour of my locks is now changed to that of the swans, which sport in the gardens of the mighty kings of the earth. Age and experience have taught me to believe, that the sovereign Disposer of our destinies has given to man a heart susceptible of virtue, and a soul capable of tasting the pleasures which arise from doing good. A noble and disinterested action must somewhere meet with its reward. Listen, O sons of Adam! listen to my faithful tale.

In one of those delightful valleys which cut the chain of the mountains in Arabia, for a long time lived a rich pastor. He was happy because he was contented, and his happiness consisted in doing good. One day, as he was walking on the enamelled borders of a purling stream, under the shade of a grove of palm-trees, which extended their verdant branches even to the heads of the lofty cedars with which the mountain was crowned, he heard a voice that frequently echoed into the valley the most piercing cries, and sometimes low murmuring plaints, which were lost in the noise of the torrent.

The venerable pastor hastened to the place from whence the voice proceeded, when he saw a young man prostrate on the sand, at the foot of a rock. His garment was torn, and his hair, in wild confusion, covered his face, on which were easily to be traced the flowers of beauty, faded by grief: tears trickled down his cheeks, and his head was sunk on his bosom: he appeared like the rose which the rude blast of a storm had leveled to the earth. The pastor was touched at the sight: he approached the youth, and said to him, "O child of Grief! hasten to my arms. Let me press to my bosom the offspring of Despair!"

The youth lifted up his head in mournful silence; in astonishment he fixed his eyes on the pastor; for he supposed no human being was capable of feeling for his sufferings. The sight of so venerable a figure inspired him with confidence, and he perceived in his eyes the tear of pity and the fire of generosity. If to a generous soul it is pleasure to complain, and unfold the latent secrets of the heart, that pleasure surely must be heightened when we complain to those who will not shut their ears to the voice of truth, but will weigh every thing in the scale of reason, even though those truths may be disagreeable, and such as they wish to have no existence.

The youth rose up, covered with dust, and, as he flew to the arms of the pastor, uttered cries which the neighbouring mountains trebly echoed. "O my father!" said he: "O my father!" when he had a little recovered himself, after the tender embraces and the wise counsels of the old man who asked him many questions.

"It is," continued the unfortunate youth, "behind those lofty cedars, which you behold on those high mountains, it is there dwells Shel-Adar, the father of Fatima. The abode of my father is not far distant from thence. Fatima is the most beautiful damsel of all those in the mountains. I offered my service to Shel-Adar, to conduct one particular part of his flock, and he granted me my request. The father of Fatima is rich; mine is poor. I fell in love with Fatima, and she fell in love with me. Her father perceived it, and I was ordered to retire from the quarter in which lived every thing that was dear to my heart.

"I besought Shel-Adar, in the most suppliant terms, to permit me to attend his far-distant flocks, where I could have no opportunity to speak to the object of my soul. My entreaties were in vain, and I was ordered instantly to retire. My mother is no more; but I have an aged father, and two brothers so young, that they can yet hardly reach the most humble of the palm-tree branches. They have long depended on me for support; but that support is now at an end. Let me die, hoary-headed sire, and put an end to my woes!"

The pastor went instantly in search of Shel-Adar, and having found him, thus addressed him. "A dove from Aleppo took refuge at Damos, and lived with a dove of that country. The master feared that the dove from Aleppo would one day entice away his companion, and therefore caused them to be separated. They would eat no grain but that which they received when together; they languished; they died. O Shel-Adar! separate not those who cannot live unless they live together!"

Shel-Adar listened with attention to the words of the pastor; and, when he found that the flock and the horses he had brought with him were now given to the bewailing youth, he took Fatima by the hand, and led her to the arms of her lover. They then retired to the neighbouring grove, where the nymphs and swains from the mountains assembled around them, crowned them with garlands, and in circles tripped over the enamelled grass to the sweet notes of the lute.

The day had passed too swiftly, when the twinkling stars appearing in the heavens, gave the signal for retiring each to their habitation. The reverend pastor then withdrew, but not till he had uttered these words:--

"Listen, ye tender branches, to your parent stock; bend to the lessons of instruction, and imbibe the maxims of age and experience. As the pismire creeps not to its labour till fed by its elder, as the young eagle soars not to the sun but under the shadow of its mother's wings, so neither doth the child of mortality spring forth to action, unless the parent hand point out its destined labour. Dangerous are the desires of pleasure, and mean the pursuits of the sons of the earth. They stretch out their sinews like the patient mule; they persevere, with the swiftness of the camel in the desert, in their pursuit of trifles. As the leopard springs on his prey, so does man rejoice over his riches, and, like the lion's cub, basks in the sunshine of slothfulness. On the stream of life float the bodies of the careless and intemperate, as the carcasses of the dead on the waves of the Tigris. Wish not to enjoy life longer than you wish to do good."

The worthy pastor then retired, and the moon darted forth her glimmering lights to illumine the way to his habitation. The amiable young shepherd and shepherdess, being now left by themselves, "My adorable Fatima," said the youth, "let us not retire to repose till we have offered up our most grateful thanks to him, whose throne is as far above that of earthly princes, as all the waters of the mighty ocean exceed one single drop falling from the clouds. To him we owe all the gratification of our wishes, and to him alone we must hereafter look up as our friend, guardian, and protector. May it be recorded in after times, that among these mountains once lived the happy Fatima and Dorillis, whose affections for each other, whose universal benevolence to all within the narrow sphere of their knowledge, and whose virtues and piety have left an example worthy the imitation of all who wish and know how to be happy."

_Generosity rewarded._

Of all the graces that contribute to adorn the human mind, there are perhaps none, more estimable than generosity and gratitude. To define the exact boundary between generosity and profusion, is not perhaps easy, since every one will explain it by the ideas they have of their own motives for action; yet how far soever avarice may have deprived some men of every spark of generosity, yet those very men fail not to expect it from others, and are sure to complain bitterly of those who do not display it in all their actions.

Nothing can equal the pleasure arising from the glow of a generous heart, which is prompted to a noble action solely from the love of virtue, and who wishes not to make of it a worldly parade. Fame is often purchased by generous donations, which would never have been given, had not popular idolatry been the motive; while others, like the generous man in the following tale, consult only the approbation of their own honest feelings.

One of the califs of Egypt, being in the field of battle, was unexpectedly surrounded by a great number of rebels, who were preparing to give that fatal blow, which would at once have finished his life and put an end to his mortal career. Fortunately for him an Arab happened to be near the spot with other soldiers of his party, who, seeing the situation of the calif, rushed upon the rebels, and soon put them to flight.

The name of this Arab was Nadir, who had for some months lived a wandering life in the most retired and unfrequented places, in order to escape the vengeance of the calif, against whom he had joined the people in a late insurrection.

This generous conduct of Nadir was so much admired by all the Arabians, that the sires still tell it their children among their evening tales. This adventure had the happy effect of perfectly reconciling Nadir to the calif, who, charmed with the generosity of a man who had saved his life, at the very instant he might have destroyed it, promised to place in him an implicit confidence. "But," said the calif, "let me hear how you have passed your time, during your banishment."

"I have been a wandering fugitive," replied Nadir, "ever since your family were elevated to the throne of this empire; conscious that the sword of vengeance was at all times hanging over my head, it became natural for me to seek security in retirement. I found refuge for some time in the house of a friend at Basra; but fearing that my stay in that city might be dangerous, I one night quitted it under the favour of a disguise, and pursued my journey towards the desert.

"I had escaped the vigilance of the guards, and thought myself out of all danger, when a man of a suspicious countenance seized my camel's bridle, and expressed his suspicions that I was the man the calif was in search of, and for the apprehension of whom a very considerable reward had been promised.

"I answered, that I was not the man he was in quest of."--"Is not your name Nadir?" said he. "This disconcerted me, and I could no longer deny myself to be the object of his pursuit. I put my hand into my bosom, and pulling out a jewel of some value, 'Receive,' said I, 'this trifling token of my gratitude, for the important service I hope you will now do me, in keeping silence, and favouring my escape. Should fortune again smile on me, I will share my prosperity with you.'

"He took my diamond, and examined it very attentively, 'Before I put this diamond into my turban, as your gift,' said he, 'I would wish you to answer me one question honestly. I have heard you have been a liberal man, and always ready to assist the poor and necessitous; but did you ever give away one half of your wealth at one time?' I answered in the negative; and he renewed his questions till he came down to one-tenth; when I replied, that I believed I had, at one time, given away more than one-tenth of my whole fortune.

"'If that be the case,' said the man, as soon as I had made him that reply, 'that you may know there is at least one person in the realm more bountiful than yourself, I, who am nothing better than a private soldier, and receive only two dollars per month, return you your jewel, which must certainly be worth three thousand times that money.' Having thus said, he threw me back my diamond, and pursued his journey.

"Astonished at so benevolent and generous an action, I rode after him, and begged him to return. 'Generous friend,' said I to him, 'I would rather be discovered, and forfeit my head, than be thus vanquished in point of generosity. Magnanimous stranger, either I must follow you all day or you must accept this tribute of my gratitude.'

"He then, turning about, said to me, 'Were I to take from you your diamond, I should consider myself as a robber on the highway, since you receive no value from it. Let me advise you to lose no time, but set off for your proposed retreat.' He continued inflexible, and we parted."

The calif knew not which to admire most, the generosity of Nadir or the soldier. A proclamation was published, ordering the generous soldier to appear at the calif's court, that he might receive the reward of his virtues; but all was to no effect, as no one came forward to claim the glorious reward. However, about a twelvemonth afterwards, when Nadir attended the calif at a general review, a private soldier received a blow from his officer, for holding down his head as the calif passed. This drew the attention of Nadir, who, after looking stedfastly in the face of the offending soldier, leaped from his horse, and caught him in his arms. To conclude, this proved to be the man who had so generously treated Nadir, and had endeavoured to shun the reward of his virtues. The calif paid him singular honours; and at last raised him to the highest rank in his army.

_An Evening Vision._

One beautiful, serene, summer evening, after rambling in a grove of laurels, till the lamp of night arose to illumine the objects around me, I seated myself on the bank of a meandering river; a weeping willow spread over me its branches, which bent so humbly as to sweep the stream. An antique tower, partly in ruins, mantled in ivy, and surrounded with yew and cypress, was the only building to be seen.

I had been reading a melancholy tale, which in strong colours impressed itself on my memory, and led me to reflect on the strange pleasure we sometimes feel in perusing the most tragical adventures. What, said I to myself, can occasion it? Can the human heart feel any delight in the misfortunes of others?--Forbid it Heaven!

My eyes were fixed on the surface of the water; the soft beams of Luna sported on the curling waves, and all nature seemed hushed to repose; when a gentle slumber stole upon my senses, and methought a being of angelic form seated herself before me.

A mantle of the palest sapphire hung over her shoulders to the ground, her flaxen hair fell in waving curls on her lovely neck, and a white veil, almost transparent, shaded her face. As she lifted it up, she sighed, and continued for some moments silent. Never did I behold a countenance so delicate; and, notwithstanding a smile sported on her coral lips, her lovely blue eyes were surcharged with tears, and resembled violets dropping with dew. Below her veil she wore a wreath of amarinths and jessamines. "Wonder not," said she, in accents soft as the breath of zephyrs, "that a state of woe can please. I am called _Sensibility_, and have been from my infancy your constant companion. My sire was _Humanity_, and my mother _Sympathy_, the daughter of _Tenderness_. I was born in a cavern, overshadowed with myrtles and orange-trees, at the foot of Parnassus, and consigned to the care of Melpomene, who fed me with honey from Hybla, and lulled me to rest with plaintive songs and melancholy music.

"Down on one side of the cavern ran a stream from Helicon, and in the trees around it the doves and nightingales built their nests. I make it my sole care to augment the felicity of some favoured mortals, who nevertheless repine at my influence, and would gladly be under the dominion of _Apathy_.

"Alas, how inconsiderate! If the rose has thorns, has it not also a balsamic tincture and ambrosial sweetness? If the woodbine droops, laden with the dew drops of the morning, when the sun has exhaled them, will it not be refreshed, and yield richer fragrance? So, if a heart be touched with a story of distress, it will at the same time experience a delightful sensation; and, if the tears sometimes flow, say, can you call it weakness? can you wish to be divested of this genuine test of _tenderness_, and desire the departure of _Sensibility_? Were I totally to forsake you, man would become a senseless being, and presently imbibe the ferocity of the savage inhabitants of the forest."

"Ah no, fair nymph!" said I, "still deign to be my attendant; teach me to sigh with the unhappy, and with the happy to rejoice. I am now sensible, that the pleasures which arise from legends of sorrow, owe their origin to this certain knowledge, that our hearts are not callous to the finer feelings, but that we have some generous joys, and some generous cares beyond ourselves."

Scarcely had I pronounced these words, when the loud tolling of the village bell broke the fetters in which Morpheus had bound me, and dispelled the airy illusion.

_The Anxieties of Royalty._

The califs of the East having extended their dominions as far as the boundaries of Europe, found their iron sceptre too heavy to be supported with any degree of pleasure or satisfaction. They therefore appointed what are called emirs; but each of these governors soon assumed the power of sultans. Not contented with the appearance of being equal to their master, they frequently arraigned his conduct, and sometimes dethroned him.

Mahmoud was the most celebrated of all the califs who had kept their court at Ispahan. He was a patron of the arts and sciences, and naturally a friend to the blessings of peace. Some of his predecessors, however, had been of different sentiments, and thought their happiness and glory consisted only in warlike exploits, in the desolation of villages, towns, and cities, without regarding the horrible carnage of human beings, and the miseries to which thousands of families were thereby reduced. His subjects being thus accustomed to warlike achievements, being naturally savage, and thinking nothing but a victorious hero fit to govern them, they rebelled against their peaceful monarch.

Though Mahmoud wisely preferred peace to war, yet he was by no means destitute of true courage, and he now found himself under the disagreeable necessity of taking the field, as the only means of quelling his rebellious subjects. His arms were every where victorious, and he returned in triumph to Ispahan, where he hoped to enjoy the fruits of his victories in peace and tranquility.

In this, however, he was much disappointed; for his rebellious subjects attributed his successes more to good fortune than wisdom or courage, and they seemed only to be in want of a chief to lead them to open rebellion. Selim put himself at the head of these rebels; but, in the course of two years' contest, Selim lost his head, and Mahmoud returned in triumph to his capital.

The man, who has long been accustomed to scenes of blood and slaughter, will naturally become hardened and of savage feelings, totally the reverse of those of pity, tenderness, and humanity. Almost every day convinced Mahmoud, that he must part with either his tender feelings or his throne. He wished to pursue the middle path between clemency and tyranny; but the rebellious spirit of his subjects by degrees so hardened his heart, that he at last became the complete tyrant.

The people soon began to groan under the weight of his iron hand, and offered up their prayers to the great prophet for a peaceful king, such as Mahmoud had been. Alas! all their prayers were in vain, for Mahmoud was young and vigorous, and beloved by his army. He was once loved; he was now dreaded in every part of the Persian empire.

The calif, after having some time exercised his tyranny with a high hand, suddenly withdrew from public affairs, and shut himself up in the recesses of his palace, visible to no one but the emir he had always trusted. In this unprecedented solitude he passed his time during the whole course of a moon, and then suddenly appeared again on his throne. A visible alteration had taken place in his countenance, and, instead of the ferocity of a tyrant, clemency and mercy seemed seated on his brow. He was no longer the savage calif, but the father of his country.

Such an unexpected change undoubtedly became the universal topic of conversation, and various reasons were assigned for his sudden transformation, but none of their conjectures came near the truth. An accident, however, brought every thing to light.

Among the wise men of Ispahan was Alicaun, who was one day conversing with an iman, and several dervises, concerning the change of the calif's conduct. One of the dervises laid claim to the honour of this change, having obtained it of Mahomet by fasting and prayer. Another said, that this great work had been accomplished by a beauty in the seraglio; but an iman, or priest, was bold enough to contradict them both, and boasted, that it was by his remonstrances that the calif's heart was softened. Alicaun being then called upon to give his opinion, replied, "The lion, weary of the chase, lies down to repose a little: but let the traveller be upon his guard; perhaps he is only sleeping to recover his lost strength, that, when he wakes, he may rush forth with additional fury."

One of the treacherous dervises reported this conversation to the calif, and, in consequence thereof, Alicaun was ordered to appear before him.

Alicaun accordingly made his appearance, when the calif, having taken his seat at the tribunal, thus addressed him: "I have been informed of the particulars of your late conversation; your having compared me to the noble lion, can have nothing in it that ought reasonably to offend me; but tell me sincerely, in which of these lights you considered the lion; as the generous monarch of the forest, or as the savage tyrant?"

Alicaun bowed down his head to the earth, and replied, "My sovereign, you have ordered me to speak sincerely: I will obey your orders, regardless of the consequences that may follow. When I lately took the liberty to compare you to the lion, I must own I had in my view the ferocity of that animal. I am sensible I deserve to die:--your decree will determine, whether you are the monarch of the forest, or the savage tyrant. Should you be graciously pleased to spare me, it will turn to your own advantage; because if you condemn me to die, my accusers will think I spoke truth; but pardon me, and they will be confounded."

"I forgive you, Alicaun," said the calif; "and I will tell you, and all present, my motive for doing so. You are not a stranger to the influence my favourite emir, Abdalla, has over me. Like many other monarchs, I became jealous of my favourite, on the unbounded acclamations he received on his return home from a war of no great consequence. I therefore resolved on putting him to death, but was at a loss in what manner I should accomplish that purpose.

"To attempt it by open violence would endanger my throne; I therefore resolved to do it by stratagem. At the bottom of my palace gardens, you all know, is a tremendous precipice, whose base is washed by the waters of the Tigris. Hither I resolved to take him, under the idea of consulting him on some important matters of state, and, when I found him off his guard, as he could not suspect my intentions, to shove him headlong over the precipice into the river.

"Thought I in myself, this is the last sun Abdalla shall ever behold; for, by this time, we had reached the fatal spot; when, on a sudden, by chance, let me say rather, by the will of Heaven, the ground trembled beneath my feet, and I perceived part of the rock on which I stood was parting from the main body. At this critical moment, Abdalla seized me by the arm, and forcibly pulled me to him, otherwise I should certainly have fallen down the horrible precipice into the foaming billows beneath, and thus have met with that fate I designed for another.

"Shame and gratitude for some moments struck me dumb and motionless: with shame, that a sovereign prince should stoop to such mean treachery; and with gratitude, that I should owe my life to that man, who saved mine at the very moment I was plotting his destruction!

"I instantly retired to the most secret chamber in my palace, and opened my soul in prayer and thanksgiving to the Eternal. In this dejected situation, I suffered several days and nights to pass away, bitterly reflecting on my folly, and reproaching myself for sinking so much beneath the real dignity of royalty. What, said I, is the life of a sovereign more than that of his meanest subject, since the one is no more secure from the arrows of death than the other!

"In a little time, by reasoning in this manner, I found all my tyranny and self-consequence humbled, and I wished in future to be considered only as a man. As the nights were long and tedious to me, in order to divert my mind from painful and disagreeable reflections, I resolved to take my rambles in disguise through the different parts of Ispahan.

"Among these rambles, chance carried me one night into a house of public entertainment. Here, while drinking the liquor I had ordered, I listened to the conversation of several parties round me.

"One of these parties consisted of a grave old man, surrounded by several youths, who seemed to pay the greatest veneration and attention to the words of the aged sire. I drew nearer to them, and was surprised to find them talking of the late transaction between me and Abdallah. The substance of their debates will never be erased from my memory.

"'There was a time,' said the old man, 'when all Persia would have extolled to the skies the generous action of Abdalla; but I fear, there is not at present a single voice that will thank him for saving the life of the calif.'

"One of the youths, who I found was the old man's son, said he perfectly agreed in what he had mentioned, but advised him at the same time to be cautious in his observations; 'for,' said he, 'what is more quick than the ears of a tyrant, or more baneful than the tongue of a courtier!'

"'I fear not,' said the venerable old man, 'the ears of a tyrant, nor the tongue of a courtier. The most they can do is to shorten a life that has already almost finished its career. A man on the verge of fourscore has little to fear from the terrors of this life. My father, who has been dead half that time, left behind him in his cellar nine bottles of wine of a most delicious flavour. Believe me, this is the only liquor I ever dared to drink in opposition to the laws of Mahomet; and not even this, but on very particular occasions; nor have I yet consumed the whole.

"I drank the first two bottles, continued the old man, on the birth of your eldest brother: two other bottles were dispatched, when the father of the present calif delivered Persia from the invasion of a tyrant: and two others when the present tyrant mounted the throne. Believe me, I shall be happy to live to treat you with the other three bottles, when Mahmoud shall be called into the next world, to give an account of his conduct in this. Yet I would much rather wish to drink them with you, should he reform, cease to be a tyrant, and again become that good prince he one day was."

"The company could not help smiling at such a declaration; but I was far from wishing to partake of their mirth. Had the old man, but a few days before, uttered such words as these, his head would undoubtedly have been the price of his temerity; but what would then have excited my revenge, now filled my mind with the deepest reflections. I stole away for fear of being discovered, and hastened home to my palace, there to ruminate by myself on this adventure. It is evident, said I to myself, that I must have been the worst of tyrants, since this good old man, who drank but two bottles at the birth of his eldest son, wishes to drink three on the news of my decease. He hopes for such an event to crown all his wishes, and to complete his victory.

"In this manner my thoughts were agitated, and it was not till some time afterwards I recollected he said, that he should finish his bottle with still greater pleasure, should he hear of my reformation. All my former notions of tyranny and power appeared to vanish before me, and my heart seemed to receive impressions of a different nature. To accomplish this work was my motive for being so long hidden from public view, and from thence has arisen that change in my conduct with which I see all my good subjects so much astonished and delighted. I will endeavour to change no more, but to live in the affections of my people. I leave you now to judge whether the good old man may not venture to drink his remaining three bottles."

"Those three bottles are already drank," exclaimed a youth, while he was endeavouring to penetrate through the crowd of courtiers to the throne. As soon as he got to the calif, he threw himself at his feet, and again exclaimed, "Commander of the faithful under Mahomet, they are already drank!"

Mahmoud then ordered him to rise, and asked him who he was that had thus spoken. The youth replied, "Most gracious sovereign, I am one of five children, of whom the old man you have just mentioned is the father. I was one of the party in that conversation, which has made such a noble and generous impression on your royal heart. As we were yesterday surrounding him, he thus addressed us: 'I feel nature is nearly exhausted in me; but I shall now die with pleasure, since I have lived to see such an unexpected reformation in Mahmoud. Let us drink the three remaining bottles and be merry.'"

The calif then ordered him to fetch his father, that he might have the sire and son always near him. The youth then retired, and Mahmoud dismissed the assembly for the present.

Thus you see, my youthful readers, how easily you are to be led astray by your passions, when you suffer them to prevail over reason. Learn early to give law to your passions, or your passions will in time give law to you, and govern you with a tyrannical power.

_The Generous Punishment._

Kalan was one of the principal favourites of Mahmoud, of whom we have said so much in the preceding article. He had chosen him from among the number of his courtiers, to bestow on him those favours of which royalty was possessed, and which he merited. He was more beholden to nature than to art for his education, which would have been sufficient to make him happy, had it been his lot to live remote from the snares and artifices of a court.

An open and disinterested heart, instead of procuring him love and esteem, often carried him to the brink of ruin; for those with whom he mingled, were artful and treacherous hypocrites, a set of vermin that infest every court. Though he wished to hate no man, yet he could not love those who were every day privately seeking his destruction.

These ungenerous attempts were so often repeated, that Kalan, fearing he should acquire a habit of despising human beings, resolved to retire from the noise and bustle of a court. He was strengthened in this resolution by a review of his affairs, which were so much deranged by his unbounded charity and benevolence, that he found it impossible any longer to support such expences.

Kalan, before he retired to enjoy a peaceful and tranquil life, left the following lines engraven on his door:

"The man who no ingratitude has found,
Has never trod on courtiers' slipp'ry ground."

The calif, having one day heard these lines repeated, desired to know who was the author of them. At this time Kalan was supposed to be dead, and therefore the courtiers had nothing to fear, and no reason to conceal the name of the author. Those people who had formerly returned all his favours with ingratitude, now launched into high encomiums on his merit. In all this there is nothing astonishing. With respect to the arts and sciences, we see how different is the treatment the professors of them receive during their lives, and after they are no more. While living, he could perhaps hardly support his miserable existence; when dead, sumptuous and costly monuments are erected to his memory.

Kalan, having accidentally heard how much Mahmoud was pleased with the inscription on his door, quitted his retreat, and again appeared at Ispahan, to the astonishment of his friends, and the invidious regret of the courtiers. The calif received him kindly, and made him ample amends for all the neglect of his friends. Kalan was put into an office which enabled him to gratify all his beneficent wishes.

As the nettle and the rose thrive together on the same soil, so was the bosom of Kalan not without a weed. His too strong attachment to women sometimes led him astray, and made him unmindful of his duty. The calif was not ignorant of this fault in Kalan, for the courtiers that surrounded him took care that this error should not remain concealed. Mahmoud, though he pitied his weakness, did not esteem him the less on that account. "True it is," said the calif, "that an unbounded passion for women is much to be censured; but this folly will in time forsake him; while ambition, cruelty, and avarice, had any such vices got possession of him, would grow stronger as he advanced in age."

The calif's courtiers extolled the sublimity of this observation; but no sooner had he turned his back on them, than they ridiculed such a paltry idea. How much are courtiers to be pitied, who take so much pains to render themselves contemptible!

Some little time afterwards, the calif gave Kalan a commission to the furthest part of Persia, and fixed even the day and hour when he should expect him back. Kalan immediately set out on his journey, discharged his duty with the strictest punctuality, and returned a day before the time allowed. He received the applause due to his diligence, and was told, that every hour he gained on the stipulated time was of the utmost service to his country.

Kalan was the more pleased with these marks of the calif's approbation, as he received it in the presence of many courtiers, who all showed him the highest marks of applause, while in their hearts they hated and detested him, and envied the honours paid him by the calif.

The next day, however, one of these courtiers, deputed by the rest, approached Mahmoud, and, after bowing to the earth, thus addressed him:--"Most noble and glorious sovereign of the faithful, though I know not the nature of Kalan's late commission, yet I judge it was of the highest importance. Pardon then my zeal if, notwithstanding the transcendent light in which I behold him, I am under the disagreeable necessity of informing your highness, that he presumed to pass five days of that time so precious to the state, in the enjoyment of the pleasures of love."

The calif, astonished at this declaration, told the malevolent informer, that he hoped he could prove what he had asserted. "Dread sovereign," answered he, "his own slave will prove to you, that, at Gauri, nearly a hundred miles from this capital, he loitered in the lap of pleasure. The daughter of a caravanserist had influence over him sufficient to induce him to neglect, for five days, the confidence you had reposed in him, and the most important concerns of the state. If time should prove that I have accused him falsely, let me be the victim of your resentment."

Mahmoud thanked him for his vigilant information, which he presumed could arise from no other motive than his great attachment to his glory; and he assured him, that he would nicely search into the truth of what he had informed him. "Neither will I be forgetful," said the calif, "of the greatness of your soul, which has induced you to sacrifice to my interest the man, you say, you so much admire and revere."

The courtier then bowed his head to the earth, and retired, not much pleased, however, with the last words of the calif, who, he had from thence reason to believe, was not greatly satisfied with the accusation, and who might let fall that vengeance on this head, which he was endeavouring to prepare for another.

Mahmoud presently afterwards sent for Kalan; which being known to the courtiers, they secretly triumphed in the idea, that the hour was hastily approaching, in which they hoped to find their revenge and hatred amply gratified.