Evening at Home 76

Evening at Home 76

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.”