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It would be easy to bring too many examples of cruelty exercised upon a conquered country, even in very late times, when war is said to be carried on with so much humanity; but, indeed, how can it be otherwise? The art of war is essentially that of destruction, and it is impossible there should be a mild and merciful way of murdering and ruining one’s fellow-creatures. Soldiers, as men, are often humane; but war must ever be cruel. Though Homer has filled his Iliad with the exploits of fighting heroes, yet he makes Jupiter address Mars, the god of War, in terms of the utmost abhorrence:—

“Of all the gods who tread the spangled skies, Thou most unjust, most odious in our eyes; In human discord is thy dire delight, The waste of slaughter, and the rage of fight: No bound, no law, thy fiery temper quells.”—POPE.

_Os._ Surely, as war is so bad a thing, there might be some way of preventing it.

_Fa._ Alas! I fear mankind have been too long accustomed to it, and it is too agreeable to their bad passions, easily to be laid aside, whatever miseries it may bring upon them. But, in the meantime, let us correct our own ideas of the matter, and no longer lavish admiration upon such a pest of the human race as a _Conqueror_, how brilliant soever his qualities may be; nor ever think that a profession which binds a man to be the servile instrument of cruelty and injustice is an _honourable_ calling.

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The Gain of a Loss, p. 344.

EVENING XXVIII. ]

GREAT MEN.

“I will show you a _great man_,” said Mr. C. one day to his son, at the time the duke of Bridgewater’s canal was making. He accordingly took him to a place where several workmen were employed in raising a prodigious mound, on the top of which the canal was to be carried across a deep valley. In the midst of them was a very plain-dressed man, awkward in his gestures, uncouth in his appearance, and rather heavy in his countenance—in short, a mere countryman like the rest. He had a plan in his hand and was giving directions to the people around him, and surveying the whole labour with profound attention. “This, Arthur,” said Mr. C., “is the _great Mr. Brindley_.”

“What,” cried Arthur in surprise, “is that a _great man_?”

_Mr. C._ Yes, a very great man. Why are you surprised?

_Ar._ I don’t know, but I should have expected a great man to have looked very differently.

_Mr. C._ It matters little how a man looks, if he can perform great things. That person, without any advantages of education, has become, by the force of his own genius, the first engineer of the age. He is doing things that were never done or even thought of in this country before. He pierces hills, makes bridges over valleys, and aqueducts across navigable rivers, and, in short, is likely to change the whole face of the country, and to introduce improvements the value of which cannot be calculated. When at a loss how to bring about any of his designs, he does not go to other people for assistance, but he consults the wonderful faculties of his own mind, and finds a way to overcome his difficulties. He looks like a rustic it is true, but he has a soul of the first order, such as is not granted to one out of millions of the human race.

_Ar._ But are all men of extraordinary abilities properly _great men_?

_Mr. C._ The word has been variously used; but I would call every one a great man _who does great things by means of his own powers_. Great abilities are often employed about trifles, or indolently wasted without any considerable exertion at all. To make a great man, the object pursued should be large and important, and vigour and perseverance should be employed in the pursuit.

_Ar._ All the great men I remember to have read about were kings, or generals, or prime ministers, or in some high station or other.

_Mr. C._ It is natural they should stand foremost in the list of great men, because the sphere in which they act is an extensive one, and what they do has a powerful influence over numbers of mankind. Yet those that invent useful arts, or discover important truths which may promote the comfort and happiness of unborn generations in the most distant parts of the world, act a still more important part; and their claim to merit is generally more undoubted than that of the former, because what they do is more certainly their own.

In order to estimate the real share a man in a high station has had in the great events which have been attributed to him, strip him in your imagination of all the external advantages of rank and power, and see what a figure he would have made without them; or fancy a common man put in his place, and judge whether affairs would have gone on in the same track. Augustus Cesar, and Louis XIV. of France, have both been called great princes; but deprive them of their crown, and they will both dwindle into obscure and trivial characters. But no change of circumstances could reduce Alfred the Great to the level of a common man. The two former could sink into their graves, and yield their power to a successor, and scarcely be missed; but Alfred’s death changed the fate of his kingdom. Thus with Epaminondas fell all the glory and greatness of the Theban state. He first raised it to consequence, and it could not survive him.

_Ar._ Was not Czar Peter a great man?

_Mr. C._ I am not sure he deserves that title. Being a despotic prince, at the head of a vast empire, he could put into execution whatever plans he was led to adopt, and these plans in general were grand and beneficial to his country. But the means he used were such as the master of the lives and fortunes of millions could easily employ, and there was more of brutal force than of skill and judgment in the manner in which he pursued his designs. Still he was an _extraordinary_ man; and the resolution of leaving his throne, in order to acquire in foreign countries the knowledge necessary to rescue his own from barbarism, was a feature of greatness. A truly great prince, however, would have employed himself better than in learning to build boats at Saardam.

_Ar._ What was Alexander the Great?

_Mr. C._ A great conqueror, but not a great man. It was easy for him, with the well-disciplined army of Greeks which he received from his father Philip, to overrun the unwarlike kingdoms of Asia, and defeat the Great King, as the king of Persia was called: but though he showed some marks of an elevated mind, he seems to have possessed few qualities which could have raised him to distinction had he been born in an humble station. Compare his fugitive grandeur, supported by able ministers and generals, to the power which his tutor the great Aristotle, merely through the force of his own genius, exercised over men’s minds throughout the most civilized part of the world for two thousand years after his death. Compare also the part which has been acted in the world by the Spanish monarchs, the masters of immense possessions in Europe and America, to that by Christopher Columbus, the Genoese navigator, who could have it inscribed on his tombstones that he _gave_ a new world to the kingdom of Castile and Aragon. These comparisons will teach you to distinguish between greatness of character and greatness of station, which are too often confounded. He who governs a great country may in one sense be called a great king; but this is no more than an appellation belonging to rank, like that of the Great Mogul, or the Grand Seignor, and infers no more personal grandeur than the title of Mr. Such-a-one, the Great Grocer, or Great Brewer.

_Ar._ Must not great men be good men, too?

_Mr. C._ If that man is great who does great things, it will not follow that goodness must necessarily be one of his qualities, since that chiefly refers to the end and intentions of actions. Julius Cesar, and Cromwell, for example, were men capable of the greatest exploits; but directing them, not to the public good, but to the purposes of their own ambition, in pursuit of which they violated all the duties of morality, they have obtained the title of _great bad men_. A person, however, cannot be great at all without possessing many virtues. He must be firm, steady, and diligent, superior to difficulties and dangers, and equally superior to the allurements of ease and pleasure. For want of these moral qualities, many persons of exalted minds and great talents have failed to deserve the title of great men. It is in vain that the French poets and historians have decorated Henry the Fourth with the name of Great; his facility of disposition and uncontrollable love of pleasure have caused him to forfeit his claim to it in the estimation of impartial judges. As power is essential to greatness, a man cannot be great without _power over himself_, which is the highest kind of power.

_Ar._ After all, is it not better to be a good man than a great one?

_Mr. C._ There is more merit in being a good man, because it is what we make ourselves, whereas the talents that produce greatness are the gift of nature; though they may be improved by our own efforts, they cannot be acquired. But if goodness is the proper object of our love and esteem, greatness deserves our high admiration and respect. This Mr. Brindley before us is by all accounts a worthy man, but it is not for this reason I have brought you to see him. I wish you to look upon him as one of those sublime and uncommon objects of nature which fill the mind with a certain awe and astonishment. Next to being great oneself, it is desirable to have a true relish for greatness.

THE FOUR SISTERS.

I am one of four sisters; and having some reason to think myself not well used either by them or by the world, I beg leave to lay before you a sketch of our history and characters. You will not wonder there should be frequent bickerings among us, when I tell you that in our infancy we were continually fighting; and so great was the noise, and din, and confusion, in our continual struggles to get uppermost, that it was impossible for anybody to live among us in such a scene of tumult and disorder. These brawls, however, by a powerful interposition, were put an end to; our proper place was assigned to each of us, and we had strict orders not to encroach on the limits of each other’s property, but to join our common offices for the good of the whole family.

My first sister (I call her the first, because we have generally allowed her the precedence in rank) is, I must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly disposition; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than any of us; but she is hot: everything serves for fuel to her fury when it is once raised to a certain degree, and she is so mischievous whenever she gets the upper hand, that notwithstanding her aspiring disposition, if I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to make a good servant, but a very bad mistress.

I am almost ashamed to mention that, notwithstanding her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious appetite, and devours everything that comes in her way; though, like other eager thin people, she does no credit to her keeping. Many a time she has consumed the product of my barns and storehouses, but it is all lost upon her. She has even been known to get into an oil-shop or tallow-chandler’s, when everybody was asleep, and lick up with the utmost greediness whatever she found there. Indeed, all prudent people are aware of her tricks, and though she is admitted into the best families, they take care to watch her very narrowly. I should not forget to mention, that my sister was once in a country where she was treated with uncommon respect; she was lodged in a sumptuous building, and had a number of young women of the best families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch over her health: in short, she was looked upon as something more than a common mortal. But she always behaved with great severity to her maids, and if any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a slip in their own conduct, nothing would serve her but burying the poor girls alive. I have myself had some dark hints and intimations from the most respectable authority, that she will some time or other make an end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am jealous of her motions.

The next sister I shall mention to you has so far the appearance of modesty and humility, that she generally seeks the lowest place. She is indeed of a very yielding easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a sweet placid smile upon her countenance; but she is easily ruffled, and when worked up, as she often is, by another sister, whom I shall mention to you by-and-by, she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so apt to swell with sudden gusts of passion, that she is suspected at times to be a little lunatic. Between her and my first-mentioned sister, there is a more settled antipathy than between the Theban pair; and they never meet without making efforts to destroy one another. With me she is always ready to form the most intimate union, but it is not always to my advantage. There goes a story in our family, that when we were all young, she once attempted to drown me. She actually kept me under water a considerable time, and though at length I got my head above water, my constitution is generally thought to have been essentially injured by it ever since. From that time she has made no such atrocious attempt, but she is continually making encroachments upon my property, and even when she appears most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such an undermining way with her, that her insinuating arts are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might indeed remonstrate, but it is a known part of her character, that nothing makes any lasting impression upon her.

As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the ill office she does me with my last-mentioned one, who is entirely under her influence. She is besides of a very uncertain, variable temper, sometimes hot, and sometimes cold, nobody knows where to have her. Her lightness is ever proverbial, and she has nothing to give those who live with her more substantial than the smiles of courtiers. I must add, that she keeps in her service three or four rough blustering bullies, with puffed cheeks, who when they are let loose, think they have nothing to do but drive the world before them. She sometimes joins with my first sister, and their violence occasionally throws me into such a trembling, that, though naturally of a firm constitution, I shake as if I was in an ague fit.

As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper; not shining, indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady Bountiful. Every one tastes of my beneficence, and I am of so grateful a disposition, that I have been known to return a hundred-fold for any present that has been made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other. I bear with unrepining patience all manner of ill usage; I am trampled upon, I am torn and wounded with the most cutting strokes; I am pillaged of the treasures hidden in my most secret chambers; notwithstanding which I am always ready to return good for evil, and am continually subservient to the pleasures or advantage of others; yet so ungrateful is the world, that because I do not possess all the airiness and activity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as dull and heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called by way of derision one of my children; and if a person on entering a room does but turn his eyes upon me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good company. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding that people always incline towards me as they grow older; and that those who seemed proudly to disdain any affinity with me, are content to sink at last into my bosom. You will probably wish to have some account of my person. I am not a regular beauty; some of my features are rather harsh and prominent, when viewed separately; but my countenance has so much variety of expression, and so many different aspects of elegance, that those who study my face with attention find out continually new charms; and it may be truly said of me, what Titus says of his mistress, and for a much longer space:—

“Pendant cinq ans entières tous les jours je la vois, Et crois toujours la voir pour la première fois.”

“For five whole years each day she meets my view, Yet every day I seem to see her new.”

Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a surprising air of youth and freshness, which is assisted by all the advantages of well-chosen ornament, for I dress well, and according to the season.

This is what I have to say chiefly of myself and my sisters. To a person of your sagacity it will be unnecessary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one who becomes acquainted with any one of the family, cannot be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the difference in our features and characters.

THE GAIN OF A LOSS.

Philander possessed a considerable place about the court, which obliged him to live in a style of show and expense. He kept high company, made frequent entertainments, and brought up a family of several daughters in all the luxurious elegance which his situation and prospects seemed to justify. His wife had balls and routs at her own house, and frequented all the places of fashionable amusement. After some years passed in this manner, a sudden change of parties threw Philander out of his employment, and at once ruined all his plans of future advancement. Though his place had been lucrative, the expense it led him into more than compensated the profits, so that, instead of saving anything, he had involved himself considerably in debt. His creditors, on hearing of the change in his affairs, became so importunate, that, in order to satisfy them, he was compelled to sell a moderate paternal estate in a remote county, reserving nothing out of it but one small farm. Philander had strength of mind sufficient to enable him at once to decide on the best plan to be followed in his present circumstances; instead, therefore, of wasting his time and remaining property in fruitless attempts to interest his town friends in his favour, he sold off his fine furniture, and without delay carried down his whole family to the little spot he could still call his own, where he commenced a life of industry and strict frugality in the capacity of a small farmer. It was long before the female part of his household could accommodate themselves to a mode of living so new to them, and so destitute of all that they had been accustomed to regard as essential to their very existence. At length, however, mutual affection and natural good sense, and above all, necessity, brought them to acquiesce tolerably in their situation, and to engage in earnest in its duties. Occasional regrets, however, could not but remain; and the silent sigh would tell whither their thoughts were fled.

Philander perceived it, but took care never to embitter their feelings by harsh chidings or untimely admonitions. But on the anniversary of their taking possession of the farmhouse, he assembled them under a spreading tree that grew before their little garden, and while the summer’s sun gilded all the objects around, he thus addressed them:—

“My dear partners in every fortune, if the revolution of a year has had the effect on your mind that it has on mine, I may congratulate you on your condition. I am now able with a firm tone to ask myself, what have I lost? and I feel so much more to be pleased with than to regret, that the question gives me rather comfort than sorrow. Look at yon splendid luminary, and tell me if its gradual appearance above the horizon on a fine morning, shedding light and joy over the wide creation, be not a grander as well as a more heart-cheering spectacle than that of the most magnificent saloon, illuminated with dazzling lustres. Is not the spirit of the wholesome breeze, fresh from the mountain, and perfumed with wild flowers, infinitely more invigorating to the senses than the air of the crowded drawing-room, loaded with scented powder and essences? Did we relish so well the disguised dishes with which a French cook strove to whet our sickly appetites, as we do our draught of new milk, our homemade loaf, and the other articles of our simple fare? Was our sleep so sweet after midnight suppers and the long vigils of cards, as it is now, that early rising and the exercises of the day prepare us for closing our eyes as soon as night has covered everything with her friendly veil? Shall we complain that our clothes at present only answer the purpose of keeping us warm, when we recollect all the care and pains it cost us to keep pace with the fashion, and the mortification we underwent at being outshone by our superiors in fortune? Did not the vexation of insolent and unfaithful servants overbalance the trouble we now find in waiting on ourselves? We may regret the loss of society; but, alas! what was the society of a crowd of visiters who regarded us merely as the keepers of a place of public resort, and whom we visited with similar sensations? If we formerly could command leisure to cultivate our minds and acquire polite accomplishments, did we, in reality, apply much leisure to these purposes, and is not our time now filled more to our satisfaction by employments of which we cannot doubt the usefulness? not to say that the moral virtues we are now called upon to exercise afford the truest cultivation to our minds. What, then, have we lost? In improved health, the charms of a beautiful country, a decent supply of all real wants, and the love and kind offices of each other, do not we still possess enough for worldly happiness? We have lost, indeed, a certain rank and station in life; but have we not acquired another as truly respectable? We are debarred the prospects of future advancement; but if our present condition is a good one, why need we lament that it is likely to be lasting? The next anniversary will find us more in harmony with our situation than even the present. Look forward, then, cheerily. The storm is past. We have been shipwrecked, but we have only exchanged a cumbrous vessel for a light pinnace, and we are again on our course. Much of our cargo has been thrown overboard, but no one loses what he does not miss.”

Thus saying, Philander tenderly embraced his wife and daughters. The tear stood in their eyes, but consolation beamed on their hearts.

WISE MEN.

“You may remember, Arthur,” said Mr. C. to his son, “that, sometime ago, I endeavoured to give you a notion what a _great man_ was. Suppose we now talk a little about _wise men_?”

“With all my heart, sir,” replied Arthur.

_Mr. C._ A wise man, then, is _he who pursues the best ends by the properest means_. But as this definition may be rather too abstract to give you a clear comprehension of the thing, I shall open it to you by examples. What do you think is the best end a man can pursue in life?

_Ar._ I suppose to make himself happy.

_Mr. C._ True. And as we are so constituted that we cannot be happy ourselves without making others happy, the best end of living is to produce as much general happiness as lies in our power.

_Ar._ But that is _goodness_, is it not?

_Mr. C._ It is; and therefore wisdom includes goodness. The wise man always intends what is good, and employs skill or judgment in attaining it. If he were to pursue the best things weakly, he could not be wise; any more than if he were to pursue bad or indifferent things judiciously. One of the wisest men I know is our neighbour Mr. Freeland.

_Ar._ What, the justice?

_Mr. C._ Yes, few men have succeeded more perfectly in securing their own happiness, and promoting that of those around them. Born to a competent estate, he early settled upon it, and began to improve it. He reduced all his expenses within his income, and indulged no tastes that could lead him into excesses of any kind. At the same time he did not refuse any proper and innocent pleasures that came in his way; and his house has always been distinguished for decent cheerfulness and hospitality. He applied himself with diligence to mending the morals and improving the condition of his dependants. He studied attentively the laws of his country, and qualified himself for administering justice with skill and fidelity. No one discovers sooner where the right lies, or takes surer means to enforce it. He is the person to whom the neighbours of all degrees apply for counsel in their difficulties. His conduct is always consistent and uniform—never violent, never rash, never in extremes, but always deliberating before he acts, and then acting with firmness and vigour. The peace and good order of the whole neighbourhood materially depend upon him; and upon every emergency his opinion is the first thing inquired after. He enjoys the respect of the rich, the confidence of the poor, and the good-will of both.

_Ar._ But I have heard some people reckon old Harpy as wise a man as he.

_Mr. C._ It is a great abuse of words to call Harpy a wise man. He is of another species—_a cunning man_—who is to a wise man what an ape is to a human creature—a bad and contemptible resemblance.

_Ar._ He is very clever, though; is he not?

_Mr. C._ Harpy has a good natural understanding, a clear head, and a cool temper; but his only end in life has been to raise a fortune by base and dishonest means. Being thoroughly acquainted with all the tricks and artifices of the law, he employed his knowledge to take undue advantages of all who intrusted him with the management of their affairs; and under colour of assisting them, he contrived to get possession of all their property. Thus he has become extremely rich, lives in a great house with a number of servants, is even visited by persons of rank, yet is universally detested and despised, and has not a friend in the world. He is conscious of this, and is wretched. Suspicion and remorse continually prey upon his mind. Of all whom he has cheated, he has deceived himself the most; and has proved himself as much a fool in the end he has pursued, as a knave in the means.

_Ar._ Are not men of great learning and knowledge wise men?

_Mr. C._ They are so, if that knowledge and learning are employed to make them happier and more useful. But it too often happens that their speculations are of a kind neither beneficial to themselves nor to others; and they often neglect to regulate their tempers while they improve their understandings. Some men of great learning have been the most arrogant and quarrelsome of mortals, and as foolish and absurd in their conduct as the most untaught of their species.

_Ar._ But are not a philosopher and a wise man the same thing?

_Mr. C._ A philosopher is properly a _lover of wisdom_; and if he searches after it with a right disposition, he will probably find it oftener than other men. But he must practise as well as know, in order to be truly wise.

_Ar._ I have read of the seven wise men of Greece. What were they?

_Mr. C._ They were men distinguished for their knowledge and talents, and some of them for their virtue, too. But wiser than them all was Socrates, whose chief praise it was that he turned philosophy from vain and fruitless disputation to the regulation of life and manners, and that he was himself a great example of the wisdom he taught.

_Ar._ Have we had any person lately very remarkable for wisdom?

_Mr. C._ In my opinion, few wiser men have ever existed than the late Dr. Franklin, the American. From the low station of journeyman-printer to the elevated one of ambassador plenipotentiary from his country to the court of France, he always distinguished himself by sagacity in discovering, and good sense in practising, what was most beneficial to himself and others. He was a great natural philosopher, and made some very brilliant discoveries; but it was ever his favourite purpose to turn everything to use, and to extract some practical advantage from his speculations. He thoroughly understood _common life_, and all that conduces to its comfort; and he has left behind him treasures of domestic wisdom, superior, perhaps, to any of the boasted maxims of antiquity. He never let slip any opportunity of improving his knowledge, whether of great things or of small; and was equally ready to converse with a day-labourer and a prime-minister upon topics from which he might derive instruction. He rose to wealth, but obtained it by honourable means. He prolonged his life by temperance to a great age, and enjoyed it to the last. Few men knew more than he, and none employed knowledge to better purposes.

_Ar._ A man, then, I suppose, cannot be wise without knowing a great deal?

_Mr. C._ If he knows everything belonging to his station, it is wisdom enough; and a peasant may be as truly wise in his place as a statesman or a legislator. You remember that fable of Gay, in which a shepherd gives lessons of wisdom to a philosopher.

_Ar._ O yes—it begins:—

“Remote from cities lived a swain.”

_Mr. C._ True. He is represented as drawing all his maxims of conduct from observation of brute animals. And they, indeed, have universally that character of wisdom, of pursuing the ends best suited to them by the properest means. But this is owing to the impulse of unerring instinct. Man has reason for his guide, and his wisdom can only be the consequence of the right use of his reason. This will lead him to virtue. Thus the fable we have been mentioning rightly concludes with—

“’Thy fame is just,’ the sage replies; ‘Thy _virtue_ proves thee _truly wise_.’”

[Illustration:

EVENING XXIX. ]

A FRIEND IN NEED.

George Cornish, a native of London, was brought up to the sea. After making several voyages to the East Indies in the capacity of mate, he obtained the command of a ship in the country-trade there, and passed many years of his life in sailing from one port to another of the Company’s different settlements, and residing at intervals on shore with the superintendence of their commercial concerns. Having by these means raised a moderate fortune, and being now beyond the meridian of life, he felt a strong desire of returning to his native country, and seeing his family and friends, concerning whom he had received no tidings for a long time. He realized his property, settled his affairs, and taking his passage for England, arrived in the Downs after an absence of sixteen years.

He immediately repaired to London, and went to the house of an only brother whom he had left possessed of a genteel place in a public office. He found that his brother was dead, and the family broken up; and he was directed to the house of one of his nieces, who was married and settled at a small distance from town. On making himself known, he was received with great respect and affection by the married niece, and a single sister who resided with her; to which good reception the idea of his bringing back with him a large fortune did not a little contribute. They pressed him in the most urgent manner to take up his abode there, and omitted nothing that could testify their dutiful regard to so near a relation. On his part, he was sincerely glad to see them, and presented them with some valuable Indian commodities which he had brought with him. They soon fell into conversation concerning the family events that had taken place during his long absence. Mutual condolences passed on the death of the father; the mother had been dead long before. The captain, in the warmth of his heart, declared his intention of befriending the survivors of the family, and his wishes of seeing the second sister as comfortably settled in the world as the first seemed to be.

“But,” said he, “are you two the only ones left? What is become of my little smiling playfellow Amelia? I remember her as if it were yesterday, coming behind my chair, and giving me a sly pull, and then running away that I might follow her for a kiss. I should be sorry if anything had happened to her.”—“Alas! sir,” said the eldest niece, “she has been the cause of an infinite deal of trouble to her friends! She was always a giddy girl, and her misconduct has proved her ruin. It would be happy if we could all forget her!”—“What, then,” said the uncle, “has she dishonoured herself? Poor creature!”—“I cannot say,” replied the niece, “that she has done so in the worst sense of the word; but she has disgraced herself and her family by a hasty foolish match with one beneath her, and it is ended, as might have been expected, in poverty and wretchedness.”—“I am glad,” returned the captain, “that it is no worse; for though I much disapprove of improper matches, yet young girls may fall into still greater evils, and where there is no crime, there can be no irreparable disgrace. But who was the man, and what did my brother say to it?”—“Why, sir, I cannot say but it was partly my father’s own fault; for he took a sort of liking to the young man, who was a drawing-master employed in the family, and would not forbid him the house, after we had informed him of the danger of an attachment between Amelia and him. So when it was too late, he fell into a violent passion about it, which had no other effect than to drive the girl directly into her lover’s arms. They married, and soon fell into difficulties. My father of course would do nothing for them; and when he died, he not only disinherited her, but made us promise no longer to look upon her as a sister.”—“And you _did_ make that promise?” said the captain, in a tone of surprise and displeasure. “We could not disobey our parent,” replied the other sister; “but we have several times sent her relief in her necessities, though it was improper for us to see her.”—“And pray, what has become of her at last—where is she now?”—“Really, she and her husband have shifted their lodgings so often, that it is sometime since we heard anything about them.”—“Sometime! how long?”—“Perhaps half a year or more.”—“Poor outcast!” cried the captain, in a sort of muttered half-voice; “_I_ have made no promise, however, to renounce thee. Be pleased, madam,” he continued, addressing himself gravely to the married niece, “to favour me with the last direction you had to this unfortunate sister.” She blushed and looked confused; and at length, after a good deal of searching, presented it to her uncle. “But, my dear sir,” said she, “you will not think of leaving us to-day? My servant shall make all the inquiries you choose, and save you the trouble; and to-morrow you can ride to town, and do as you think proper.”—“My good niece,” said the captain, “I am but an indifferent sleeper, and I am afraid things would run in my head and keep me awake. Besides, I am naturally impatient, and love to do my business myself. You will excuse me.”—So saying, he took up his hat, and without much ceremony, went out of the house, and took the road to town on foot, leaving his two nieces somewhat disconcerted.

When he arrived, he went without delay to the place mentioned, which was a by-street near Soho. The people who kept the lodgings informed him, that the persons he inquired after had left them several months, and they did not know what was become of them. This threw the captain into great perplexity; but while he was considering what he should do next, the woman of the house recollected that Mr. Bland (that was the drawing-master’s name) had been employed at a certain school, where information about him might possibly be obtained. Captain Cornish hastened away to the place, and was informed by the master of the school that such a man had, indeed, been engaged there, but had ceased to attend for some time past. “He was a very well-behaved, industrious young man,” added the master, “but in distressed circumstances, which prevented him from making that genteel appearance which we expect in all who attend our school; so I was obliged to dismiss him. It was a great force upon my _feelings_, I assure you, sir, to do so; but you know the thing could not be helped.” The captain eyed him with indignant contempt, and said, “I suppose, then, sir, your _feelings_ never suffered you to inquire where this poor creature lodged, or what became of him afterward?”—“As to that,” replied the master, “every man knows his own business best, and my time is fully taken up with my own concerns; but I believe I have a note of the lodgings he then occupied—here it is.” The captain took it, and turning on his heel, withdrew in silence.

He posted away to the place, but there, too, had the mortification of learning that he was too late. The people, however, told him that they believed he might find the family he was seeking in a neighbouring alley, at a lodging up three pair of stairs. The captain’s heart sunk within him; however, taking a boy as a guide, he proceeded immediately to the spot. On going up the narrow creaking staircase, he met a man coming down with a bed on his shoulders. At the top of the landing stood another with a bundle of blankets and sheets. A woman with a child in her arms was expostulating with him, and he heard her exclaim, “Cruel! not to leave me _one_ bed for myself and my poor children!”—“Stop,” said the captain to the man, “set down those things.” The man hesitated. The captain renewed his command in a peremptory tone, and then advanced towards the woman. They looked earnestly at each other. Through her pale and emaciated features he saw something of his little smiler; and at length, in a faint voice, he addressed her, “Are you Amelia Cornish?”—“That _was_ my name,” she replied. “I am your uncle,” he cried, clasping her in his arms, and sobbing as if his heart would break. “My uncle!” said she, and fainted. He was just able to set her down on the only remaining chair, and take her child from her. Two other young children came running up, and began to scream with terror. Amelia recovered herself. “Oh, sir, what a situation you see me in!”—“A situation, indeed!” said he. “Poor forsaken creature! but you have _one_ friend left!”

He then asked what was become of her husband? She told him, that having fatigued himself with walking every day to a great distance for a little employment that scarcely afforded them bread, he had fallen ill, and was now in an hospital, and that after having been obliged to sell most of their little furniture and clothes for present subsistence, their landlord had just seized their only remaining bed for some arrears of rent. The captain immediately discharged the debt, and causing the bed to be brought up again, dismissed the man. He then entered into a conversation with his niece about the events that had befallen her. “Alas! sir,” said she, “I am sensible I was greatly to blame in disobeying my father, and leaving his roof as I did; but perhaps something might be alleged in my excuse—at least, years of calamity and distress may be an expiation. As to my husband, however, he has never given me the least cause of complaint—he has ever been kind and good, and what we have suffered has been through misfortune, and not fault. To be sure, when we married, we did not know how a family was to be maintained. His was a poor employment, and sickness and other accidents soon brought us to a state of poverty, from which we could never retrieve ourselves. He, poor man! was never idle when he could help it, and denied himself every indulgence in order to provide for the wants of me and the children. I did my part too as well as I was able. But my father’s unrelenting severity made me quite heart-broken; and though my sisters two or three times gave us a little relief in our pressing necessities—for nothing else could have made me ask in the manner I did—yet they would never permit me to see them, and for some time past have entirely abandoned us. I thought Heaven had abandoned us too. The hour of extremest distress was come; but you have been sent for our comfort.”—“And your comfort, please God! I will be,” cried the captain with energy. “You are my own dear child, and your little ones shall be mine too. Dry up your tears—better days I hope, are approaching.”

Evening was now coming on, and it was too late to think of changing lodgings. The captain procured a neighbour to go out for some provisions and other necessaries, and then took his leave, with a promise of being with his niece early the next morning. Indeed, as he proposed going to pay a visit to her husband, she was far from wishing to detain him longer. He went directly thence to the hospital, and having got access to the apothecary, begged to be informed of the real state of his patient, Bland. The apothecary told him that he laboured under a slow fever, attended with extreme dejection of spirits, but that there were no signs of urgent danger. “If you will allow me to see him,” said the captain, “I believe I shall be able to administer a cordial more effectual, perhaps, than all your medicines.” He was shown up to the ward where the poor man lay, and, seated by his bedside, “Mr. Bland,” said he, “I am a stranger to you, but I come to bring you some news of your family.” The sick man roused himself, as it were, from a stupor, and fixed his eyes in silence on the captain. He proceeded—“Perhaps you may have heard of an uncle that your wife had in the East Indies—he is come home, and—and—I am he.” Upon this he eagerly stretched out his hand, and taking that of Bland, which was thrust out of the bedclothes to meet it, gave it a cordial shake. The sick man’s eyes glistened—he grasped the captain’s hand with all his remaining strength, and drawing it to his mouth, kissed it with fervour. All he could say was, “God bless you!—be kind to poor Amelia!”—“I will—I will,” cried the captain, “I will be a father to you all. Cheer up—keep up your spirits—all will be well.” He then, with a kind look and another shake of the hand, wished him a good night, and left the poor man lightened at once of half his disease.

The captain went home to the coffee-house where he lodged, got a light supper, and went early to bed. After meditating sometime with heartfelt satisfaction on the work of the day, he fell into a sweet sleep, which lasted till daybreak. The next morning early he rose and sallied forth in search of furnished lodgings. After some inquiry, he met with a commodious set, in a pleasant airy situation, for which he agreed. He then drove to Amelia, and found her and her children neat and clean, and as well dressed as their poor wardrobe would admit. He embraced them with the utmost affection, and rejoiced Amelia’s heart with a favourable account of her husband. He then told them to prepare for a ride with him. The children were overjoyed at the proposal, and they accompanied him down to the coach in high spirits. Amelia scarcely knew what to think or expect. They drove first to a warehouse for ready-made linen, where the captain made Amelia furnish herself with a complete set of everything necessary for present use for the children and herself, not forgetting some shirts for her husband. Thence they went to a clothes shop, where the little boy was supplied with a jacket and trowsers, a hat and great coat, and the girl with another great coat and a bonnet—both were made as happy as happy could be. They were next all furnished with new shoes. In short, they had not proceeded far, before the mother and three children were all in complete new habiliments, decent but not fine; while the old ones were all tied up in a great bundle, and destined for some family still poorer than they had been.

The captain then drove to the lodgings he had taken, and which he had directed to be put in thorough order. He led Amelia upstairs, who knew not whither she was going. He brought her into a handsome parlour, and seated her in a chair. “This, my dear,” said he, “is your house. I hope you will let me now and then come and see you in it?” Amelia turned pale and could not speak. At length, a flood of tears came to her relief, and she suddenly threw herself at her uncle’s feet, and poured out thanks and blessings in a broken voice. He raised her, and kindly kissing her and her children, slipped a purse of gold into her hand, and hurried downstairs.

He next went to the hospital, and found Mr. Bland sitting up in bed, and taking some food with apparent pleasure. He sat down by him. “God bless you! sir,” said Bland, “I see now it is all a reality, and not a dream. Your figure has been haunting me all night, and I have scarcely been able to satisfy myself whether I had really seen and spoke to you, or whether it was a fit of delirium. Yet my spirits have been lightened, and I have now been eating with a relish I have not experienced for many days past. But may I ask how is my poor Amelia and my little ones?”—“They are well and happy, my good friend;” said the captain, “and I hope you will soon be so along with them.” The apothecary came up and felt his patient’s pulse. “You are a lucky doctor, indeed, sir,” said he to Captain Cornish, “you have cured the poor man of his fever. His pulse is as calm as my own.” The captain consulted him about the safety of removing him; and the apothecary thought that there would be no hazard in doing it that very day. The captain waited the arrival of the physician, who confirmed the same opinion. A sedan-chair was procured, and full directions being obtained for the future treatment, with the physician’s promise to look after him, the captain walked before the chair, to the new lodgings. On the knock at the door, Amelia looked out of the window, and seeing the chair, ran down, and met her uncle and husband in the passage. The poor man, not knowing where he was, and gazing wildly around him, was carried upstairs and placed upon a good bed, while his wife and children assembled around it. A glass of wine brought by the people of the house restored him to his recollection, when a most tender scene ensued, which the uncle closed as soon as he could, for fear of too much agitating the yet feeble organs of the sick man.

By Amelia’s constant attention, assisted by proper help, Mr. Bland shortly recovered; and the whole family lost their sickly, emaciated appearance, and became healthy and happy. The kind uncle was never long absent from them, and was always received with looks of pleasure and gratitude that penetrated his very soul. He obtained for Mr. Bland a good situation in the exercise of his profession, and took Amelia and her children into his special care. As to his other nieces, though he did not entirely break off his connexion with them, but, on the contrary, showed them occasional marks of the kindness of a relation, yet he could never look upon them with true cordiality. And as they had so well kept their promise to their father of never treating Amelia as a sister, while in her afflicted state, he took care not to tempt them to break it, now she was in a favoured and prosperous condition.

[Illustration:

A Secret Character Unveiled, p. 359.

EVENING XXX. ]

EARTH AND HER CHILDREN.

In a certain district of the globe things one year went so ill, that almost the whole race of living beings, animals and vegetables, carried their lamentations and complaints to their common mother _the Earth_.

First came _Man_. “O Earth,” said he, “how can you behold unmoved the intolerable calamities of your favourite offspring! Heaven shuts up all the sources of its benignity to us, and showers plagues and pestilence on our heads—storms tear to pieces all the works of human labour—the elements of fire and water seem let loose to devour us—and in the midst of all these evils some demon possesses us with a rage of worrying and destroying one another; so that the whole species seems doomed to perish. O, intercede in our behalf, or else receive us again into your maternal womb, and hide us from the sight of these accumulated distresses!”

The other animals then spoke by their deputies, the horse, the ox, and the sheep. “O pity, mother Earth, those of your children that repose on your breast, and derive their subsistence from your foodful bosom! We are parched with drought, we are scorched by lightning, we are beaten by pitiless tempests, salubrious vegetables refuse to nourish us, we languish under disease, and the race of men treat us with unusual rigour. Never, without speedy succour, can we survive to another year.”

The vegetables next, those that form the verdant carpet of the earth, that cover the waving fields of harvest, and that spread their lofty branches in the air, sent forth their complaint:—“O, our general mother, to whose breast we cleave, and whose vital juices we drain, have compassion upon us! See, how we wither and droop under the baleful gales that sweep over us—how we thirst in vain for the gentle dew of Heaven—how immense tribes of noxious insects pierce and devour us—how the famishing flocks and herds tear us up by the roots—and how men, through mutual spite, lay waste and destroy us, while yet immature. Already whole nations of us are desolated, and unless you save us, another year will witness our total destruction.”

“My children,” said Earth, “I have now existed some thousand years; and scarcely one of them has passed in which similar complaints have not risen from one quarter or another. Nevertheless, everything has remained in nearly the same state, and no species of created beings has been finally lost. The injuries of one year are repaired by the gifts of the succeeding one. The growing vegetables may be blasted, but the seeds of others lie secure in my bosom, ready to receive the vital influence of more favourable seasons. Animals may be thinned by want and disease, but a remnant is always left, in whom survives the principle of future increase. As to man, who suffers not only from natural causes, but from the effects of his own follies and vices, his miseries rouse within him the latent powers of remedy, and bring him to his reason again; while experience continually goes along with him to improve his means of happiness, if he will but listen to its dictates. Have patience, then, my children! You were born to suffer, as well as to enjoy, and you must submit to your lot. But console yourselves with the thought that you have a kind Master above, who created you for benevolent purposes, and will not withhold his protection when you stand most in need of it.”

A SECRET CHARACTER UNVEILED.

At a small house in a court in London, there resided for many years, a person beyond the middle age of life, whose family consisted of one male and one female servant, both of long standing. He was of grave and somewhat pensive aspect. His dress was perfectly plain and never varied. He wore his own gray hair, and his general appearance resembled that of a Quaker, though without the peculiarities of that sect. He was not known to his neighbours but by sight. They frequently observed him go out and come in, almost always on foot, even in the worst weather. He did not appear to keep any company, and his mode of life seemed to be very uniform. He paid ready money to the few tradespeople with whom he dealt, and never made any one call a second time for dues and taxes. In some charitable collections that were set on foot in the parish, he gave as much as was expected from him, and no more. He returned the salutation of the hat to those who gave it him, but never exceeded a word or two in conversation with his neighbours. His religion and political sentiments were entirely unknown. The general notion about him was, either that he was a reduced gentleman, obliged to live privately, or one concerned in some private money transactions, and bent upon hoarding a fortune. His name, from the parish-books, appeared to be _Mortimer_.

After he had thus lived a long time, a train of accidental circumstances occurred within a short space, which fully displayed his character.

In a blind alley at some little distance, there lived a poor widow who had several children, the eldest a beautiful girl of eighteen. The woman was very industrious, and supported her family by taking in work in which her children assisted. It happened that some of them, and at length herself, fell ill of a fever, which continued so long as to reduce them to great distress. She was obliged to part with many things for a present subsistence; and, on their recovery, a half-year’s rent being due which she was unable to pay, the landlord threatened to seize the remainder of her goods, and turn her and her children into the street. He intimated, however, that it might be in the power of the eldest daughter to settle accounts with him in a less difficult manner; but his hints were treated with virtuous disdain. The girl had a faithful lover, a journeyman-carpenter, who, during the illness of the family, contributed half his wages to their support, and now by promises endeavoured to mollify the landlord, but in vain. He was coming disconsolately one night after work to pay his usual visit to the distressed family, when he observed Mr. Mortimer, whom he knew, having worked at his house, stealing upstairs to the widow’s lodging. The suspicion natural to a lover led him to follow. He saw him open the door, and he entered unperceived after him. Mr. Mortimer walked into the room where were all the poor family; the mother and eldest daughter weeping over the rest. They showed much surprise at his approach, and still more, when, going up to the widow, he put a purse of guineas into her hand, and immediately turned about and went away. “What angel from heaven,” cried the poor woman, “has brought me this? Run after him, daughter, and thank him on your knees!” She ran, but he was got almost down stairs. “I know him,” cried the journeyman-carpenter, making his appearance, “’t is Mr. Mortimer.”

In a chamber of a house in an obscure part of the town a gang of clippers and coiners were detected by the officers of justice. A poor lame fellow, who lived in the adjoining room, was brought along with the rest for examination. “Well,” said one of the justices, “and who are you?”

“Please your worship, I am a poor man who have lost the use of my limbs these seven years.”

“And how have you been supported all that time?”

“Why, sir, I might have starved long ago, as I have no settlement in these parts, and the masters for whom I worked would do nothing for me, but a very good gentleman has been so kind as to give me five shillings a week for these six years.”

“Ay! you were lucky, indeed, to light upon such a kind gentleman. Pray, what is his name?”

“I don’t know it, your worship.”

“No!—that’s very strange, that you should not know the name of the person who keeps you from starving. But where does he live?”

“Indeed, sir, I don’t know that neither. I know nothing at all of him but the good he does me.”

“Why, how came you at first to be acquainted with him?”

“I had just been turned out of the hospital incurable, and was thinking that nothing remained for me but begging and starving in the streets, when the gentleman came up to my poor lodging (God knows how he found it) and gave me a guinea to buy some necessaries, and told me, if I would do what little I could to maintain myself, he would take care that I should not want. And ever since, either he or his man has brought me a crown every week.”

“This story, my friend, will hardly pass. But tell me what trade you worked at before you lost the use of your limbs?”

“Plating and gilding, your worship.”

“O! ho! Then you understand working in metals! You must be kept till you give a more probable account of yourself.”

The poor man in vain protested that every word he had said was true, and offered to bring proof of his honesty and sobriety from his neighbours; he was ordered to a place of confinement till further examination. The constable was taking him thither, when by good fortune he chanced to spy his benefactor crossing the street just before him. He called aloud, and requested him to stop; and then in a piteous tone relating his story, entreated him to go back with them to the justice, and bear witness in his behalf. This could not be refused. They were admitted into a crowded hall, when the constable told the cause of his return. All eyes were turned upon the gentleman, who was desired to give his name. “It is Mortimer,” said he. He then, in a few words, mentioned, that having some years ago come to the knowledge of the poor man’s character and distress, he had since taken care of him.

“’Tis enough, sir,” said a gentleman at the board; “I have the honour of being a neighbour of yours, but I did not before know _what_ a neighbour I had.” Mr. Mortimer bowed and retired. The poor fellow was discharged.

Two maiden sisters, daughters of a very worthy tradesman, whom misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who died of a broken heart, were for several years supported by an annuity of forty pounds each, which came from an unknown quarter. The mode in which they received it was, that twice a year, at night, a person knocked at the door of their lodging, which was upon a second floor, and delivered into the hands of one of them a parcel containing two twenty-pound bank-notes, with a paper on which was written, “To be continued—no inquiry!” Though this injunction prevented them from taking any steps to detect their benefactor, yet many were the conjectures which, between themselves, they made on this subject, but without attaining to the least probability. One night, about the time that the above-related events happened, the person, who came as usual to deliver the notes, on hastily turning round to retire, fell from the top of the stairs to the bottom. The lady shrieked out, and running down, found the man lying senseless and bloody. Help was procured, and he was taken up to their lodging. A surgeon was immediately sent for, who, by bleeding and other means, restored him to his senses. As soon as the man recovered his speech, he requested to be taken to his master’s. “Who is your master?” cried the surgeon; “Mr. Mortimer, of —— Court.”—“What!” exclaimed the elder of the ladies, “Mr. Mortimer, my poor father’s greatest creditor—is it he to whom we have been so long indebted for everything?” The man laid his finger on his lips, and she was silent, but not a word had escaped the surgeon. The servant was sent away in a coach, the surgeon accompanying him. They arrived at Mr. Mortimer’s, where, after the confusion occasioned by the accident had subsided, the surgeon found that the face of both master and man were familiar to him. “I am sure I am not mistaken,” said he, “you are the gentleman who so charitably took care of the poor fellow that had such a bad broken leg in this neighbourhood, and paid me for my attendance.” Mr. Mortimer assented. “Here is a double discovery,” said the surgeon to himself; and on taking his leave, “Permit me to assure you, sir,” he cried, “that I venerate you beyond any other human being!”—At the corner of the court where Mr. Mortimer resided was a shoemaker’s shop, kept by a man who had a wife and five children. He was one of the most industrious creatures breathing, and with great exertions was just able to maintain decently his family, of whom he was extremely fond. A younger brother of his had come up out of the country, and obtained a place in a public office, for which it was necessary to give security; and he had prevailed upon his brother to enter into a joint bond with him for two hundred pounds. The brother fell into vicious courses, and at length absconded with all the money he was intrusted with. The shoemaker was now called upon to pay the forfeiture of his bond, which, on account of bad debts, and having been lately drained of all his ready money to pay for leather, he was unable to do; and, in consequence, was sent to jail. The distress this brought upon the family was aggravated by the condition of his wife, who was near lying-in; and their mutual affection was turned into a source of the bitterest grief. He had been about six weeks in prison, without any prospect of release, all his friends and relations having been in vain tried, when, one evening, the keeper who had treated him with much compassion, came up to his room with pleasure in his countenance, and said, “You are free.” The poor man could at first scarcely believe him, but finding him persist in the truth of it, he almost fainted away through surprise and joy. When he was sufficiently recovered to reflect on the matter, he was quite bewildered in conjecturing how it had been brought about. He could only learn, that a discharge of the debt bad been sent to the jail, and all the fees and expenses there paid by a person whose name was unknown, but whose face they were well acquainted with, as he had several times been on the same errand there before. “O!” cried the shoemaker, “that I could but know my benefactor!” He hastened home, where his unexpected appearance almost overwhelmed his poor family. On talking over the business with his wife, he learned that Mr. Mortimer’s servant had a few days before been at the shop, and had been very particular in inquiring the cause and place of his confinement. This occasioned a strong suspicion, for Mr. Mortimer’s character now came to be talked of; and soon after it was changed into certainty by a visit from the keeper of the prison, who acquainted the shoemaker, that they had now discovered who his benefactor and that of so many others was; one of their people having chanced to be at the sessions-house when Mr. Mortimer appeared there in behalf of the lame man taken up on suspicion, and having recognised him to be the same person. The shoemaker was overjoyed at this intelligence, but was still at a loss to know in what manner he ought to express his gratitude. He was afraid of offending, by doing it in a public manner, as it had evidently been Mr. Mortimer’s intention to remain concealed; yet it was necessary that his heart should have some vent for its emotions. He took his wife and children, and went to Mr. Mortimer’s house, desiring to speak with him. Being admitted into the study, the poor man began a speech which he had prepared; but instead of going on, he burst into a fit of crying, fell on his knees, seizing one hand of his benefactor, while his wife did the same on the other side, and kissing them with the utmost fervency, both in a broken voice implored endless blessings on his head. The children fell on their knees, too, and held up their little hands. Mr. Mortimer was moved and remained awhile silent; at length, recollecting himself, “Too much! too much!” he cried, “Go home, go home, my good people! God bless you all!” and thus dismissed

them.

An old clergyman from the country came up to town on business about this time, and paid a visit to an intimate friend of the same profession. After some mutual greetings and inquiries, “Ah! my good friend,” said the country clergyman, “our parish has undergone a blessed alteration since you knew it! The principal estate was sold some years ago to a gentleman in London, who is one of those few that are never wearied in well-doing. He built, in the first place, half a score neat cottages, where all the industrious poor who are past labour are comfortably maintained at his expense. He endowed a free school for all the children of the parish without exception, where they are taught to read and write, and some of the poorest are clothed. Every winter he orders the baker to deliver twice a week a large loaf at the house of each cottager during the hard weather. He has frequently remitted his rents to poor tenants in bad seasons; and, in short, I should never have done were I to enumerate all his deeds of charity. I myself have in various ways been much indebted to him, and I am well informed that he contributes largely to the support of an aged dissenting minister in the parish. But what is singular, he is very shy of being seen, nor do we know anything of his rank and profession, or his town residence; nay, I believe we should not have learned his name, had not the purchase necessarily made it public. It is Mortimer.”

“Why,” said his friend, “I have a parishioner of that name; and from what I have lately heard of him, I suspect him to be the man.”

“Could not I get a sight of him?” replied the first.

“Probably you may,” said the other; and presently, seeing him cross the court, he pointed him out.

“Ah! that is the blessed man!” exclaimed the old clergyman in a rapture. And running out, he went up, grasped him eagerly by the hand, and poured out the most affectionate wishes for his welfare.

Mr. Mortimer now stood _completely detected_.