Comienzo · continuación 23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Cec._ I do not well understand that.

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

_Cec._ I comprehend it now.

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

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

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

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

_Pa._ How do you explain it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Cec._ That must be _Old Age_, surely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Cec._ Is the stick really crooked?

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

_Cec._ Then it must signify _Deception_.

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

_Cec._ He must be _Fear_ or _Terror_, I fancy.

_Pa._ Yes; you may call him which you please. But who is this sower, that scatters seeds in the ground?

_Cec._ Let me consider. I think there is a parable in the Bible about seed sown, and it therefore signifies something like _Instruction_.

_Pa._ True; but it may also represent _Hope_, for no one sows without hoping to reap the fruit. What do you think of this candle held before a mirror, in which its figure is exactly reflected?

_Cec._ I do not know what it means.

_Pa._ It represents _Truth_; the essence of which consists in the fidelity with which objects are received and reflected back by our minds. The object is here a luminous one, to show the clearness and brightness of Truth. Here is next an upright column, the perfect straightness of which is shown by a plumb-line hanging from its summit, and exactly parallel to the side of the column.

_Cec._ I suppose that must represent _Uprightness_.

_Pa._ Yes—or in other words, _Rectitude_. The strength and stability of the pillar alone denote the security produced by this virtue. You see here a woman disentangling and reeling off a very perplexed skein of thread.

_Cec._ She must have a great deal of patience.

_Pa._ True. She is _Patience_ herself. The brooding hen, sitting beside her, is another emblem of the same quality that aids the interpretation. Who do you think this pleasing female is, that looks with such kindness upon the drooping plant she is watering?

_Cec._ That must be _Charity_, I believe.

_Pa._ It is; or you may call her _Benignity_, which is nearly the same thing. Here is a lady sitting demurely, with one finger on her lip, while she holds a bridle in her other hand.

_Cec._ The finger on the lip, I suppose, denotes Silence. The bridle must mean confinement. I should almost fancy her to be a schoolmistress.

_Pa._ Ha! ha! I hope, indeed, many schoolmistresses are endued with her spirit, for she is _Prudence_ or _Discretion_. Well—we are now got to the end of our pictures, and upon the whole you have interpreted them very prettily.

_Cec._ But I have one question to ask you, papa. In these pictures and others that I have seen of the same sort, almost all the _good_ qualities are represented in the form of _women_. What is the reason of that?

_Pa._ It is certainly a compliment, my dear, either to your sex’s person or mind. The inventor either chose the figure of a female to clothe each agreeable quality in, because he thought that the most agreeable form, and therefore best suited it; or he meant to imply that the female character is really the most virtuous and amiable. I rather believe that the first was his intention, but I shall not object to your taking it in the light of the second.

_Cec._ But is it true—is it true?

_Pa._ Why, I can give you very good authority for the preference of the female sex, in a moral view. One Ledyard, a great traveller, who had walked through almost all the countries of Europe, and at last died in an expedition to explore the internal parts of Africa, gave a most decisive and pleasing testimony in favour of the superior character of women, whether savage or civilized. I was so much pleased with it, that I put great part of it into verse; and if it will not make you vain, I will give you a copy of my lines.

_Cec._ O, pray, do!

_Pa._ Here they are. Read them.

LEDYARD’S PRAISE OF WOMEN.

Through many a land and clime a ranger With toilsome steps, I’ve held my way, A lonely, unprotected stranger, To all the stranger’s ills a prey.

While steering thus my course precarious, My fortune still had been to find Men’s hearts and dispositions various, But gentle Woman ever kind.

Alive to every tender feeling, To deeds of mercy ever prone, The wounds of pain and sorrow healing With soft compassion’s sweetest tone.

No proud delay, no dark suspicion, Stints the free bounty of their heart; They turn not from the sad petition, But cheerful aid at once impart.

Formed in benevolence of nature, Obliging, modest, gay, and mild, Woman’s the same endearing creature In courtly town and savage wild.

When parched with thirst, with hunger wasted, Her friendly hand refreshment gave, How sweet the coarsest food has tasted! What cordial in the simple wave!

Her courteous looks, her words caressing, Shed comfort on the fainting soul: Woman’s the stranger’s general blessing, From sultry India to the Pole.

[Illustration:

EVENING XXVII. ]

GENEROUS REVENGE.

At the period when the republic of Genoa was divided between the factions of the nobles and the people, Uberto, a man of low origin, but of an elevated mind and superior talents, and enriched by commerce, having raised himself to be the head of a popular party, maintained for a considerable time a democratic form of government.

The nobles, at length, uniting all their efforts, succeeded in subverting this state of things, and regained their former supremacy. They used their victory with considerable rigour; and in particular having imprisoned Uberto, proceeded against him as a traitor, and thought they displayed sufficient lenity in passing a sentence upon him of perpetual banishment, and the confiscation of all his property. Adorno, who was then possessed of the first magistracy, a man haughty in temper, and proud of ancient nobility, though otherwise not void of generous sentiments, in pronouncing this sentence on Uberto, aggravated its severity by the insolent terms in which he conveyed it. “You,” said he,—“you, the son of a base mechanic, who have dared to trample upon the nobles of Genoa—you, by their clemency, are only doomed to shrink again into the nothingness whence you sprung.”

Uberto received his condemnation with respectful submission to the court; yet stung by the manner in which it was expressed, he could not forbear saying to Adorno, that “perhaps he might hereafter find cause to repent the language he had used to a man capable of sentiments as elevated as his own.” He then made his obeisance and retired; and after taking leave of his friends, embarked in a vessel bound for Naples, and quitted his native country without a tear.

He collected some debts due to him in the Neapolitan dominions, and with the wreck of his fortune went to settle on one of the islands in the Archipelago belonging to the state of Venice. Here his industry and capacity in mercantile pursuits raised him, in a course of years, to greater wealth than he had possessed in his most prosperous days at Genoa; and his reputation for honour and generosity equalled his fortune.

Among other places which he frequently visited as a merchant, was the city of Tunis, at that time in friendship with the Venetians, though hostile to most of the other Italian states, and especially to Genoa. As Uberto was on a visit to one of the first men of that place at his country-house, he saw a young Christian slave at work in irons, whose appearance excited his attention. The youth seemed oppressed with labour, to which his delicate frame had not been accustomed, and while he leaned at intervals upon the instrument with which he was working, a sigh burst from his full heart, and a tear stole down his cheek. Uberto eyed him with tender compassion, and addressed him in Italian. The youth eagerly caught the sounds of his native tongue, and replying to his inquiries, informed him he was a Genoese. “And what is your name, young man?” said Uberto. “You need not be afraid of confessing to _me_ your birth and condition.”

“Alas!” he answered, “I fear my captors already suspect enough to demand a large ransom. My father is indeed one of the first men in Genoa. His name is Adorno, and I am his only son.”—“Adorno!” Uberto checked himself from uttering more aloud, but to himself he cried, “Thank Heaven! then I shall be nobly revenged.”

He took leave of the youth, and immediately went to inquire after the corsair captain who claimed a right in young Adorno, and having found him, demanded the price of his ransom. He learned that he was considered as a captive of value, and that less than two thousand crowns would not be accepted. Uberto paid the sum; and causing his servant to follow him with a horse and a complete suit of handsome apparel, he returned to the youth, who was working as before, and told him he was free. With his own hands he took off his fetters, and helped him to change his dress, and mount on horseback. The youth was tempted to think it all a dream, and the flutter of emotion almost deprived him of the power of returning thanks to his generous benefactor. He was soon, however, convinced of the reality of his good fortune, by sharing the lodging and table of Uberto.

After a stay of some days at Tunis to despatch the remainder of his business, Uberto departed homeward accompanied by young Adorno, who by his pleasing manners had highly ingratiated himself with him. Uberto kept him some time at his house, treating him with all the respect and affection he could have shown for the son of his dearest friend. At length, having a safe opportunity of sending him to Genoa, he gave him a faithful servant for a conductor, fitted him out with every convenience, slipped a purse of gold into one hand, and a letter into the other, and thus addressed him:—

“My dear youth, I could with much pleasure detain you longer in my humble mansion, but I feel your impatience to revisit your friends, and I am sensible that it would be cruelty to deprive them longer than necessary of the joy they will receive in recovering you. Deign to accept this provision for your voyage, and deliver this letter to your father. _He_ probably may recollect something of me, though you are too young to do so. Farewell; I shall not soon forget you, and I hope you will not forget me.” Adorno poured out the effusions of a grateful and affectionate heart, and they parted with mutual tears and embraces.

The young man had a prosperous voyage home; and the transport with which he was again beheld by his almost heart-broken parents may more easily be conceived than described. After learning that he had been a captive in Tunis, (for it was supposed that the ship in which he sailed had foundered at sea,) “And to whom,” said old Adorno, “am I indebted for the inestimable benefit of restoring you to my arms?”—“This letter,” said his son, “will inform you.” He opened it, and read as follows:—

“That son of a vile mechanic, who told you that one day you might repent the scorn with which you treated him, has the satisfaction of seeing his prediction accomplished. For know, proud noble! that the deliverer of your only son from slavery is

“_The banished_ UBERTO.”

Adorno dropped the letter and covered his face with his hand, while his son was displaying in the warmest language of gratitude the virtues of Uberto, and the truly paternal kindness he had experienced from him. As the debt could not be cancelled, Adorno resolved if possible to repay it. He made such powerful intercessions with the other nobles, that the sentence pronounced on Uberto was reversed, and full permission given him to return to Genoa. In apprizing him of this event, Adorno expressed his sense of the obligations he lay under to him, acknowledged the genuine nobleness of his character, and requested his friendship. Uberto returned to his country, and closed his days in peace, with the universal esteem of his fellow-citizens.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

William was one day reading in a book of travels to his father, when he came to the following relation:—

“The Andes in South America are the highest ridge of mountains in the known world. There is a road over them, on which, about halfway between the summit and the foot, is a house of entertainment, where it is common for travellers in their ascent and descent to meet. The difference of their feelings upon the same spot is very remarkable. Those who are descending the mountain are melting with heat, so that they can scarcely bear any clothes upon them; while those who are ascending shiver with cold, and wrap themselves up in the warmest garments they have.”

“How strange this is!” cried William; “What can be the reason of it?”

“It is,” replied his father, “a striking instance of the _power of habit_ over the body. The cold is so intense on the top of these mountains, that it is as much as travellers can do to keep themselves from being frozen to death. Their bodies, therefore, become so habituated to the sensation of cold, that every diminution of it as they descend seems to them a degree of actual heat; and when they are got halfway down, they feel as if they were quite in a sultry climate. On the other hand the valleys at the foot of the mountains are so excessively hot, that the body becomes relaxed, and sensible to the slightest degree of cold; so that when a traveller ascends from them toward the hills, the middle regions appear quite inclement from their coldness.”

“And does the same thing,” rejoined William, “always happen in crossing high mountains?”

“It does,” returned his father, “in a degree proportioned to their height, and the time taken in crossing them. Indeed, a short time is sufficient to produce similar effects. Let one boy have been playing at rolling snowballs, and another have been roasting himself before a great fire, and let them meet in the porch of the house;—if you ask them how they feel, I will answer for it you will find them as different in their accounts as the travellers on the Andes. But this is only one example of the operation of a universal principle belonging to human nature: for the power of habit is the same thing whatever be the circumstance which calls it forth, whether relating to the mind or the body.

“You may consider the story you have been reading as a sort of simile or parable. The central station on the mountain may be compared to _middle life_. With what different feelings is this regarded by those who bask in the sunshine of opulence, and those who shrink under the cold blast of penury!

“Suppose the wealthy duke, our neighbour, were suddenly obliged to descend to our level, and live as we do—to part with all his carriages, sell his coach-horses, and hunters, quit his noble seat with its fine park and gardens, dismiss all his train of servants except two or three, and take a house like ours; what a dreadful fall it would seem to him! how wretched it would probably make him, and how much would he be pitied by the world!

“On the other hand, suppose the labourer who lives in the next cottage were unexpectedly to fall heir to an estate of a few hundreds a year, and in consequence to get around him all the comforts and conveniences that we possess—a commodious house to inhabit, good clothes to wear, plenty of wholesome food and firing, servants to do all the drudgery of the family and the like;—how all his acquaintance would congratulate him, and what a paradise would he seem to himself to be got into! Yet he, and the duke, and ourselves, are equally _men_, made liable by nature to the same desires and necessities, and perhaps all equally strong in constitution, and equally capable of supporting hardships. Is not this fully as wonderful a difference in feeling as that on crossing the Andes?”

“Indeed it is,” said William.

“And the cause of it must be exactly the same—the influence of habit.”

“I think so.”

“Of what importance then must it be toward a happy life, to regulate our habits so, that in the possible changes of this world we may be more likely to be gainers than losers!”

“But how can this be done? Would it be right for the duke to live like us, or us like the labourer?”

“Certainly not. But to apply the case to persons of our middle condition, I would have us use our advantages in such a frugal manner, as to make them as little as possible essential to our happiness, should fortune sink us to a lower station. For as to the chance of rising to a higher, there is no need to prepare our habits for that—we should readily enough accommodate our feelings to such a change. To be pleased and satisfied with simple food, to accustom ourselves not to shrink from the inclemencies of the seasons—to avoid indolence, and take delight in some useful employment of the mind or body, to do as much as we can for ourselves, and not expect to be waited upon on every small occasion—these are the habits which will make us in some measure independent of fortune, and secure us a moderate degree of enjoyment under every change short of absolute want. I will tell you a story to this purpose.

“A London merchant had two sons, James and Richard. James, from a boy, accustomed himself to every indulgence in his power, and when he grew up, was quite a fine gentleman. He dressed expensively, frequented public diversions, kept his hunter at a livery stable, and was a member of several convivial clubs. At home, it was almost a footman’s sole business to wait on him. He would have thought it greatly beneath him to buckle his own shoes; and if he wanted anything at the other end of the room, he would ring the bell, and bring the servant up two pair of stairs, rather than rise from his chair to fetch it. He did a little business in the counting-house on forenoons, but devoted all his time after dinner to indolence and amusement.

“Richard was a different character. He was plain in his appearance, and domestic in his way of life. He gave as little trouble as possible, and would have been ashamed to ask assistance in doing what he could easily do for himself. He was assiduous in business, and employed his leisure hours chiefly in reading and acquiring useful knowledge.

“Both were still young and unsettled when their father died, leaving behind him a very trifling property. As the young men had not capital sufficient to follow the same line of mercantile business in which he had been engaged, they were obliged to look out for a new plan of maintenance, and a great reduction of expense was the first thing requisite. This was a severe stroke to James, who found himself at once cut off from all the pleasures and indulgences to which he was so habituated, that he thought life of no value without them. He grew melancholy and dejected, hazarded all his little property in lottery tickets, and was quite beggared. Still, unable to think of retrieving himself by industry and frugality, he accepted a commission in a new-raised regiment ordered for the West Indies, where, soon after his arrival, he caught a fever and died.

“Richard, in the meantime, whose comforts were little impaired by his change of situation, preserved his cheerfulness, and found no difficulty in accommodating himself to his fortune. He engaged himself as a clerk in a house his father had been connected with, and lived as frugally as possible upon his salary. It furnished him with decent board, lodging, and clothing, which was all he required, and his hours of leisure were nearly as many as before. A book or a sober friend always sufficed to procure him an agreeable evening. He gradually rose in the confidence of his employers, who increased from time to time his salary and emoluments. Every increase was a source of gratification to him, because he was able to enjoy pleasures which, however, habit had not made necessary to his comfort. In process of time he was enabled to settle for himself, and passed through life in the enjoyment of that modest competence which best suited his disposition.”

THE COST OF A WAR.

“You may remember, Oswald,” said Mr. B. to his son, “that I gave you some time ago a notion of _the price of a victory_ to the poor souls engaged in it.”

“I shall not soon forget it, I assure you, sir,” replied Oswald.

_Father._ Very well; I mean now to give you some idea _of the cost of a war_ to the people among whom it is carried on. This may serve to abate something of the admiration with which historians are to apt to inspire us for great warriors and conquerors. You have heard, I doubt not, of Louis the Fourteenth, king of France?

_Oswald._ Oh, yes!

_Fa._ He was entitled by his subjects _Louis le Grand_, and was compared by them to the Cesars and Alexanders of antiquity; and with some justice as to the extent of his power, and the use he made of it. He was the most potent prince of his time; commanded mighty and victorious armies; and enlarged the limits of his hereditary dominions. Louis was not naturally a hard-hearted man; but having been taught from his cradle that everything ought to give way to the interests of his glory, and that this glory consisted in domineering over his neighbours, and making conquests, he grew to be insensible to all the miseries brought on his own and other people, in pursuit of this noble design, as he thought it. Moreover, he was plunged in dissolute pleasures, and the delights of pomp and splendour, from his youth; and he was ever surrounded by a tribe of abject flatterers, who made him believe that he had a full right, in all cases to do as he pleased. Conquest abroad and pleasure at home, were therefore the chief business of his life.

One evening, his minister, Louvois, came to him and said, “Sire, it is absolutely necessary to make a desert of the _Palatinate_.”

This is a country in Germany, on the banks of the Rhine, one of the most populous and best-cultivated districts in that empire, filled with towns and villages, and industrious inhabitants.

“I should be sorry to do it,” replied the king, “for you know how much odium we acquired throughout Europe when a part of it was laid waste sometime ago, under Marshal Turenne.”

“It cannot be helped, sire,” returned Louvois. “All the damage he did has been repaired, and the country is as flourishing as ever. If we leave it in its present state it will afford quarters to your majesty’s enemies, and endanger your conquests. It must be entirely ruined—the good of the service will not permit it to be otherwise.”

“Well, then,” answered Louis, “if it must be so, you are to give orders accordingly.” So saying, he left the cabinet, and went to assist a magnificent festival given in honour of his favourite mistress by a prince of the blood.

The pitiless Louvois lost no time; but despatched a courier that very night, with positive orders to the French generals in the Palatinate to carry fire and desolation through the whole country—not to leave a house or a tree standing—and to expel all the inhabitants.

It was the midst of a rigorous winter.

_Os._ O horrible! but surely the generals would not obey such orders?

_Fa._ What, a general disobey the commands of his sovereign!—That would be contrary to every maxim of the _trade_. Right and wrong are no considerations to a military man. He is only to do as he is bid. The French generals who were upon the spot, and must see with their own eyes all that was done, probably felt somewhat like men on the occasion; but the sacrifice to their duty as soldiers was so much the greater. The commands were peremptory, and they were obeyed to a tittle. Towns and villages were burnt to the ground; vineyards and orchards were cut down and rooted up; sheep and cattle were killed; all the fair works of ages were destroyed in a moment; and the smiling face of culture was turned to a dreary waste.

The poor inhabitants were driven from their warm and comfortable habitations into the open fields, to confront all the inclemencies of the season. Their furniture was burnt or pillaged, and nothing was left them but the clothes on their backs, and the few necessaries they could carry with them. The roads were covered with trembling fugitives, going they knew not whither, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger. Here an old man, dropping with fatigue, lay down to die—there a woman with a new-born infant sunk perishing on the snow, while her husband hung over them in all the horror of despair.

_Os._ O, what a scene! Poor creatures! What became of them at last?

_Fa._ Such of them as did not perish on the road got to the neighbouring towns, where they were received with all the hospitality that such calamitous times would afford; but they were beggared for life. Meantime, their country for many a league round displayed no other sight than that of black smoking ruins in the midst of silence and desolation.

_Os._ I hope, however, that such things do not often happen in war.

_Fa._ Not often, perhaps, to the same extent: but in some degree they must take place in every war. A village which would afford a favourable post to the enemy is always burnt without hesitation. A country which can no longer be maintained, is cleared of all its provision and forage before it is abandoned, lest the enemy should have the advantage of them; and the poor inhabitants are left to subsist as they can. Crops of corn are trampled down by armies in their march, or devoured while green as fodder for their horses. Pillage, robbery and murder, are always going on in the outskirts of the best-disciplined camp. Then consider what must happen in every siege. On the first approach of the enemy, all the buildings in the suburbs of a town are demolished, and all the trees in gardens and public walks are cut down, lest they should afford shelter to the besiegers. As the siege goes on, bombs, hot balls, and cannon-shot, are continually flying about; by which the greatest part of a town is ruined or laid in ashes, and many of the innocent people killed or maimed. If the resistance is obstinate, famine and pestilence are sure to take place; and if the garrison holds out to the last, and the town is taken by storm, it is generally given up to be pillaged by the enraged and licentious soldiery.