Evening at Home 78

Evening at Home 78

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