Chapter V: Part 5

It happened on one of those delightful summer afternoons, when the heat of the day was tempered with the gently-wafting zephyrs, that Madam Heathcote was entertaining a large company at tea in her arbour in the garden. No situation could be more delightful. The arbour looked full in front of a fine river, on which some were busily employed in fishing, or pursuing their different occupations, while others were skimming on its surface for amusement. All round the arbour the luxuriant grapes hung in clusters, and the woodbine and jessamine stole up between them. A situation like this will naturally incline the mind to be thoughtful, and the whole company, by imperceptible degrees, began to draw moral reflections. They remarked, how different were the objects of our pursuits, how unsteady and fickle are all human affairs, and what empty baubles frequently attract our most serious attention. After some time being spent in a kind of desultory conversation, the principal speakers began to arrange their ideas under distinct heads, and of this class the first who spoke was

_Dr. Chamberlaine._

I am very well acquainted with two brothers, whom I shall conceal under the borrowed names of Mercurius and Honestus.

Mercurius was the elder son of a gentleman, who, with a moderate fortune, and by a nice management, so regulated his affairs, that he was generally thought to be exceedingly rich.--He gave a genteel education to his two sons, who finished their studies at Cambridge.

Mercurius attached himself more to the gaiety and politeness of the college, than to the drudgery of books. He was a gay and lively companion, and a perfect master of those little arts which always recommend a young gentleman to the acquaintance of the giddy fools of fortune, who are sent to both our universities more out of complaisance to fashion, than to improve their morals, or enlarge their understandings.

Mercurius had drawn this conclusion, (and it must be confessed, that experience tells us it is too true a conclusion), that powerful connections are more likely to raise a man's fortune in life than all the natural and acquired abilities which human nature is capable of possessing. He, therefore, took every opportunity to ingratiate himself with the noble young students, whose follies he flattered, and the fire of whose vanities he fanned.

Amidst this pursuit after fortune and grandeur, his father died, and left but a small pittance for the support of him and his brother Honestus.--This was soon known in the college, where fortune is considered as the first of all things.--Mercurius was now forced, in order to keep up his noble connections, to stoop to many meannesses, such as the thirst of ambition only can persuade the true dignity of a man to submit to; but, when we once quit the path of virtue in pursuit of imaginary pleasure, we must give up every hope of a retreat.

Among the patrons of Mercurius was a young nobleman of great fortune and connections, such as were more than sufficient to make a coxcomb of the happiest genius. The time arrived in which he was to quit college, and Mercurius accompanied him to London as his companion and friend. He was the constant partner of his nocturnal revels, and little more, in fact, than his footman out of livery. He was the dupe to his prejudices, the constant butt of his wit, and the contempt of every independent mind. But let us leave this mistaken man to the feelings of his own mind, and his fears for his future existence, that we may return to his brother.

Honestus, less ambitious than his brother, had a mind above stooping too low in order to rise the higher. He applied himself closely to his studies, and employed the little his father had left him in the most frugal manner. He turned his whole attention to the study of the law, in which he became a very able proficient, and at last quitted the university with the reputation of a profound scholar, a cheerful companion, and a sincere friend.

These, however, are seldom characters sufficient to raise a man in the world. He long remained unnoticed in his profession as a counsellor; but, however long the beams of the sun may be obscured, they at last pierce through the densest bodies, and shine in their native lustre. He now reaps the fruits of his honest labours, and often looks back with pity on the tottering state of his brother, and the parade of empty ambition.

_Madam Lenox._

When we consider the short duration of human life, when extended even to its longest period, and the many perplexities, cares, and anxities, which contribute to disturb the repose of even those whom we should be led to consider as happy mortals, what is there in our sublunary pursuits that ought to make any long and lasting impression on our minds?

We have seen many of the wisest people, on the loss of a darling child, or on a sudden and unexpected wreck in their affairs, retire from the world, and endeavour to seek consolation, by indulging their melancholy in some gloomy retreat. Surely, however, nothing can be more inconsistent with the dignity of human nature than such a conduct.

If to fly from the face of an enemy in the hour of battle, and seek a retreat in some sequestered forest, may be considered as cowardice in the soldier, is it no less so in the moral militant, who has not courage to face the storms of fortune, but precipitately flies from the field of adversity, the ground of which he ought to dispute inch by inch?

It has been an old and long-received maxim, that Fortune favours the daring, and shuns the coward. Whatever may be the whims and caprice of Dame Fortune, who sometimes makes a peer of a beggar, and as often reduces the peer to a state of penury, yet experience tells us, that she is seldom able, for any considerable length of time, to withstand resolute and unremitted importunities; and, when she has hurled us to the bottom of her wheel, whatever motion that wheel afterwards makes, it must throw us upwards. As those, who have enjoyed a good state of health during the prime of their lives, feel the infirmities of age, or a sudden sickness, more keenly than those who have laboured under a weakly and sickly constitution; so those, who have basked in the perpetual sunshine of fortune, are more susceptible of the horrors of unexpected calamities, than those who have been rocked in the cradle of misfortune.

To bear prosperity and adversity with equal prudence and fortitude is, perhaps, one of the greatest difficulties we have to conquer; and it is from hence we may venture to form our opinions of the generality of people. Those who are insolent in prosperity will be mean in adversity; but he who meets adversity with manly courage and fortitude, will, in the hour of prosperity, be humane, gentle, and generous.

To fly from misfortunes, and endeavour to console ourselves by retiring from the world, is undoubtedly increasing the evil we wish to lessen. This has often been the case of disappointed lovers, when the object of their hearts has proved inconstant or ungrateful. They have vainly imagined that there must be something very soothing to the afflicted mind, in listening to the plaintive sound of some purling and meandering stream, or in uttering their plaints to the gentle breezes and the nodding groves. But, alas! these delusive consolations only contribute to feed the disorders of the mind, and increase the evil, till melancholy takes deep root in their souls, and renders their complaints incurable.

The society of the polite and refined of both sexes is the only relief, at least the principal one, for any uneasiness of the mind. Here a variety of objects will insensibly draw our attention from that one which tyrannises in our bosom, and endeavours to exclude all others.

In the commerce of this life there is hardly an evil which has not some good attending it; nor a blessing which does not, in some degree or other, carry with it some bitter ingredient. To be, therefore, too confident in prosperity, is a folly; and to despair in adversity, is madness.

Those who enjoy the good while they have it in their power, and support the evil without sinking under its weight, are surely best fitted for this uncertain and transitory state. To have too nice and delicate feelings is, perhaps, a misfortune; and the wise man has very justly said, "as we increase in knowledge, so we increase in sorrow."

We are apt to form too great an opinion of ourselves, and to examine so closely into the conduct of others, that we at last begin to shun and despise all the world, in whom we can find no belief; but were we to examine our own conduct as critically, we should find, that we have as much to ask from the candour of others, as we have cause to give. Self-love and pride are the sources from whence flow most of our real, as well as imaginary woes; and if we seek the retired and sequestered hut, it is not so much with a view to avoid misery itself, as to endeavour to conceal it in ourselves from the eyes of the world.

_Sir John Chesterfield._

Certain philosophers tell us, that "there is no such thing as happiness or misery in this life, and that they are terms merely confined to the ideas of different people, who differently define them." It must indeed be confessed, from constant and invariable experience, that what a man, at one time in his life, considered as a misery, he will at another consider as a happiness.

Cleorus was, from his childhood, bred to business, and the pursuit of riches appeared to him as the principal blessing he had in view, since, from his worldly possessions, he hoped to derive every comfort of life. He viewed, with an eye of pity and contempt, the follies and extravagancies of young fellows of his own age, and considered their nocturnal revels and excursions as so many sad scenes of misery.

He continued in this opinion till he was turned of the age of forty; at which period, losing his wife, and finding his circumstances easy, he joined in the company of those we call _free_ and _easy_. New company, by degrees, made him imbibe new sentiments, and what he had formerly considered as miseries, began insensibly to assume the name of pleasure, and his former happiness was soon construed to be misery. He began to reflect on the dull path he had trodden all the prime of his life, and therefore determined to atone for it in the evening of his days, by entering on such scenes as were disgraceful even to the youthful partners of his follies. Suffice it to say, that after having exchanged prudence for pleasure, he soon fell a martyr to his vices.

It is a melancholy but a just observation, that the man who turns vicious in the evening of his life, is generally worse than the youthful libertine, and his conversation often more lewd and obscene. Hence we may conclude with Ovid, that no man can be truly said to be blessed, till death has put a seal on his virtuous actions, and rendered him incapable of committing bad ones.

The destruction of happiness and misery is, perhaps, more on a level than we are in general apt to imagine. If the labouring man toils all the day, and hardly earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, yet every meal is to him a sumptuous feast, and he sleeps as soundly between coarse blankets as on a bed of down; nor does any part of his life betray a sense of that state of misery, such as it would be considered by the courtier.

If the courtier basks in the sunshine of fortune; if he be loaded with honours, riches, and titles, keeps a brilliant equipage, and has numerous dependants at his command, the world in general will consider him as placed in a state of happiness; but, if we contemplate him at leisure, see the anxieties of his mind to be still more great and powerful, which interrupt his broken slumbers, and see how insipid to him are all the luxuries of his table, his perpetual succession of false pleasure, and the mean adoration he is compelled to pay to the idol of power, we shall hardly allow him the idea of happiness, but justly consider him as more miserable than the labouring peasant.

The mind is undoubtedly the seat of happiness and misery, and it is within our power to determine which shall hold the empire there. To maintain a uniform conduct through all the varying stations of life--to content ourselves with what comes within our reach, without pining after what we cannot obtain, or envying others what they possess--to maintain a clear unsullied conscience--and to allow for the infirmities of others from a retrospect of our own, are perhaps some of the best rules we can lay down, in order to banish misery from this mortal frame, and to acquire such a degree of happiness, as may enable us to perform our terrestrial journey with some degree of satisfaction to ourselves and others.

_Lady Heathcote._

Though the depravity, luxury, and corruption of the times, form just subjects of complaint for the grave, the thoughtful, and the aged, yet I cannot help believing, that many of these complainants are themselves lending a helping hand to render the rising generation as effeminate and corrupt as the present.

I am now appealing to parents on the education of their children, which appears to me a subject that ought to attract the serious attention of those who wish longevity, peace, and happiness to their children, and prosperity, repose, and a reformation of manners to the rising generation.

"The first seasoning," says Plato, "sticks longest by the vessel. Thus those, who are permitted from their earliest periods to do wrong, will hardly ever be persuaded, when they arrive at maturity, to do right." It is a maxim with some people, a maxim surely founded only on pride, that their children shall not be checked in their early years, but be indulged in whatever their little hearts shall pant after; and for this reason, because they will grow wiser as they grow older. But, since the love of ease, finery, and pleasure, is natural to almost every youthful mind, how careful ought each parent to be to check those juvenile sallies, which, if encouraged, will in time be productive of the very evils they complain of in the present generation.

It is not only in childhood, but also in their progress through school, and during their apprenticeship, that these indulgences are continued; and an excuse is always ready, that their children must not be more hardly treated than others. Hence it follows, that you often meet the apprentice of eighteen strutting through the streets in his boots on an errand of business, or screening himself from the dew of heaven under the shade of a large silken umbrella!--It would be worse than sacrilege, in their opinions, to appear abroad with an apron before them, or in their working dress.

Their evenings are too often spent abroad at chair clubs, in alehouses, at the theatres, or in some gardens. "To know the world," as they call it, is more their study than the attainment of their profession, by which they are hereafter to live. But of what does this knowledge of the world consist?--To despise virtue, to laugh at morality, and to give way to the most shocking scenes of folly and dissipation. Their Sundays, part of which, at least, ought to be spent in acts of piety, are passed in revelling and drunkenness; and the exploits and excesses of that day furnish plenty of boastful conversation for the rest of the week.

What can be expected from a youth, when he shall arrive at manhood, who has thus passed the morning of his life? and with what reason can either parents or masters complain of the depravity of the times, since they themselves take so little care of the morals of the rising generation?

The youth who has been long accustomed to revel through the dangerous wilds of gaiety and pleasure, and has once given a loose to the excesses of the town, will hardly ever be prevailed on to quit them, for what he considers as the dull enjoyments of a calm, peaceable, and virtuous life. Deaf to all remonstrances, he pursues his pleasures, and perishes in the midst of his delusive enjoyments.

To check these evils, and thereby prevent the fatal consequences, the infant mind must be carefully watched, and the unruly passions made to give way to the reason and authority of the parent. Nothing can be so pleasing and delightful, and, at the same time, more the duty of the parent, than to watch over the tender thought, and teach the young ideas to flow in a proper channel. To leave these cares to the vain hope, that reason and maturity will gradually fix the wandering mind, and bring it to a proper sense of its duty, is as absurd and ridiculous as to expect that the fiery steed, who has never felt the spur nor the curb, the saddle nor the bridle, will with age become the peaceful, the quiet, and the obedient animal.

Nature seems, in some instances, to have given to the inferior class of beings that degree of instinct, which sometimes puts human reason to the blush. Shall inferior beings, merely by the power of instinct qualities, show more care and prudence in rearing their tender offspring, than proud man, with all his lordly and boasted superiority of human reason?

_Dr. Sterne._

When I was last summer on my travels through Yorkshire, I one day met with a person who gave me a very singular history of himself, of the veracity of which I was assured by some gentlemen I might rely upon. I shall repeat his history to you, as nearly as I can recollect, in his own words.

Though I was born of poor parents, said he, I was fortunate enough to pick up a tolerable education in one of those public schools in the country, which are supported by voluntary and charitable contributions.

Nature formed me of an active and lively disposition; and, as I grew up, my vanity began to flatter me, that I was not destitute of genius. I happened one day, accidentally, to take up the tragedy of the Orphan, when I was particularly struck with the following lines, which I seemed inclined never to forget:

"I would be busy in the world, and learn;
Not like a coarse and worthless dunghill weed,
Fix'd to one spot, to rot just where I grow."

As soon as I had reached the age of fourteen, I was discharged from the school, when my parents put me to the farming business; but my ideas soared above that menial profession.

I had frequently heard it mentioned in our village, that the only place for preferment was the great and rich city of London; where a young fellow had only to get himself hired as a porter in some respectable shop, and he would soon rise to be shopman, then clerk, then master, and at last a common-councilman, or an alderman, if not a lord mayor.

I, therefore, soon determined to leave my native village, and hasten up to this centre of preferment and happiness. On my arrival in London, I was advised to apply to a register office, from whence I was sent to a capital grocer in the city, who was then in want of a porter, and where I was accordingly engaged. "How happy am I," said I to myself, "at once to jump into so capital a place? I shall here learn a fine business, and in time, like my master, keep a splendid coach, horses, and livery servants."

However, I was here very sadly mistaken; for I was constantly every day so driven about, from one end of the town to the other, with loads, that I had no opportunity of getting the least insight into the business; and every Sunday morning I almost sunk under a load of various kinds of provisions I was forced to carry to our villa in Kentish-town, from whence I returned in the evening with a still more enormous burden of the produce of the garden, consisting of cabbages, turnips, and potatoes, or whatever happened to be in season, for the use of the townhouse, during the ensuing week. I, therefore, was not much displeased at being obliged to quit this service on my master's becoming a bankrupt.

I next engaged myself with a wholesale linen-draper, to open and shut up shop, and go occasionally on errands; but here again I was disappointed, being obliged to employ all my leisure hours in blacking shoes, cleaning knives, or whatever the cook-maid was pleased to set me about. My stay here consequently was but short, any more than in my next place, where my master starved his servants in order to feed his horses.

I shall not trouble you with an account of all the places I was in, during the space of seven years, without the least hopes of success, till, by accident, I got to be a kind of shopman at a tobacconist's. Here hope seemed to afford me some glimmerings of success, as I was well treated in the house, and taken particular notice of by my master, who was very rich, and had an only daughter, who was young and beautiful.

I soon fell in love equally with her person and her fortune, and had great reason to believe, from her looks, that I was not indifferent to her. One evening, when all the family were out on a visit, and miss had thought proper to stay at home, being a little indisposed, I determined to improve the favourable opportunity, and, by one resolute action, complete the summit of my wishes. I accordingly entered the parlour, threw myself at her feet, and declared my passion for her, assuring her that I could not live without her.

She seemed at first surprised; but, recollecting herself, with a most gracious smile, bid me rise and hope. I instantly retired, thinking I had done enough for the first attempt. But, alas! I was called up the next day after dinner, and was desired by miss, in the presence of a large company, who all joined in the laugh against me, not to trouble myself with paying her any further addresses. My master then kicked me down stairs, and out of the house. I am now returned to my native village, having given over all hopes of ever being either a lord mayor, an alderman, or even a common-councilman!

* * * * *

Here Dr. Sterne finished; and, as the sun was sunk beneath the horizon, and night was speedily advancing, the conversation ended for the present. Madam Heathcote thanked the company for the favour of their visit, and did not doubt but that the young ladies and gentlemen who were present, would go away pleased and edified by the polite conversation they had heard.

_Edwin and Matilda._

Edwin and his sister were natives of a town in Glamorganshire, whose father had but little more to leave them at his death than the virtues he possessed in his lifetime. His character and assiduity procured him an employment of consequence, which, in a few years, enabled him to save a very decent fortune. Honour, virtue, and integrity, however amiable in themselves, will not always protect us against the calamities of human life, though they may contribute to soften them.

In the midst of his career of business, he was attacked by a long and tedious disorder, which considerably impaired his constitution, and obliged him to relinquish all thoughts of business at a very early age. Not long after he had given up all mercantile pursuits, the failure of his banker deprived him of two-thirds of his fortune. The remainder of his possessions, which consisted only of the house he then lived in, and a few cottages in the village, afforded him but a scanty pittance for the support of his wife and two children, Edwin, then about ten years of age, and Matilda, about nine.

Their mother was tenderly fond of them, and consequently was less able to endure the afflicting prospect of seeing them reduced so low, and her philosophy failed her in this instance. The narrow scale of living to which she was now forced to submit, and the parting with many little comforts and conveniences in which she had taken pleasure to indulge her children, and which they were no more to expect;--the affliction of seeing her dear Edwin and Matilda become her servants, and that dumb sorrow she fancied she beheld in their countenances whenever she looked on them;--all these, and many other thoughts, crowding on her mind, so weakened and impaired her constitution, that she was no longer the same woman. Every time she looked at her children, the tears stole down her cheeks; and her husband, who most tenderly loved her, would sometimes mingle his tears with hers, and at other times retire to conceal them.

As Edwin was one day gathering apples in the orchard, he perceived his parents in close conversation with each other. A hedge of rosebushes only parted them, so that he heard every thing they said. His mother gave a sigh, and his father thus endeavoured to console her.

"I was far from blaming," said he, "the excess of your affliction in the infancy of our misfortunes, and I did not attempt to interrupt you; but now you ought to be wiser from experience, and patiently bear those evils which cannot be removed, but may be increased by our impatience under them. I have concealed my sorrows, fearing they might add to yours; but you, in return, put no restraint on yourself; and you are shortening my days, without being sensible of what you are doing. I love my children no less than you, and feel for their misfortune in losing what I hoped they would live to enjoy after we were no more. Consider my infirmities, which will probably carry me to my long home before you. You must then act the part of father and mother; but how will you be able to do this, if you give way to such immoderate grief? You are sensible these misfortunes are not my own seeking; they are the works of the Almighty, and it is impiety not to submit to them. It has pleased him to deprive me of my property and health, while you deprive me of the satisfaction of seeing you submissive to his decrees. I see sorrow must pursue me to the grave, and you will not help to protract that awful hour of my dissolution."

Edwin treasured up in his youthful bosom every word that dropped from the lips of his father, but his mother answered only in sighs and half-finished words. "Do not distress your mind," continued her husband, "on the hapless situation of our children, since they may still be happy though deprived of their fortune. Edwin has noble and generous sentiments; and Matilda has been brought up in the strictest principles of virtue. Let us, therefore, set our children an example, by teaching them to submit to the will of Providence, instead of teaching them to repine at his decrees."

As soon as the conversation was ended, Edwin got away as softly as he could, and, going into the house, met his sister Matilda, who, as she saw him look very serious, asked him what was the matter with him. They went together into the parlour, when Edwin thus addressed his sister.

"Ah! my dear sister, had you, like me, heard what has just passed between my father and mother, on our account, I am sure you would have been equally afflicted. I was very near the arbour in which they were conversing; but though I could hear every thing they said, they could not see me. My mother talks of nothing but about our being ruined; and my father says every thing he can to pacify and comfort her. You well know, that my father has never had a good state of health, and my mother's is going very fast; so that I fear we shall soon lose them both. What, my dear sister, will become of us, and what shall we do without them? I could wish to die with them."

"Let us hope," replied Matilda, "that things will not go so hard with us. Do not let such melancholy thoughts enter your head, and be particularly careful not to cry in their presence, as that would affect them more than any thing else. Let us endeavour to be cheerful, and when they see us so, it will possibly lessen their affliction. They love us tenderly, and we ought, in return, to do every thing in our power to make them cheerful and contented, if we cannot make them happy."

Their father, coming to the door just as they began their conversation, stopped short, and heard every word that passed between the two young folks. His heart could not fail of being tenderly affected by their conversation, he rushed into the room, and caught them in his arms. "My dear children," said he, "how amiable is your conduct, and how worthy are you of a better fortune!"

He then took them by the hand, and led them to their mother, who was reading in another room. "Lay down your book," said he, "and kiss your children; for neither of us need be any more afflicted on their account. They stand not in need of our pity, for they have resources of happiness within their own youthful bosoms. We have been deceiving each other, in thus afflicting ourselves on their account, when nothing has disturbed them. Nothing can be wanting to the possessors of so much virtue."

He then related to their mother the conversation he had just overheard, and appealed to her tenderest feelings, whether she ought not to exert herself to the utmost to make herself happy, and endeavour to promote the felicity of two such children.

Their mother again shed tears, but they were tears of joy. "I will from henceforth," said she, "endeavour to quiet the storm within my breast, that I may be the better able to take care of my dear children. It would be disgraceful in me, to let the world see that I have children from whom I have to learn lessons of philosophy."

Edwin and Matilda were so lost in the delightful sensations they received from the words and caresses of their parents, that they thought themselves the happiest of all little mortals. From this moment all their griefs and anxities seemed to subside, and the six following months glided away without even a desponding look from either of the parties.

Edwin frequently walked abroad with his father, who constantly taught him to draw some moral reflection, or some useful knowledge in the commerce of life, from every thing they saw. It is too often the case with parents, when they take their children abroad, to amuse themselves with their gossiping tales, instead of teaching them to reflect upon the different interesting subjects that fall within their view. Children are much sooner capable of reflecting than the generality of parents are aware of; and they would soon be convinced of the truth of this assertion, would they but make the trial, wait patiently for their answers, and endeavour to correct their youthful ideas when wrong.

Six months had now slid away in peace and serenity; but the apparent tranquility of their mother was only in outward appearance. Despair had taken deep root in her heart, and was secretly making great havoc with her constitution. A fever at last seized her, which soon put a period to her life.

The death of their mother was the source of inexpressible sorrow to her husband, who never recovered the shock it gave him. She expired in his arms, while poor Edwin and Matilda were drowned in tears by her side.

The house, for some time, afforded one continued scene of lamentation. Her character was truly amiable; her children obeyed her through love, for fear had no share in their duty. She possessed the happy skill of penetrating into the infant heart, and making it sensible, by its own feelings, of the propriety of what she commanded to be done. Thus she at once improved the heart and understanding, without ruffling the infant mind.

Edwin and Matilda severely felt the loss of their mother; but it was a still greater shock to their father, whose health, which was bad enough before, evidently grew worse from this fatal stroke. Grief brought on a complication of disorders, which soon confined him to his bed; and in this sad situation he lived near a twelvemonth, when, his strength being totally exhausted, he expired in the arms of his son.

The situation of Edwin and Matilda was much to be pitied. They had no relation left to fly to, and friends are rarely to be found when distress seeks them. Edwin was almost driven to despair; but Matilda had more fortitude, and recalled her brother back to reason. It is certain, that the female mind, in scenes of distress, often shows more fortitude than we meet with in men.

The young orphans agreed to live together, and cultivate the little spot that was left them. The remembrance of the virtues of their parents animated their labour, and their moderation regulated their wants. They enjoyed the sweets of friendship, and lived happily, because they had learned how to be contented with little.

Remember, my youthful readers, how fleeting and uncertain is the possession of riches. Of these Fortune may deprive you, but it cannot rob you of your virtue. Virtue is an invaluable treasure, which even the revolutions of states and empires cannot take from you. Like Edwin and Matilda, love and reverence your parents, cherish them in the evening of their days, and be a comfort to them in the time of trial, in the hour of sickness, and in the expiring moments of their lives. Let every wise mother imitate the mother of Edwin and Matilda, who never suffered passion to get the upper hand of her reason, when she argued with her children on those little imperfections, which young people are apt to run into, and which are necessary to be corrected. It is better to be beloved than feared; but to indulge children in excesses, will neither create fear nor esteem. Happy are those parents who have such children as Edwin and Matilda; and happy those children who know how properly to love, honour, and obey their parents.

_The pious Hermit._

At the bottom of the Cordillieres, whose towering summits overlook Peru and Chili in the New World, as it is called, is situated an uninhabited spot of land, on which nature has exhausted all her art, being decorated with innumerable beauties. Woods of stately poplars rear their heads to the clouds, and odoriferous groves shed their fragrance over every part of it; while the roaring river Oroonoko rolls its majestic floods through an immense bed which, at length exhausting itself, contracts into peaceful rills and meandering streams. These beauties are terminated by a thick, gloomy forest, which serves as a foil to these enchanting beauties.

In this charming solitude lived Nestor, an old and venerable hermit, who, for a long time, had withdrawn himself from the tumultuous bustle of the world, and had seen forty revolving suns pass over his head in this peaceful retreat. A stranger to the passions, without wishes or desires, he passed his life in tranquility, without the fear of experiencing either cares or disappointments. He was grown old in the practice of virtue, for this spot afforded not even the shadow of temptations. He felt not the infirmities which are natural to old age; nor had he any of those complaints, to which the luxurious inhabitants of cities and large towns are subject before they reach the meridian of their lives.

He had made himself a hut at the foot of a verdant hill, that screened it from the cold blasts of winter. Thick leaves and sod composed its walls, which time had covered and cemented with a mossy crust. A plantation of various trees, peculiar to the soil, reared their lofty heads around his mansion, and a narrow path led through them to his rustic habitation. A clear and transparent spring arose near his hut; which, after forming a little bason for domestic services, overflowed and fled away in meandering streams through the wood.

His time was employed in cultivating a little garden he had made contiguous to his house. Here he studied the works of Nature, and explored her wonderful operations in the production of fruits and vegetables. Here Nature furnished him with a volume that was never to be read through, but discovered something new every time it was opened.

The sun was one evening sinking beneath the horizon, when Nestor was seated on the stump of a tree, near the door of his hut, shaded with woodbines and jessamines. His venerable front, which was now whitened by time, was lifted up towards heaven; calmness and serenity were seated on his countenance, and every thing about him accorded with wisdom and philosophy.

"How I delight," said he, "to view the beautiful azure of that glorious firmament! What a variety of beautiful colours show themselves in those clouds! O rich and magnificent dome! when shall I leave this sublunary world, and ascend to those regions of bliss, where my mind will be lost in raptures that will know no end! However, let me not be impatient, since the measure of my life is nearly exhausted. I ought not to repine at the length of my continuance here, since I enjoy, in this solitary retreat, what is denied to almost every one who is engaged in the busy pursuits of life. Every thing I possess is my own, and I live in the enjoyment of what is purely natural, without the troublesome alloy of ambition and parade. In whatever direction I turn my view, I see nothing but smiling landscapes. The sun affords to me the same cheering warmth, and its light in as great a degree, as to the first monarch of the earth! Should I not live to see his rising beams, yet he will rise to cheer the hearts of others, when I shall no longer want them.

"Yonder lie the ruins of that ancient habitation in which once lived the venerable shepherd and his daughter, who taught me how to live, when I retired from the empty bustle of the world, and first took up my abode in these mansions of peace. If their hut be fallen into ruins, it is but an emblem of what will, in a few years, be the fate of the most stately palaces. Both he and his daughter now lie at rest under the shade of those neighbouring and lofty poplars.

"The scythe of Time mows down every thing that comes within the reach of its keen edge; it has destroyed not only towns and cities, but even whole empires, which were once mistresses of the world, and reduced them to a state of pity. The most lofty and luxuriant trees, by Time, are reduced to dry trunks, without being able to give nourishment to a single leaf. I have seen huge and tremendous rocks, to all appearance invulnerable, crumbled into powder by the roaring thunders and the vivid lightnings. Once the rose was blushing in my blooming cheeks; but grey hairs have now covered my head, and wrinkles hide my forehead. But the time is now coming, in which my mortal race will be finished."

A young man had, for some years, taken a part in his solitude, and as the virtuous Nestor found himself weak and exhausted, he exerted himself in calling upon the youth. Misfortunes more severe than those that generally happen to mortal beings, first brought him into this charming solitude. The pleasing gloom of that retreat, which was not without its beauties to change the scenes, soon calmed the storm within his bosom, and made him happy in retirement; to which the conversation of the venerable old man contributed not a little.

"Come hither, my son," said the virtuous Nestor in faltering accents, "and embrace your friend for the last time in this world. My eyes will soon be closed for ever, and I must return to the earth from whence I came. Complain not that I go before you to the regions of bliss, for I have enjoyed a long succession of happy years. My career is finished, and I die without a murmur. It is our ignorance only of what may be our state hereafter, that makes men afraid of death; but everlasting happiness is promised to us, and death puts us in possession of it. Though you will in me lose a mortal friend, yet I leave you One in heaven who is eternal, and who never will forsake you, so long as you pursue the paths of virtue. As soon as I shall be no more, dig my grave close by the poplar which grows on the borders of the river, where it waters my last plantation. That spot afforded me infinite delight while I was living, and there I wish my body to repose. This is the last favour I have to ask of you. Farewell for ever, my virtuous companion.--The earth seems to fly from me--my time is come--once more, farewell.--Grieve not for the loss of me, but respect my memory.--Keep constantly in your view the example which it has pleased heaven to permit me to set you, and you will be happy, because you will be virtuous."

Having finished these words, the good Nestor closed his eyes, and expired without a struggle; he passed away like a cloud floating in the ambient air, which insensibly disperses and dissipates itself in a sky of azure. How peaceful and tranquil are the last moments of the virtuous man! The youth looked stedfastly on that venerable front, which appeared graceful even in death. He embraced him, and could not help sighing. "O my dear father," said he, "you are no more! You leave me in this solitude, without any one to partake of it with me. Who will, in future, be the comfort of my existence? and to whom am I to tell my tales of past woe?"

His heart was sensibly affected, and the tears flowed down his cheeks; but he recollected the last words of his friend Nestor, and endeavoured to moderate his grief. He took the body on his shoulders, and carried it to the place where Nestor had desired it might be buried. Being come to the borders of the river, he gently laid down the body of his deceased friend, and then dug the grave.

While he was thus sadly employed in his last work for Nestor, he thought all nature, and whatever breathed throughout the region round him, united their tears for his virtuous benefactor. After he had deposited the body in the grave, it was some time before he could prevail on himself to cover it with the earth. He felt his heart very powerfully affected; he stood almost motionless, and the tears stole insensibly down his cheeks.

"Happy Nestor," said he, "you can neither see nor condemn my weakness. If you could, you would forgive me, and pity me. You were my father, philosopher, and friend; you taught me to love you, and now I have lost you. Let me indulge my tears in this melancholy moment, as the only tribute I can pay to your virtues."

He then proceeded to fill up the grave; but every shovelful of earth was accompanied with a sigh. When he had covered part of his face, he stopped suddenly. "Farewell, my dear friend," said the generous and pious youth, "a little more earth, and then you will be lost from my sight for ever! It is the decree of Heaven, it must be so, and it is my duty to submit. But though you will soon be for ever lost from my sight, your memory will never be erased from my mind, till my mortal clay, like yours, shall be incapable of knowing what passes in this world. May my end be like yours, peaceful, composed, and tranquil."

After a few minutes pause, he proceeded in his business, filled up the grave, and covered it with the most verdant turf he could find. He then planted round it the woodbine and jessamine, and inclosed the whole with a fence of blushing roses.

His business being now completed, he turned to the transparent stream, and thus uttered his devotions, to which no mortal could be witness, and his plaintive accents were heard only by the wafting gentle zephyrs.

"Thou great and omnipotent Being, who, in your gracious bounty to me, unworthy wretch as I am, have been pleased to take me from the regions of Folly, and place me here in those of Innocence and Virtue, where I have learned to forget the former dreadful misfortunes of my life, grant me, O gracious Heaven! thy protection, and endow me with the same virtues that reverend sage possessed, to whose memory I have just paid the last duties. Left as I am without either guide or companion, his sacred ashes shall supply the place of them. Sooner shall this stream cease to flow, and the sun withdraw its benign influence from these happy regions, than I to wander from the paths into which my departed friend has conducted me."

Though Nestor's death left the virtuous youth without friend or companion, yet he in some measure consoled himself for that loss by daily visiting his grave, and cautiously watching the growth of that funeral plantation. He suffered not a weed to grow near it, and kept every thing about it in the highest state of perfection. Every morning and evening the birds assembled in the surrounding bushes, and warbled forth their notes over the departed sage.

Though it is neither to be expected nor wished, that my youthful readers should turn hermits, yet it would be proper for them to remember, that happiness is not always to be found among the bustling crowd, where every thing appears under borrowed shapes. In whatever condition Fortune may place them, let them remember this one certain truth, that there can be no real happiness where virtue is wanting.

_The Caprice of Fortune._

Painters represent Fortune with a bandage over her eyes, by which they mean to tell us, that she distributes her gifts indiscriminately, and as chance happens to throw a happy object in her way, without paying regard to either virtue or merit. The following short history will evince the truth of the old adage, that there is a something necessary, besides merit and industry, to make a person's fortune in this capricious world.

A brave old soldier, whom I shall conceal under the borrowed name of Ulysses, had acquired immortal honours in the service of his country on the field of battle. Having passed the prime of his life in actual service, he retired to pass the evening of his days in the circle of his family, and the care of his children.

He tenderly loved his offspring, and he had the inexpressible pleasure and delight to find himself beloved by them.

As his eldest son had entered into a marriage contract by the consent of all parties, a house was taken for the young couple, and the necessary repairs and embellishments were not forgotten. One of the apartments being designed for pictures, the generous youth, without acquainting his father with his design, employed a painter to describe all the heroic actions of his sire.

This business was completed with great expedition and secrecy, and as soon as the house was properly ornamented and furnished, the young gentleman invited all his relations and particular acquaintances to partake of an elegant dinner, on his commencing housekeeping. When the veteran entered the room, where all his glorious actions were represented in the most lively colours, he could not avoid being singularly struck with the generous piety of his son. The company were at a loss which they should most admire, the heroic exploits of the father, or the exemplary conduct of the son.

The old general surveyed every picture with an air of carelessness, at which the company were not a little surprised, and could not help wondering at his composed indifference. "You acted very properly, son," said the old gentleman, "to conceal your intentions of this matter from me till you had completed it, as I otherwise should most certainly have stifled it in its birth. What you have thus done is a convincing proof of your love and affection for me; but, however sensible it may make me of your attachments to me, yet it does not much flatter my vanity.

"Few pieces of biography are correct on their first appearance in the world, where the parties meant to be handed down to posterity have not been previously consulted. The most particular event, from the want of proper information, is frequently omitted. Such is the case, my son, in the present instance. There is one circumstance in my life which ought to have been recorded, since to that action alone I owe all my fortune, and my promotion in the army." However, as dinner was then serving up, the conversation was dropped, and the company very soon began to have something else to think of.

The next day, however, being at dinner with his children and a small party of friends, his son requested him to inform him what was that heroic act he had forgotten in his penciled history. The general replied, he had no objections to do so, but observed, that it would be necessary to go into the room where the pictures were hanging.

As soon as they had entered the room, the general began his observations on the paintings. "I suppose son," said he, "you have terminated the first line with that in which his majesty is supposed to have made me a lieutenant-general. In this, indeed, you have made a very capital error, as you have here brought together events that happened at different periods. But I would wish to know, whether the military honours I have received, were in consequence of the actions represented in this picture, or on account of what is represented in the whole."

The young gentleman replied, without the least hesitation, that the honours he had received were in consequence of all his services, and not of any single one.

"You are very much mistaken," said the general, "for it was in consequence only of one action in my life, that I enjoy my present honours; and this action you have not recorded."

The young gentleman was very much surprised to think that he should forget the principal occurrence of his father's life, and that too from which alone he was raised in the army. He censured his own want of memory, and was the more angry with himself, as he could not even then recollect it.

"Do not make yourself uneasy," said the general to his son, "for it is not possible that you could paint an action you never knew any thing of. It is a transaction which I have never yet related to any one; but I shall now give you the particulars.

"During the very early part of my life as a soldier, I lost my left leg, and received so dangerous a wound in my head, that my life was for some time despaired of, nor did I perfectly recover of it till after sixteen months had elapsed. I lost my three youngest sons on the field of battle, where they bled in the service of their king and country.