Evening at Home 73
“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
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