Chapter IV: Part 4

They who have well cultivated the heart’s true sensibilities, find the means and sources of enjoyment spread lavishly around them. The fickle and whimsical pursuits after momentary pleasure, which vex and perplex so many, never disturb their quiet nor encumber their repose. The happiness that attends them is unalloyed, not subject to the regrets of disappointment, nor the frequent remorse which preys upon the mind of him who had haunted the glittering pleasures of animal life and its enticing enjoyments. They feel the full gratification of the inward sense, which is sincere, penetrating, and permanent. The store upon which they draw is exhaustless. Other elements of nature may perish by too frequent use, but the sensibilities of the heart only increase in strength and vigor through every occasion that calls them forth, and expand the more the more they are exercised. It is use that preserves them: slothfulness is their great and formidable enemy. “All virtues,” says an ancient Grecian philosopher, “depend upon exercise and use; to preserve them, we must practice them.”

The career of man often presents melancholy illustrations of the want of this true sensibility. The aims of life, too frequently governed by the arbitrary decrees of society, lead him into paths that rather blunt than encourage it; and he finds little substantial pleasure in fulfilling a destiny which circumstances have forced upon him against the better qualities of his nature. Fortune may have smiled upon him, enriching him with her bounties, yet these, if simply depending upon themselves, soon sicken and lose their interest. The riches of the soul can only be enjoyed through the sensibilities of the heart, which lead us to the performance of deeds of truth and charity. They alone can enable us to discharge the mission of sympathy and love towards the unfortunate and distressed; they alone can qualify us for generous and magnanimous intercourse with those whose evil destiny deserves our kind indulgence, and fit us for more exalted association with equals and superiors; they alone can develope the good germs in our nature into exceeding excellencies, and lead us to true virtue and its exhaustless treasures; and they alone can make the journey of life resemble a smooth and even surface, and surround us with pleasures and comforts which the insensible may never know. How much, then, is it our duty to cultivate the heart through the exercise of its sensibilities, and thus obtain the full gratification of every virtuous faculty in our nature! How much, then, does it behoove each of us to conquer the sordid and selfish motives too frequently engendered by surrounding influences, and bring into more healthful existence those noble affections with which we are endowed! Thus alone can we truly live in mind and heart, and effect a happy harmony between soul and body--no longer verifying the saying of Theophrastus, that the former pays large rent to the latter for its dwelling.

A PREFACE,

MADE BY THE SECRETARY.

The following paper was read at a full meeting of the Junto, and listened to with considerable attention: not more than a dozen falling into a nodding doze during its reading. I was at a loss to account for this interest, not knowing whether to ascribe it to the style of the composition or to the manner of the reader, who frequently indicated his delight, though perhaps at the expense of his charity, by his insinuating emphasis of particular sentences. To be relieved of my perplexity, I addressed the inquiry to a gentleman seated near me, upon whose face I noticed a savage scowl, which had probably been occasioned by his having heard too accurate a description of his own character. Turning towards me, perhaps with the view of ascertaining whether there was not a double meaning in my query, he gruffly replied: “Neither style nor manner; but scandal, to be sure: the drowsiest cur will prick its ears at scandal--the sluggard, be he never so sluggish, never gapes when furnished with a dish well seasoned with its venom.” That he was correct in this, I shall not here venture to record an opinion; but certain it is, that at the conclusion he was the loudest in applause of Peter’s dream, and the first to declare that “it was not all a dream.” Notwithstanding this emphatic declaration, however, it was soon ascertained, upon questioning the gentleman who had introduced the paper, that it was, of a verity, what it purported to be. He had received the manuscript of a friend, who had heard every incident therein related from Peter Easy himself, and could not be mistaken. This seemed to satisfy the curiosity of each, and it was therefore generously decreed that the “Dream of a Loafer” should be allowed a place amongst the records of the Association.

S----Y.

THE DREAM OF A LOAFER.

It has often been matter of surprise to me, that the important and truly philosophic individual upon whom the community has generously conferred the title of “loafer,” should frequently be so little appreciated as to receive no higher encomiums than such as he may be able to extract from a laugh or a sneer. His title is certainly one of dignity and distinction, and although many efforts have heretofore been made to change it, and substitute the more refined and aristocratic appellation of “gentleman of leisure,” he has ever, and very properly, in my opinion, indignantly resisted such invidious encroachments upon it. He has thoroughly examined its derivation, and fully investigated its import, with all of which he has no reason to find fault, and therefore remains perfectly content.

That the loafer is a meritorious personage, one fact alone should be sufficient to satisfy the most doubting: he is always emphatically a “self-made” man. By carefully studying excellent examples, which have been increasing ever since the world began, and to which we are promised many more bright additions, he seldom fails to attain a great degree of perfection. Unfortunately, our civilization prevents him from securing that renown to which he is fully able to establish a just claim, and which had generally been freely granted to his first predecessors. Should he presume to live, as it is reported of our primitive ancestors, upon husks and acorns, we would quickly pronounce him a madman, if for no other reason than because this would demonstrate that he differed from us in taste, or was blessed with a better organ of digestion! Should he diet upon raw beef, employ his naked fingers and the hollow of his hand in preference to the many table articles invented for our convenience, and now constantly used, we would soon think it an act of charity to confine him in some lunatic asylum, instead of immortalizing him as a philosopher! Civilization, so much admired for the many comforts it has brought with it, has thus resulted much more to his injury than benefit. If the dial of time was set back some two or three thousand years, he is perhaps the only one who would not lose by the change. In truth, civilization and enlightenment, though he does not deny that they have greatly benefitted others, are his most formidable enemies. It will therefore be seen how unreasonable and ungenerous are those who condemn him for doing nothing to advance either. These elements of modern society have been the great cause of inducing many to doubt his usefulness, whilst they have even impelled some seriously to question the necessity of his existence. In proof of this, I may here state, that I once had a very inquisitive and philosophic friend, now for several years gathered to his fathers, whose death, it is said, was occasioned by too close mental application in efforts to ascertain the usefulness and necessity of a well-known micher, who was constantly to be seen at the village tavern. Such, I have been assured, was the precise statement of his physician, who likewise added, that he might perhaps have survived, but for the many perplexing difficulties suggested to his mind by the old command of the apostle, “that if any would not work, neither should he eat.” This entire statement, however, was much questioned; but then, those who doubted it, invariably remarked that the doctor, having so well doctored my friend that he quickly died, had less regard for the truth than solicitude for his professional skill. This involves the whole matter in uncertainty, where I must leave it, not because I belong to the school of the Pyrrhonists, those lying doubters of old, but simply because the subject is too intricate, and might perhaps prove as fatal to me as the one before alluded to did to my worthy friend. Whatever may have been the cause of my friend’s death, we must feel sorry that, if he was engaged upon so serviceable a work, he was not permitted to complete it and present the result of his labors to the world. The information might have proved of considerable benefit to the philosophically inclined. Indeed, if he had removed all possible doubt of the usefulness of such individuals, and shown the real necessity of their existence in our society, a very difficult problem, I must own, would have been solved. Such a favorable solution, too, would have afforded much consolation to all of that class, and might even have caused a great increase of their number. Of one thing, at least, I am certain: it would have confirmed still more, if such a thing be possible, the habits of an acquaintance of mine, who resides in the same village with me. He is known to the villagers by the designation of Easy Peter, but always writes his name, whenever you can induce him to perform so much manual labor, PETER EASY. He is descended from a family whose lineage has been traced to the Welsh and Germans, of which stocks he is extremely fond of boasting. This, to me, seems simply to illustrate an excellent trait in his character, for it exhibits the respect he entertains for his forefathers. Some of the villagers, however, ascribe his boasts to vanity; declaring that he is as vain as a woman, and that if mythology had no Narcissus, he would furnish it with an excellent one. That these are much out in their reckoning, I am well persuaded; for should he become so enchanted with the loveliness of his figure as to languish to death at the fountain in which it might be reflected, they would be the first to attribute his demise to sheer laziness,--a disease, which, fortunately, is not very fatal, otherwise epidemics would never cease in the world.

Easy Peter may at all times be seen in our village. If he is not found at the old log tavern at its eastern end, you are certain to meet him at the tobacco house at its western extremity, where two smoky youths have for several years been engaged in “rolling up” the weed into form for the enjoyment of its devotees. I believe it is the universal experience that all of Peter’s excellent habits possess a great proclivity for places of this kind. Whether this may be owing to a desire for idle associations, or simply to a love of the articles retailed there, I am not well qualified to decide; but whatever may be the cause operating upon Peter, he has a peculiar affinity for these two places in our village, at which his enthusiasm and verbosity frequently amuse and occasionally astonish his auditors. It is true, no one seriously apprehends that any modern Festus will ever impatiently accuse him of being made mad by “much learning,” however prolific he may be in his speeches. He is in no such danger, nor is it probable that he will ever earn the reputation of being wise simply through being boisterous, although many have done so before him. Always referring to the generous liberality ascribed to Socrates as an illustration how men should use their knowledge, he even seeks to surpass this much renowned ancient philosopher, whom he recognizes as his worthy model, in the lavishness with which he dispenses whatever he may happen to know. This, it must be acknowledged, is not so exceedingly much; but then he always mixes it with a marvellous amount of useless verbiage, principally drawn from his imagination and his dreams. Herein, it will readily be conceded, he is not at all singular, and only plays a part for which the times furnish innumerable examples. The inhabitants of the village are all perfectly acquainted with him and his habits, and he has therefore long since ceased to disturb them, not from any reasons of his own, but simply because they have learned not to heed him. It so happens, however, that we are not unfrequently visited by strangers, and these invariably stare with amazement whenever they encounter him at either of his favorite places of resort. It may be supposed that in these magnanimous efforts to entertain all who can be induced, from curiosity or other motives, to while away an idle moment with him, he should naturally indulge in denunciations against the world and its practices. This, I must confess, is an inference not in the least repugnant to his habits; but then he never finds fault from the mere pleasure, of doing so, in which he is so very singular, that I must leave it to others to determine whether he is in advance of the age or behind it.

Shortly after the hour of noon, on a certain summer day which will long be remembered in this locality because of its excessive heat, a young and sprightly farmer chanced to visit the village. His entrance seemed to be regarded as an event somewhat remarkable, for so dull was the season that no strange face had been seen by the villagers for several weeks. Upon arriving at the tavern, having been curiously stared at by the occupants of every building he had passed, he encountered Peter, who immediately entered into heterogeneous conversation, if that can be called conversation in which the talking is all on one side. I will here venture the opinion, though cautiously, that it may, for custom seems to have so decreed, and with few things has custom had more to do. Having invented no new word fully adequate to the occasion, and sufficiently expressive, we are led to submit to its long continued acquiescence in the one now employed. Then, too, excellent talkers could never consent to change this form of expression for any other less creditable to themselves, and the good listener may find sufficient to reconcile himself to it in the remark of old Simonides, who declared that he had frequently repented of having said too much, but never of having remained silent. Notwithstanding the apparent determination to exclude the possibility of a stray word from the new comer, Peter’s conduct had something of novelty in it to the stranger which at once induced him patiently to listen. Of course, this attention was highly pleasing to the talker, for several weeks had been a very long period for him to remain, on account of the dullness of the season, in that silence to which the villagers had doomed him by common consent, under the impression that time spent with him was unprofitably and irretrievably cast away. When, therefore, he was invited by the young man to a seat in his conveyance, Peter had no hesitancy in accepting, and not until they had left the village several miles behind, did he ascertain that the stranger had no intention of returning to it again. He now first bethought himself of the ridiculous blunder he had made in not having informed himself of this fact before. In this sad plight, very sad indeed to him, he slowly dismounted from the vehicle, and commenced pondering upon the best means to get back again to the tavern he had so incautiously left at the bidding of the stranger. To walk so great a distance he would at any time have looked upon as an exceedingly laborious task, but in the awful heat of that day the idea was too terrible to be entertained. At length he concluded to trust to his luck, which had sometimes favored him, although he had frequently complained of its hard decrees, thinking that chance might perhaps send some conveyance that way, through which he could return to the village. I should be greatly gratified to be able to say, that in Peter Easy I had found the man who never lamented over his fate, and who never affirmed that he was the “unluckiest fellow in the world;” but I cannot claim the credit of having made so happy a discovery. Whether that fortunate individual has ever set a foot of real flesh and bone upon earthly soil, is most extremely doubtful; yet all will confide in their better destiny, as did Peter in the present instance, though the certainty of disappointment may seem to stare them in the face. Cheered by so comfortable a hope, he seated himself by the roadside, beneath the shady branches of a ponderous tree, and not feeling just then like the young lady who always “dreaded to retire to bed because she could not talk in her sleep,” he was soon lazily spread out full length upon the sod. He had not been long in this posture, before he found gradually stealing over him a dull and oppressive stupor, which may have owed its origin to a hearty and undigested dinner, for in his case the saying of the wise man did not yet apply--“slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep, and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.” Fortunately for him, his father had been a careful and judicious man, and thus placed him beyond the calamity of the latter portion of the proverb, which his habits might otherwise have reaped; and I much question whether he had ever been so blessed as to realize the truth of the former by experience. In this state of unconsciousness, verging unto sleep, he had a dream, which he has since so often related that it must be very widely known. At least, such is the inference of the villagers, who suppose that it has been honored with frequent repetitions by some of the many strangers who have visited the village since this eventful day in Peter’s life, none of whom could escape hearing it either in whole or by parcels. I shall here endeavor to narrate it, though conscious that much of its effect must necessarily be lost through the absence of his manner and gestures, which no human skill could transfer upon paper; nor can I give it precisely in his own words, for reasons which I must withhold, leaving the reader, however, at liberty to supply such as may best suit his fancy.

Easy Peter, not so exceedingly easy at the time, imagined in his dream that some supernatural power had suddenly seized him. From whence it had come, he could not divine, but it gradually transported him beyond the confines of earth into another world. This so much resembled our own, that had he awoke here, he positively affirms, he should not have been able to discover the least difference. He was not as fortunate as the man who “dreamed that there was no credit to be given to dreams;” and strange enough, in his conscious hours, he defends this fanciful excursion of his momentary slumber as a substantial truth. It has been so effectually impressed upon his mind, that he speaks of it, not as the deceptive experience of a dream, but as a real adventure. The first thing that attracted his attention in this new sphere, was the variety of employments at which he found the people engaged. A French philosopher declares, that they are mean souls who are so buried in business as not to know that the most glorious and principal work of man is to live well; and as Peter gazed upon the continual efforts and ceaseless struggles here exhibited, he could not refrain from indulging in somewhat similar reflections. Scarcely an occasional pause was to be observed in the general commotion, so intent did each appear upon some object that hurried him on.--Amongst these eager scramblers, running to and fro in hot haste, chasing every chimera supposed to hold out a promise, Peter’s eyes detected one who at once claimed his entire attention. He was as ugly as a Theban sphynx, lean and lank, his very gait giving evidence of his cunning and treachery, whilst his countenance, if it mirrored what was passing in the soul, plainly cried out, “Money, money! at whatever cost or consequence, I must have money!” A worthy illustration of the heartless miser, who seeks for nothing but the gratification of his insatiable desire, he never hesitated to inflict a wrong, or crush a soul, to obtain possession of a shilling. The French Vandille, to save the extra expense of three bleedings at three pence each, let out the four and twenty ounces of blood at a single operation, thus purchasing his death at a sixpence--certainly a very cheap transaction. He had his counterpart in this avaricious wretch, who, Peter positively affirms, would have added another four and twenty ounces for the gratification of feasting his eyes upon the glitter of a shekel. “Had he lived,” said a stranger, “in the days of Eumolpus, he would have been an excellent subject for remembrance in the will of that whimsical fellow, who ordered that all to whom he gave legacies, besides his children, should receive them upon condition that they cut up his body and eat it before the people.” “Many,” replied Peter, “have waded through disgust to wealth; and for a trifle, he would never have paused until he had munched it up entirely.” His miserly propensities urged him to the violation of every principle, the sacrifice of every virtue that happened to come in contact with them; and thus he pursued his daily course, still adding to his store as he lost of his manhood. How very ridiculous it is, thought Peter in his dream, that men will grasp and grasp without stopping to ask a question, and thereby only increase the certainty of being eventually grasped themselves, by most unwelcome clutches, without being allowed the time to answer any.

Turning from this wretched specimen of humanity, Peter recognised another who was no less busy, and who seemed as ambitious as Phæton or Icarus, determined to set the world in a blaze, or what appeared more likely to happen, break his own neck in his aspiring flights. He knew of no medium by which to be controlled, and would even have found pleasure in the reputation of being a fool; but, unfortunately, Hobbes spoke truth when he said, that “without learning it is impossible for any man to be either excellently wise or excellently foolish.” Herein he was deficient, and the “number of common fools far exceeding that of wise men,” as a German author observes, they were rendered so general and were so frequently encountered that even this prospect of securing celebrity promised him nothing. Moved by his “wild distemper” he forgot the realities by which he was surrounded, and in his impetuosity to climb up the crooked ladder of distinction, he was hurried to the most extravagant excesses. Erostratus, to obtain renown, fired the temple of Diana, but the Ephesians, to bury his memory in eternal oblivion, prohibited the mention of his name under the penalty of death. This individual, if not yet driven to such extremities to gratify his passion, could nevertheless foresee, in the satiric ridicule certain to follow his mad endeavors, sufficient cause to “go and hang himself out of sheer mortification.” Such, thought Peter, not unfrequently, is the melancholy end of the zealot, when his zeal triumphs over his judgment and dethrones his reason.

As he was watching the manœuvres and expedients of this not uncommon character, a party of gentlemen suddenly intervened between his vision and the subject of his gaze. They were all so exceedingly merry that Peter felt anxious to join in their sport, and declares that he should have done so had he not been deterred by seeing one of them slyly and skilfully sliding his hands into the pockets of another, where, he quite reasonably supposed, it had no business. This was an exploit the like of which he had never witnessed before; but having frequently heard of the practices of a learned profession, he immediately concluded that this cunning villain was a lawyer, so prone are we to form opinions from general reputation. He soon after discovered his error, however, for the loud “hue and cry” that met his ears, very distinctly informed him that upon this world there were pocket pickers and robbers as well as upon our own, showing that we cannot claim these blessings as belonging exclusively to us. Inference, thought Peter, is a very uncertain thing, as often unjust as it is mistaken, and he asked of himself whether it had ever assigned to him a place in the category of rogues. Of this he might have been satisfied, for it has not yet been shown that any has ever escaped such imputations, and we can only be surprised that so many are foolish enough to manifest doubtful anxiety in a matter of which each may be so certain.

Another, who was hurrying along with all possible speed, and whose wild appearance seemed to attract general notice, now claimed Peter’s attention. Not in the least regarding his late experience, he at once concluded that this was a madman, in which he was again partially mistaken. Following after, it was not long before he discovered him to be an eminent physician, visiting a patient to whom he had the day before administered a dose, and who was now in his last agonies. “A wretched, bungling quack! a quack, sir,” exclaimed a young physician, who became irritated at our dreamer as he was declaiming upon this portion of his dream. “Perhaps,” replied a stranger, “the people of that sphere are stupid enough to follow the practice that caused the uncivil jest of Fabius of Bentivoglio, who, on his way to manufacture a doctor, by chance espied an ass yawning with open mouth as if he were laughing. To whom, ‘why laugh you,’ says Fabius, ‘you silly creature? we can make you a doctor too, if you have but money.’” However this may have been, the great haste of the physician was matter of surprise to Peter, who could not understand why a professor, whose business it was to assist people to get out of the world with ease, should be so much concerned for the life of a single patient. His wonder, however, soon subsided upon being furnished with reason to believe that the man of medicine was a more careful student of the Talmud and the Rabbins than of his profession, and that he had not been running for the good of the sick, but for his own fee, which was of infinitely greater importance. Many a one, thought Peter, is rendering service to the devil, even at the very time that we may think him engaged in works of superior excellence.

Easy Peter now lost sight of the physician, but his place was filled by a straight, slender, and serious looking individual, who was holding forth in a magnificent building, which had evidently been erected with a due regard to lodging accommodations. It required nothing beyond what he saw to inform him that this was a preacher in his fashionable temple. Peter had seen few men, notwithstanding his extensive intercourse with the world, who had the faculty of assuming so saintly an appearance as this one, and he therefore determined to follow him home. The holy man had scarcely descended from the pulpit before Peter saw an illustration of how much easier it was to preach humility than to practice it, and felt how few, even of the priesthood, really understood the saying of the essayist, that “the souls of kings and cobblers were cast in the same mould.” To show obeisance to the one, however guilty and degraded by vice he may be, is easy, and honorable, and an imitation of Jesus: to shake hands with the other, and seek to reclaim him by magnanimous and friendly fellowship, is countenancing and encouraging “publicans and sinners.” To greet with the pleasant social smile, and the exhibition of generous solicitude, the poor and ragged parishioner, is changing religion into levity, and “walking in the counsel of the ungodly, and standing in the way of sinners:” to fawn upon and court the favor and association of the more fortunate worshipper, who seldom ever rises from his knees until he has planned some new scheme to play the villain towards his fellow, is “exhorting one another daily, while it is called to-day,” or taking “sweet counsel together, and walking unto the house of God in company.” Peter was not a little surprised, upon reaching the residence of the minister, to discover how much better he was fitted to declaim upon the beauties of charity than to practice magnanimity and forbearance in his own house. This, thought he, is not the only one who, to obtain skill in lecturing the public, exercises himself at the expense of his family’s comfort and happiness.

Peter became interested in the private habits of this reverend gentleman, and would gladly have remained to ascertain yet more concerning them, but being unable to direct the course of his dream, he was unfortunately compelled to follow a melancholy creature who happened just then to cross his dreamy path. True, he had somewhere read or heard that melancholy men were naturally endowed with greater genius than those blessed with more volatile dispositions, and he therefore expected to gain from this new subject what he had missed by losing the other. He was led to a large and splendid establishment, which he regarded as being certainly much better calculated to produce comfort and happiness than melancholy. He had scarcely entered, before he heard a harsh, shrill voice re-echoing through the house, and when the termagant, who seemed to have inherited from nature a perfect right to its possession, made her appearance, he could not help repeating to himself the proverb of Solomon, “_It is_ better to dwell in a corner of the house-top, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.” “What an excellent Tatianian he would have made,” remarked a pert young lady of the village, who would sometimes honor Peter with a few moments of her attention, and to whom the thought of such unfortunate husbands always afforded matter for merriment. “Why so?” anxiously queried Peter, who could not fathom her meaning. “Because they maintained that all, except themselves, were damned through mother Eve, and that women were made by the devil, to the latter of which tenets your hen-pecked vision could no doubt have sworn with the strictest of the sect.” “Notwithstanding such were their origin, we would treasure them,” added another. “Proving,” replied she, “that the gifts from that quarter are preferred, and that there is no justice in your complaints when the penalty is to be paid.” Peter was naturally somewhat sympathetic, and would gladly have condoled with this melancholy man in his affliction, but the domestic pest kept too strict a watch to permit it. He apprehended the consequences likely to follow, should he presume too much, and therefore wisely concluded not to cause the reigning spirit of the mansion to “pass still more the equilibrium of her balance.” He reflected how indiscreet it is to interfere in matters of this kind, and remembering the advice of the old poet, he thought it judicious not to disregard it:

“Have pity on yourself, and, though you’re stout
As mastiff breed, don’t take a bear by th’ snout.”

As a spectator, Peter Easy would not have objected to remain in this splendid establishment of domestic misery, with the view of obtaining some practical knowledge of matrimonial life. He had not ventured out of single blessedness himself, for which he never gave any other reason than that he had been predestinated a bachelor. In this he was believed by many of the villagers, but others continued to maintain that his single blessedness was simply owing to his aversion to the trouble necessarily encountered in visiting and courting for a wife. To this he would only reply, that although he could not, like the old Thracians and Assyrians, rise from his bed in the morning, attend the market with his purse, and return in the evening with one of the fairest and most enchanting maids in the kingdom; nor coolly exchange, for a lovely and bewitching partner, “one hundred and twenty pounds of tobacco, cash,” the value of the best article, as was the practice of his good-natured ancestors, he yet lived in an age affording equal if not greater matrimonial facilities. “Now,” he would declare, “no little of the labor of visiting and courting is voluntarily assumed by the ladies themselves, through ten thousand modest expedients which their ingenuity has invented; and should this prove insufficient, why, it is the easiest matter in the world to pick up a wife on any day of the year upon any highway in the country.” Concluding his bachelor prejudices to be real, they quite naturally induced him to believe that in the domestic affairs of this magnificent mansion, he could see the fruits and consequences of marriage in their true and proper light. Fortune, however, was inclined to deal more favorably with him, and his attention was arrested by a handsome young man who hurried from the building as if anxious to escape the unpleasant sounds of the voice within. Peter followed him as he walked leisurely and contentedly along, until he came to his residence, which was a small, yet handsomely arranged and neatly furnished building. As the young man opened the door, his pretty young wife was the first to meet and welcome him with her cheerful countenance and happy smiles, and then they so lovingly embraced each other, that Peter’s heart, though long a stranger to such feelings, impulsively began to respond to theirs. He turned away, perhaps to check its beatings, but now affirms he did so simply to resolve this astounding mystery; for it was his firm conviction, based upon his own extensive observation, that marriages were formed with no other design than that of providing for the parties a proper and convenient person with whom to fight and quarrel whenever inclination prompted. “It was well to turn away,” replied the pert young lady before alluded to, “for your eyes should never be permitted to feast upon so holy a scene. Like all of your bachelor kin, you ‘are not worthy to see a man first in the morning,’ as the saying of the Benjins used to have it. The unhappy Dido, who pronounced you a pack of brutes, spoke only the truth; and you deserve no better fate than that decreed by the Spartan ruler, who ordained that all of your species should be excluded from the sports and dances of the women, and compelled to run up and down the Forum, unclad and freezing, singing songs in dishonor of themselves.” “Surely,” replied Peter, “rather than endure so rigorous a discipline or punishment, each of us would follow Luther’s jest, and carve unto himself an obedient wife out of a block of stone; or if that would not suffice, perhaps profit by the example of Henry VIII., and ‘put his neck into the yoke, as the only remedy,’ though the spouse provided for him should prove to be nothing but ‘a great Flander’s mare.’” When Peter again looked upon the young couple, they were comfortably seated together, and both seemed still to enjoy the “tender caress” just as much as they could have done in their wooing days; but this was so contrary to his previous observation, and so conflicted with his theory, that he sadly misinterpreted their conduct. He had forgotten the advice of a friend who had repeatedly warned him against indiscriminately venturing opinions upon matters concerning which he was entirely ignorant, lest he might find frequent cause to repent of his errors; for should he happen to be right once in a hundred times, he would certainly be more fortunate than the rest of mankind generally are. He accordingly gives it as his settled opinion, that these two visions of his dream were so addicted to such demonstrations of affection that they could not avoid indulging in them, nor be very particular towards whom they were exhibited. Such practices, Peter declares, are so very common; and he even presumes to account through them for the habits of tenderness which some married people happen to acquire. He could, therefore, not well decide which were the most blessed--this apparently well satisfied couple, or the pair he had seen at the splendid mansion, under the lowering of a domestic storm.

When Peter emerged from the cottage, he came into a dreary street, studded with rows of dilapidated houses on either side, each of which seemed to give ample evidence of the wretchedness existing within. Here he encountered three “ministers of mercy,” who visited this locality on pretence of relieving the wants and distresses of the people. Their holy mission at once arrested his attention, and claimed his regard. How happy the influence of charity, reflected he, coming like the sweet sympathy of angels to bless this suffering community. It was a maxim of Plato, that the “end and aim of all human actions is some good;” and in no other channel can more be accomplished than in the one in which these seemingly worthy men appeared to be engaged. Who can ponder upon the mission of the noble vivandiere, the providence of the French soldier, as he sees her following the camp, extending to the weak and weary, the disabled and fatigued, the hand of help and hospitality, without feeling how small are all things compared with human sympathy and love? Her self-sacrificing and sublime benignity,--attending the rough warrior in his danger, relieving him when in want, aiding him when in distress, ministering to him in sickness, tenderly raising him when he falls upon the field of carnage and providing a place of safety, binding his wounds with her salves, her balsams, and her rolls of soft linen, and freely sharing her delicacies, her smiles, and her good wishes,--gives us a foretaste of that eternity of bliss which shall be the just reward of the good, after a separation from the blighting struggles, and contentions, and jealousies of human life. How well for the world were each a vivandiere, alike in peace and in war! What suffering would be driven from our midst, what misery averted, what wretchedness reclaimed, what happiness dispensed around! Peter imagined he here saw an imitation of her example, and it acted like a charm upon his easy nature. How sad, then, was the sudden change of his feelings when he discovered his mistake, and ascertained that these were nothing but shrewd pretenders after all, who had succeeded, by cunning and hypocrisy, to secure somewhat of a reputation for honesty and charity. Affecting religiously to help the poor, they were only magnanimously helping themselves, at the expense of the little generosity left in the community. How often, thought he, do people obtain credit for possessing a “big heart” just because they have none at all?

Peter was no longer inclined to follow these unworthy administrators of the public bounty, and turning round he beheld a small, hump-backed individual, who at once excited his interest. There was something peculiarly repulsive in this man’s countenance, which invariably prompted all who came in contact with him to put their hands into their pockets and their fingers upon their purses. Peter was not long in ascertaining that he was a broker and usurer, who, following his profession in the midst of these poor and humble creatures, seemed to fatten upon their poverty as does the vulture upon its unfortunate prey. Whenever Peter relates this incident of his dream, he declaims with all the vehemence he possesses. These inhuman and unfeeling wretches, he declares, are the most formidable servants of the devil, and always inherit his qualities to so eminent a degree that no stranger could distinguish the servants from the master. As the hawk pounces upon the helpless and trembling little sparrow, they fasten their greedy talons upon the tatters of a ragged dress with inextricable clutch; and as the savage beast licks the gore of its victim, they suck the blood of theirs until crimson to the dewlap and purple to the elbows. Pandora let loose her horde of evils to trouble the world, said the heathens. The Christian acknowledges that God has not so restricted the power of Satan as to prevent him from sending his scourges upon the earth, of which he has liberally availed himself by establishing his agents in the form of usurers and brokers in every section of the world. Of old, they were justly regarded as little better than murderers, and decidedly worse than thieves; for, says Cato in Cicero, “our ancestors enacted in their laws, that a thief should be condemned to pay double, but an usurer quadruple.” The Jew has at least bigotry and prejudice, inherited from his fathers for nearly two thousand years, to offer as an excuse when he robs the Gentile, and yet it is a common saying, “that every day he takes an oath to do what he can to cheat the Christians;” but these indiscriminately plunder heathen and Christian, exhibiting no emotion beyond a satanic chuckle over their success. They are ravenous pests who speculate upon poverty and misfortune, and digest the misery around them with savage glee--knaves who, for want of souls themselves, seek to crush the souls of the unfortunate and distressed, apparently finding happiness in their agonies, and nectar in their tears. Ah! thought Peter, what worthy denizens of the pit they will make, and what amusement they will afford to their master in their efforts to prey upon each other, for doubtlessly they will follow their unrighteous trade, as the only one fit to be pursued in hell!

Easy Peter regarded this as truly an afflicted street when he was drawn from the usurer to the rendezvous of the speculators. Amid the wretchedness and poverty of this locality, there was an abundance of ill-gotten gain, as he had sufficient opportunity to witness. These new visions of his dream had assembled for the purpose of making a renewed effort in their swindling schemes, and were engaged in revolving their plans with evident satisfaction. Brigands have their leaders, pirates their captains, and these, brigands and pirates sanctioned by society, had their master spirit too. The common bands of freebooters generally select as their chiefs the most desperate and daring amongst them--these had elevated the most heartless to equal distinction. Peter watched them framing their lies, and fortifying them with plausibility, and pronounced the loathsome mass a fit dish for public gullibility to digest. Here were schemes for particular purposes and special individuals--there preparations for each, however large or limited his means. Their enterprises had but a single basis: a design to enrich themselves, at whatever cost to their fellows. This one end had swallowed up every principle of integrity, every entity in morals, every sympathetic impulse of the heart. The misery and distress, the tears, and suffering, and despair, necessarily occasioned by their deceptions, and frauds, and robberies, never disturbed their quiet, but were simply regarded as pleasing comicalities to amuse them whilst pocketing the plunder. Homer assures us that the profession of the robber was regarded as glorious by some of the ancients, and Plutarch informs us that amongst the Spaniards his exploits passed for gallant adventures. Though we punish the bold and daring rogue, without making the least allowance for his hair-breadth escapes, the treacherous plunderer in our midst, who does not even possess the redeeming trait of physical courage, receives our countenance and esteem. As Peter was witnessing this excellent illustration of selfishness and thievery, which a credulous people first pay dearly for and then honor, their operations were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the Chief, or President of the band, in company with a well-to-do looking individual, on whose arm he was affectionately leaning. They had been friends for many years, and through the false yet plausible representations of the former, the latter soon fell into the snare. Unsuspectingly he became the victim to their designs, and though he left perfectly content, another revolution of the earth was certain to find him a bankrupt. It is true, reflected Peter, that villany is often disguised under the garb of friendship, and where we most confide suspicion is most required.

Peter now heard a great noise in the street, and hurrying to the place from whence it proceeded, he witnessed a grand display of pugilistic skill. What had given origin to the quarrel he was unable to ascertain, yet so bitter was the rage of the antagonists, who numbered some dozen or more, that it had already lasted a considerable time, nor did it seem to be in the least abating. There were but two spectators to the scene, one of whom appeared to be much frightened and concerned, and was using every persuasion to pacify the heated combatants. The other looked calmly on, perfectly composed at what he saw, until unable to contain himself any longer, he approached his friend and very mildly addressed him: “Sir, I crave your pardon for having been amused at your generous but mistaken efforts to quell this foolish quarrel. You must know that there are those in this strange world of ours who have totally blunted every feeling of refinement, and utterly destroyed whatever moral sensibility they may once have possessed. Upon such your honest appeals are always in vain. That they should not be entirely placed beneath mortality, however, God has kindly endowed them with a physical sensibility, through which you may often successfully reach their depraved minds and obdurate hearts. You have appealed to the moral feelings of these rioters to no purpose; and now, to demonstrate what I have said, let me ascertain what impression can be made upon their physical sensibilities.” Thus saying, he threw off a portion of his cumbersome apparel, and giving notice that he had watched their proceedings for upwards of an hour, he declared that the battle must now be ended. This proving ineffectual, he entered into their midst, and making several (to use a technical phrase,) “feel the unpleasant weight of his fists,” he soon dispersed the boisterous crowd. An odd mode, thought Peter, of making peace, yet in this instance a very effectual one.

Immediately after quiet had been restored, the street suddenly became very populous, and Peter’s attention was arrested by the occupant of a splendid conveyance, who was industriously engaged in answering the polite recognitions that greeted him from every side. That this was a personage of no little distinction seemed so evident that Peter asked of the first passer-by what place of trust or honor he filled to such general satisfaction. The inquiry simply elicited the information that he was a private gentleman, who had succeeded in amassing great wealth by taking usury from the poor, and selling worthless stocks to all whom he could deceive into a purchase. He was but one of many illustrations of what Juvenal has written,

“That sins alike unlike rewards have found,
And whilst this villain’s hang’d, the other’s crowned.”

Though every one knew him to be a rogue and a thief, the good condition in which his practices had placed him, secured public obeisance. What a multitude of sins, thought Peter, can be covered by a coach, and what monstrous respect we extend to the knave when blessed with the smiles of fortune!

Turning from the occupant of the coach, Peter beheld a singularly ludicrous, but withal a very distressing spectacle. A poor, poverty-cursed creature was dying of starvation, whilst a wealthy gentleman, who had been pitying him for days, was tenderly bending over him and deploring his great distress, but could not so much open his heart as to reach into his well-filled purse and draw forth a paltry dollar to give relief. Strange, thought Peter, that men will whine, and fret, and lament, over human misery and suffering, and yet so fastly clutch a shilling as not to use it freely in obtaining aid and giving succour.

As Peter was gazing upon this unhappy scene, a smiling little gentleman crossed his path, whom he was now compelled to follow. This interesting individual appeared to be the friend of all whom he encountered, being exceedingly social and affable. His friendly greetings were always returned with the same politeness, though frequently with much less affection. He had acquired a great reputation for benevolence, which so elicited Peter’s esteem that he was pleased with every mark of attention exhibited towards him. It was a maxim of the Stoics that “men were, for the sake of men, brought into the world, that they might assist and benefit each other,” and Peter fancied he here saw one, at least, who lived up to this magnanimous aphorism. This good opinion, however, was suddenly changed upon reaching his residence and discovering that he was the head of a mongrel banking institution, and so well adapted to his business that he experienced little difficulty in defrauding and plundering his customers, even whilst swearing how much he designed to befriend them. He was extremely pleasant to all in front of the counter, and though profusely lavish and exceedingly fair in promises, these were only made to afford him amusement in devising the most ingenious modes in which to break them. He had long robbed the State of its just portion of the dividends, used the funds of the institution in fraudulent transactions, and placed them out secretly at usury. After thus plundering thousands, he very generously gave a little of the booty in charity to the poor. How very easy it is, thought Peter, to win a good name, if you but know how to play the hypocrite behind a fortune.

When Peter emerged from the bank, his eyes encountered a character whose odd appearance at once challenged his notice. He seemed to “take the world extremely easy,” being quite philosophic in his indifference to passing events, yet prided himself upon always rendering full justice to mankind, and their good and evil practices, their virtues and their vices, their errors and their follies. Peter ascertained that he had been suddenly raised, by some fortunate occurrence, from abject poverty to considerable wealth. The cruel manner in which he had been neglected when poor by many whose flatteries now daily greeted him, had somewhat soured his disposition; and although he was generous to those who had once befriended him, he felt little sympathy for the rest of the species. Peter learned that he had engaged to give to a stranger, who contemplated removing his residence to that place, some knowledge of the people, their character and habits. Nothing could have been more gratifying to Peter Easy, so he kept close to his heels until he arrived at the corner of one of the principal streets, the place appointed for their meeting, where he found the stranger in waiting.

There, said he to the stranger, as a poor, though apparently happy individual passed by, is a personation of honesty. With such a man, the old peasants used to say, “one may safely play at mora in the dark.” This, however, is a very questionable compliment in our day, and has brought him nothing but poverty as his reward, than which few evils could be greater under our present social organization. Possessed of a good nature, and feeling a proper interest in the welfare of his friends, he never refused to extend his helping hand, until he has been placed in the deplorable condition of being compelled to hunt for aid himself. A task, thought Peter, which Pluto should have devised for human punishment, instead of providing a hades.