The Looking-Glass for the Mind Part 14

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Young Samuel was the only son of a capital merchant, and was tenderly beloved by his father. He had by no means a bad heart, his countenance was pleasing, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, had he not shown, in every part of his conduct, a covetous propensity, that eclipsed all his accomplishments.

His covetous disposition made him wish for every thing he saw others possessed of, and, even carried him to so great a length, that he would not share among his playmates any thing that he had, or even let them see it.

It was with little Samuel, as it generally is with every body else, that he lost more than he gained by his avarice. If any body gave him any sweetmeats, he would get into some private corner of the house and there swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintance should want part of them.

His father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposition, used, while he was feasting in private, to give a double portion to his companions.

He perceived this, and therefore left off hiding himself; but he no sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it at once; and pursued the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does its prey.

From what has been already said, his father may be supposed to be much hurt at this conduct; and, in order to save himself as much vexation as possible, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or even have them within his house, so that they might not, at any rate, be within the reach of his voracious son.

If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would never show it, but conceal himself in the enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but devour it in private, even refusing any to those he happened to love most. Consequently, none of his playmates would ever give him a part of what they had, and seemed always desirous of shunning his company. When he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any one, none appeared ready to take his part, not even when they knew him in the right; and, when he was in the wrong, every one joined against him.

It one day happened, that a little boy observed him with an apple in his hand, and gave him by surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him let the apple fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and, in order to revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him; but, in running, fell into a hog-pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the soil. He exerted all his power to get out, but to no effect: he endeavoured, but without succeeding, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his hand and help him out.

Instead of a.s.sisting him, they laughed at his distress, and joyously danced about the pond, from which he could not relieve himself. They told him to ask the a.s.sistance of those to whom he had done the least kindness; but among all his playmates, there was not one whose help he could demand on that score. At last one of the boys, who took pity on him, came forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got out.

Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and then to show his grat.i.tude to the little boy who had a.s.sisted him, he bit off about a quarter of the apple which caused this disaster, and which he never let go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, disgusted with so pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then flung it in his face; and this served as a signal for all the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel quite home, hooting him all the way he went.

This was the first time he had ever been hooted, and, as he did not want for feeling, it threw him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his father's presence, and confined himself to his room for some days. There he reasoned with himself on the cause that could produce such treatment from his playfellows. "For what reason," said he to himself, "could my little neighbour, who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond, throw the apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me? Why has he so many good friends, while I have not a single one?"

On comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own, he soon discovered the reason. To become sensible of our errors is half the work of reformation. He recollected, that he had observed his friend was always ready to help every one; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary, or the like, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing it with his companions, than in eating it himself, and had no kind of amus.e.m.e.nt in which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On this short review of circ.u.mstances, he plainly perceived wherein lay the difference between himself and this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate him; and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, he ran up to every boy he met and gave him a part of it; but he could not, on a sudden, give up _self_, having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in private.

Though it is evident that he had not yet completely conquered his avarice, yet he was not a little pleased with the advances he had made, since his companions were now, on their part, more generous to him; they showed themselves much more satisfied with his company, and admitted him a partner in all their little pastimes; they divided with him whatever they happened to have, and he always went home pleased and satisfied.

Soon after, he made a still greater progress in conquering his selfish disposition; for he pulled out of his pocket every thing he had, and divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, without reserving any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, it was the general opinion of the boys, that his own share was the least. This day he was much more satisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful.

By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a generous habit, and became liberal even to those who had nothing to give in return. He consequently acquired the love and esteem of his companions, who no sooner saw him than they ran to meet him with joyful countenances, and made his pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being miserable and wretched through avarice, he became completely happy in the practice of generosity.

His father was, undoubtedly, highly pleased with this change, and, tenderly embracing him, promised to refuse him nothing in future that might add to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what true happiness consists.

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DISSIPATION THE CERTAIN ROAD TO

RUIN.

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A young man, whose name was Humphries, was a dull companion, but an excellent workman. Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to become a master, but he had not money to gratify that wish. A merchant, however, who was well acquainted with his industry, lent him a hundred pounds, in order that he might open a shop in a proper style.

It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries thought himself one of the happiest men in the world. He supposed his warehouse already filled with goods, he reckoned how many customers would crowd to buy them, and what would be his profits thereon.

In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, he perceived an alehouse. "Come," said he, on entering it, "I will indulge myself with spending one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, however, some few moments, about calling for punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his conscience loudly told him that his time for enjoyment ought to be at some distance, and not till he had paid his friend the money he had borrowed; that it would not be honest in him at present to expend a farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. With these right ideas, he was nearly leaving the alehouse; but, bethinking himself, on the other hand, that, if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should still have a hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that such a sum was fully sufficient to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's industry would amply make amends for such a trifling pleasure as he wished then to enjoy; he called for his punch, and the first gla.s.s banished all his former qualms, little thinking that such a conduct would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his ruin. The next day he recollected the pleasures of the former gla.s.s, and found it easy to reconcile his conscience to the spending of another sixpence. He knew he should still have a hundred pounds left, all but one shilling.

The love of liquor had at last completely conquered him, and every succeeding day he constantly returned to his favourite alehouse, and gradually increased his quant.i.ty, till he spent two shillings and sixpence at each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand; and every time he went he consoled himself, with saying, that he was spending only half-a-crown, and that he need not fear but he should have enough to carry on his trade.

By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the prudent whispers of conscience, which would sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in upon him, and remind him, that the proper use of money consisted in prudently applying every part of it to advantageous purposes.

Thus you see how the human mind is led into destructive extravagances by insensible degrees. Industry had no longer any charms to allure him, being blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed would prove an inexhaustible source for all its extravagance. He was at last convinced, and his conviction suddenly fell on him like a clap of thunder that he could not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that his generous benefactor would have little inclination to lend another hundred pounds to a man who had so shamefully abused his kindness in the first instance.

Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his recourse to hard drinking, merely to quiet his conscience and reflections, served only to bring on his ruin the sooner. At last the fatal moment arrived, when, quite disgusted at the thoughts of industry, and becoming an object of horror even to himself, life became insupportable, and nothing presented themselves to him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse.

Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, and joined a gang of smugglers, whose ravages were dreaded through every town and village on the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to have a long reign, for a disgraceful death soon put a period to the existence of this unhappy wretch.

Alas! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, and been wrought upon by the reproaches of his conscience, he might have been easy and happy in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of a reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplorable end, which is the certain reward of vice and folly.

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CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT

ENEMIES TO SOCIETY.

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Though Maria was of a tolerably good temper, yet she had contracted a most mischievous vice, and that was calumny. Whenever she fancied she saw any thing amiss in others, though they were her most intimate friends, she seemed to take pleasure in publishing it to the world.

The inexperience of her age frequently led her to ascribe indifferent actions to improper motives; and a single word, or volatility of disposition, was sufficient to raise in her breast the worst suspicions, with which, as soon as she had formed them, she would run into company, and there publish them as indubitable facts.

As she was never at a loss for embellishments for her own fancy, in order to make her tales appear the more plausible, it may easily be supposed what mischief such a conduct was capable of producing. In a little time, all the families in the neighbourhood were set together by the ears, and the seeds of discord soon after sprung up amongst individuals; husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, masters and servants, commenced perpetual variance between each other. All on a sudden, mutual confidence seemed to be lost in every place where Maria visited.

Matters at last were carried so far, that every one shut their doors against her, as they would have done against any one tainted with the plague; but neither hatred nor humiliation could reform a vice which custom and prejudice had so deeply rivetted in her heart. This glorious work of reformation was reserved for Angelica, her cousin, who was the only one left that would keep her company, and who lived in hopes that she should in the end be able to convince her of her ruinous conduct.

Maria went one day to see her cousin, and entertained her as usual with a long recital of scandal against their common friends, though she well knew that such tales were disagreeable to Angelica. "And now, my dear,"

said Maria, having stopped for want of breath, "your turn is come to tell me something. You see such a variety of company, that you surely must be acquainted with a number of anecdotes."

"My dear Maria," answered Angelica, "whenever I visit my friends, it is for the sake of enjoying their company; and I am too sensible of my own interest to forfeit their esteem by exposing their defects. Indeed, I am sensible of so many errors in myself, and find it so difficult to correct them, that I have no leisure to contemplate the imperfections of others. Having every reason to wish for their candour and indulgence, I readily grant them mine; and my attention is constantly turned to discover what is commendable in them, in order that I may make such perfections my own. Before we presume to censure others, we ought to be certain that we have no faults ourselves. I cannot, therefore, but congratulate you on that faultless state, which I am so unhappy as to want. Continue, my dear Maria, this employment of a charitable censor, who would lead the world to virtue by exposing the deformity of vice, and you cannot fail of meeting your deserts."

Maria well knew how much she was the public object of aversion and disgust, and therefore could not help feeling the irony of Angelica.

From that day she began very seriously to reflect on the danger of her indiscretion; and, trembling at the recollection of those mischiefs she had caused, determined to prevent their progress.

She found it difficult to throw off the custom she had long indulged of viewing things on the worst side of the question. At last, however, she became so perfectly reformed, that she studied only the pleasing parts of characters, and was never heard to speak ill of any one.

Maria became more and more convinced of the pernicious consequences that arise from exposing the faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing satisfaction of universal charity. My dear children, shun the vice of scandal, and, still more, being the authors of it, as you would plague, pestilence, and famine.

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