Evening at Home67
Father._ The wound in his thigh broke out afresh, and discharged more
splinters after a great deal of pain and fever. As winter came on, his
cough increased. He wasted to a skeleton, and died the next spring. The
young woman, his sweetheart, sat up with him every night to the last;
and soon after his death, she fell into a consumption, and followed him.
The old people, deprived of the stay and comfort of their age, fell into
despair and poverty, and were taken into the workhouse, where they ended
their days.
This was the history of _Walter the soldier_. It has been that of
thousands more; and will be that of many a poor fellow, over whose fate
you are now rejoicing. Such is the _price of a victory_!
GOOD COMPANY.
“Be sure, Frederick, always keep _good company_,” was the final
admonition of Mr. Lofty, on dismissing his son to the University.
“I entreat you, Henry, always to choose _good company_,” said Mr. Manly,
on parting with his son to an apprenticeship in a neighbouring town.
But it was impossible for two people to mean more differently by the
same words.
In Mr. Lofty’s idea, _good_ company was that of persons superior to
ourselves in rank and fortune. By this alone he estimated it: and the
degrees of comparison, better and best, were made exactly to correspond
to such a scale. Thus, if an esquire was _good_ company, a baronet was
_better_, and a lord _best of all_, provided that he was not a _poor_
lord, for in that case, a rich gentleman might be at least as good. For
as, according to Mr. Lofty’s maxim, the great purpose for which
companions were to be chosen was to advance a young man in the world by
their credit and interest, those were to be preferred who afforded the
best prospects in this respect.
Mr. Manly, on the other hand, understood by _good_ company, that which
was improving to the morals and understanding; and by the _best_, that
which, to a high degree of these qualities, added true politeness of
manners. As superior advantages in education to a certain point
accompany superiority of condition, he wished his son to prefer as
companions those whose situation in life had afforded them the
opportunity of being well educated; but he was far from desiring him to
shun connexions with worth and talents, wherever he should find them.
Mr. Lofty had an utter aversion to _low company_, by which he meant
inferiors, people of no fashion and figure, shabby fellows whom nobody
knows.
Mr. Manly equally disliked _low company_, understanding by it persons of
mean habits and vulgar conversation.
A great part of Mr. Manly’s _good_ company was Mr. Lofty’s _low_
company; and not a few of Mr. Lofty’s very _best_ company were Mr.
Manly’s very _worst_.
Each of the sons understood his father’s meaning, and followed his
advice.
Frederick, from the time of his entrance at the University, commenced
what is called a _tuft-hunter_, from the tuft in the cap worn by young
noblemen. He took pains to insinuate himself into the good graces of all
the young men of high fashion in his college, and became a constant
companion in their schemes of frolic and dissipation. They treated him
with an insolent familiarity, often bordering upon contempt; but
following another maxim of his father, “one must stoop to rise,” he took
it all in good part. He totally neglected study as unnecessary, and
indeed inconsistent with his plan. He spent a great deal of money, with
which his father, finding that it went in _good company_, at first
supplied him freely. In time, however, his expenses amounted to so much,
that Mr. Lofty, who kept good company too, found it difficult to answer
his demands. A considerable sum that he lost at play with one of his
noble friends increased the difficulty. If it were not paid, the
disgrace of not having discharged a _debt of honour_ would lose him all
the favour he had acquired; yet the money could not be raised without
greatly embarrassing his father’s affairs.
In the midst of this perplexity, Mr. Lofty died, leaving behind him a
large family, and very little property. Frederick came up to town, and
soon dissipated in _good company_ the scanty portion that came to his
share. Having neither industry, knowledge, nor reputation, he was then
obliged to become an humble dependant on the great, flattering all their
follies, and ministering to their vices, treated by them with mortifying
neglect, and equally despised and detested by the rest of the world.
Henry, in the meantime, entered with spirit into the business of his new
profession, and employed his leisure in cultivating an acquaintance with
a few select friends. These were partly young men in a situation similar
to his own, partly persons already settled in life, but all
distinguished by propriety of conduct and improved understandings. From
all of them he learned something valuable, but he was more particularly
indebted to two of them, who were in a station of life inferior to that
of the rest. One was a watchmaker, an excellent mechanic and tolerable
mathematician, and well acquainted with the construction and use of all
the instruments employed in experimental philosophy. The other was a
young druggist, who had a good knowledge of chymistry, and frequently
employed himself in chymical operations and experiments. Both of them
were men of very decent manners, and took a pleasure in communicating
their knowledge to such as showed a taste for similar studies. Henry
frequently visited them, and derived much useful information from their
instructions, for which he ever expressed great thankfulness. These
various occupations and good examples effectually preserved him from the
errors of youth, and he passed his time with credit and satisfaction. He
had the same misfortune with Frederick, just as he was ready to come out
into the world, of losing his father, upon whom the support of the
family chiefly depended; but in the character he had established, and
the knowledge he had acquired, he found an effectual resource. One of
his young friends proposed to him a partnership in a manufactory he had
just set up at considerable expense, requiring for his share only the
exertion of his talents and industry. Henry accepted the offer, and made
such good use of the skill in mechanics and chymistry he had acquired,
that he introduced many improvements into the manufactory, and rendered
it a very profitable concern. He lived prosperous and independent, and
retained in manhood all the friendships of his youth.
THE WANDERER’S RETURN.
It was a delightful evening about the end of August. The sun, setting in
a pure sky, illuminated the tops of the western hills, and tipped the
opposite trees with a yellow lustre.
A traveller, with sunburnt cheeks and dusty feet, strong and active,
having a knapsack at his back, had gained the summit of a steep ascent,
and stood gazing on the plain below.
This was a wide tract of champaign country, checkered with villages,
whose towers and spires peeped above the trees in which they were
embosomed. The space between them was chiefly arable land, from which
the last products of the harvest were busily carrying away.
A rivulet wound through the plain, its course marked with gray willows.
On its banks were verdant meadows, covered with lowing herds, moving
slowly to the milkmaids, who came tripping along with pails on their
heads. A thick wood clothed the side of a gentle eminence rising from
the water, crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle.
Edward (that was the traveller’s name) dropped on one knee, and clasping
his hands, exclaimed, “Welcome, welcome, my dear native land. Many a
sweet spot have I seen since I left thee, but none so sweet as thou!
Never has thy dear image been out of my memory; and now with what
transport do I retrace all thy charms! O, receive me again, never more
to quit thee!” So saying, he threw himself on the turf; and having
kissed it, rose and proceeded on his journey.
As he descended into the plain, he overtook a little group of children,
merrily walking along the path, and stopping now and then to gather
berries in the hedge.
“Where are you going, my dears?” said Edward.
“We are going home,” they all replied.
“And where is that?”
“Why, to Summerton, that town there among the trees, just before us.
Don’t you see it?”
“I see it well,” answered Edward, the tear standing in his eye.
“And what is your name—and yours—and yours?”
The little innocents told their names. Edward’s heart leaped at the
well-known sounds.
“And what is _your_ name, my dear?” said he to a pretty girl, somewhat
older than the rest, who hung back shyly, and held the hand of a ruddy,
white-headed boy, just breeched.
“It is Rose Walsingham, and this is my younger brother, Roger.”
“Walsingham!” Edward clasped the girl round the neck, and surprised her
with two or three very close kisses. He then lifted up little Roger, and
almost devoured him. Roger seemed as if he wanted to be set down again,
but Edward told him he would carry him home.
“And can you show me the house you live at, Rose?” said Edward.
“Yes—it is just there, beside the pond, with the great barn before it,
and the orchard behind.”
“And will you take me home with you, Rose?”
“If you please,” answered Rose, hesitatingly.
They walked on; Edward said but little, for his heart was full, but he
frequently kissed little Roger.
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기