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 THE LISTENER.
 
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 THE LISTENER, 
 
 CAIiOLLNE FEY, 
 
 AUTHOR Of 
 
 " THE ASSISTANT OF EDUCATION, ETC 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 TENTH EDITION. 
 
 LOXDOX : 
 
 JAMES NISBET AND CO., BERNERS STREET. 
 M DCCC XLVII.
 
 5-5-2 f 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The office of Listener is not one of very honourable 
 note, especially when determined to tell what he 
 hears : but, to deprecate the wrath of my readers 
 against so treacherous an intermeddler with their 
 studies and their sports, I entreat them to consider 
 that good may be wrought of that with which we 
 usually work evil. If I have the misfortune to have 
 no business of my own, and a peculiar talent for 
 observing other people's — if my sight is so keen, and 
 my hearing so acute, as to perceive what is passing 
 where I am not present, to see through the roof, 
 and to hear through the walls — what can I do but 
 endeavour to make the best use of so dangerous an 
 endowment, and employ it for the benefit of others? 
 I whisper no idle tale in gossip's ear ; I write 
 no satires upon innocent mistakes — no diy lectures 

 
 VI PREFACE, 
 
 upon well-known e^^ls ; but I bear about with me, 
 as it were, a reflecting glass, which I present to tlie 
 actors in the scenes before me, that, seeing in it what 
 is, they may haply discover what better might be. 
 I may sometimes listen, and sometimes dream, and 
 sometimes be forced to perform the task without the 
 benefit of either ; but, however it be, I hope my 
 young friends will accept my monthly conununica- 
 tion, without being too curious as to how I came by 
 my information, granting me always the privilege of 
 hearing and overhearing whatever I think proper.
 
 COXTEXTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 No. P^CK 
 
 I, MUSIC 1 
 
 n. TIME 8 
 
 m. CONVERSATIOX 17 
 
 IV. POLL PEG 28 
 
 V. TRUTH 39 
 
 VI. CHRISTMAS TIME 48 
 
 VII. FEARS 60 
 
 VIII. THE SABBATH 71 
 
 IX. FRIENDSHIP 81 
 
 X. A FABLE 93 
 
 XI. EMULATION 105 
 
 XII. EVIL SPEAKING 116 
 
 XIII. PEGGY LUM 131 
 
 XIV. SOCIAL KINDNESS 164 
 
 XV. POLITENESS 177
 
 Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 No. Page 
 XVr. THE T"WO INVITATIONS 191 
 
 XVII. LENT 235 
 
 XVni. THE CHILDREN OF ABRAHAil 233 
 
 XIX. INCONSISTENCIES 268 
 
 XX. MORE INCONSISTENCIES 293 
 
 XXI. CONSISTENCY 306 
 
 XXIL A FABLE 317 
 
 XXIU. EGOTISM 331
 
 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. I. 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Music oft has such a charm, 
 
 To make bad good, and good provoke to harm. 
 
 It was one of those still Autumn nights, when the 
 silence of nature bears rather the character of death 
 than of repose — wlien, the ear listening in vain for 
 so much as the falling of a withered leaf, a moment- 
 ary sensation steals upon the mind that we only are 
 remaining in existence, whUe all is extinct besides. 
 There was not so much as a ripple to break the 
 moonbeam that was sleeping on the water, a still, 
 pale streak of unvarying brightness. A few dark 
 saUs hung motionless upon the surface, soliciting the 
 breeze in vain ; but most, in despair of further pro- 
 gress, had dropped the anchor and betaken tliemselvos 
 to the hold, whence a gleam of light now and then 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 THE LISTENER. 
 
 glanced upon the water to give the only token of 
 existence. The moon hung in solitary splendour 
 midway in the heavens, and the outline of eveiy object 
 was as distinctly traced as in the full light of day ; 
 seeming to gain magnitude and sublimity by the loss 
 of colouring. The cliff appeared to have grown to 
 immeasurable height, the woods to impenetrable 
 thickness. There was not in all the heavens a cloud, 
 nor on all the earth a vapour. Thoughts of lightness 
 and folly can find no welcome in the mind at such 
 an hour as this. That Being with whom we seem 
 to be left alone in the universe, becomes more sensi- 
 bly the guardian of our path, ^^lien removed from 
 all other observation, we grow more conscious of 
 His presence ; and the sensation is powerful, though 
 mistaken, that persuades us He can more distinctly 
 mark our feelings in the solitude of night than amid 
 the noise and bustle of the day. 
 
 It was so I felt and so I thought, as I walked be- 
 tween the huge dark cliff, and the far-receded waters, 
 listening in vain for any sound that might break on 
 the imperturbable stillness of the evening. I was 
 now drawing near to the habitations of men, that, 
 stretching from the town, spread themselves at un- 
 equal distances along the cliff; rare, at first, but 
 increasing in thickness as they di'ew nearer to the 
 centre from which they emanated. Here too all was 
 silent. Small store of fire and candles had bidden 
 the peasant early to his rest — the cottage door was 
 closed — the, honest were wrapt in wholesome slum-
 
 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ber, and the nightly depredator had not yet come 
 forth on his errand of mischief. I paused a moment 
 to consider the mercy of Him wlio watches over the 
 unguarded pillow of the one, and forbears the punish- 
 ment due to the deeds of the other, when a sound, 
 as of distant music, came upon my ear. Walking a 
 little forward, I perceived that it proceeded from a 
 house, yet at some distance, that stood between me 
 and the town. The notes, as far as I could distin- 
 guish them, were soft and plaintive; and in the 
 silence of such a night, there seemed to me some- 
 thing in them almost celestial. My feelings at that 
 moment told me music was the gift of Heaven, and 
 therefore must have been given for our good ; and 
 rapidly my mind ran over the various uses that have 
 been made of it. 
 
 In every age and every country, music has been 
 made the emblem of whatever is most lovely and 
 enchanting ; and whether the tales that are told us 
 of its influence be truth or fiction, they equally prove 
 the general perception of its power over the feelings 
 and afl^ections of humanity. From the coarse whistle 
 of the ploughboy riding homeward on the fore-horse 
 of his team, to the loud peal of the organ amid the 
 chorus of some hundred voices, music seems to be 
 the most natural language of the happy, the spon- 
 taneous solace of the sad. With every idea of things 
 beautifiU, pure, and delightful, music has been asso- 
 ciated ; but we never mix it with the imafves of 
 things base, vicious, and disgraceful. No heathen
 
 ^ THE LISTEXER. 
 
 savage ever pictured to himself a future heaven, but 
 he placed music among the first of his delights ; and 
 in those bright prospects of eternal bliss, so often 
 opened to us in the Holy Scriptures, music is always 
 made a part, real or emblematical, of our promised 
 enjoyment. 
 
 A power so universal in its influence on our feel- 
 ings, so naturally combined with whatever is good 
 and fair, and honoured Avith so much notice in the 
 commands and promises of God, must surely be a 
 gift from heaven, for the use of which we are re- 
 sponsible. Given, as we must suppose it, to our first 
 parents in Paradise, it was there the language of 
 gratitude and joy. The first use of music upon earth, 
 perhaps, was to sound forth the praises of the 
 Creator ; and certainly it is the only one of our 
 talents, of the continuance and purpose of which here- 
 after any mention has been made. Surelv, then, it 
 is a gift too sacred to be used as an instrument of 
 folly and impiety. It is not my purpose here to 
 disclose the worst uses to which it has been per- 
 verted — may my readers long and ever continue 
 strangers to them ! 
 
 Mv loitering steps now brought me near to the 
 window whence the delightful sounds had issued. I 
 heard them still, and could distinguish voices mingled 
 in natural and simple harmony. Imagination supply- 
 ing what I did not hear, I fancied it the language 
 of piety going forth from glad and grateful hearts, 
 and stealing through the sUence of the night to find
 
 THE LISTENER. 5 
 
 gracious acceptance at the throne of mercy ; and 
 now my propensity to know more than was intend- 
 ed for my observation became strong within me — 
 ascending a mound directly opposite to the inviting 
 window, I set myself to see what might be passing 
 within. 
 
 The room was dressed with flowers, and gaily 
 lighted, shining with many a fair and hapjjy counte- 
 nance. Tliere was not a brow amongst them that 
 seemed to bear the weight of twenty years, and some 
 not half that number. The little group were variously 
 occupied. Some were examining the wild-flowers, 
 or turning over the shells and pebbles that had been 
 gathered in their morning walk — others were spread- 
 ing forth prints and di-awings for the amusement of 
 their friends. Of the younger, some were deeply 
 intent on the intricate puzzle ; of the elder, one was 
 placed at the piano, while another tuned the harp, 
 and the leaves of the music-book were rapidly turned 
 over in search of the selected song. 
 
 My active fancy now found ample business. There 
 was so much innocence in the employments, and so 
 much pleasure in the countenances, of the young 
 assembly, that all seemed in unison with my previous 
 feelings. I imagined it some happy birthday night, 
 which the inmates of the mansion had assembled 
 their friends to celebrate. I looked on each counte- 
 nance separately, and saw not on one a frown of 
 ill-humour or a shade of sorrow. Here then at least, 
 I Avhispered to myself, is the use of umsic not per-
 
 b THE LISTEN'ER. 
 
 verted. Some child beloved has completed another 
 of her early years, and the hearts of those who love 
 her are glad and grateful. Strains of moral feeling, 
 perhaps of cheerful piety, are going forth from hearts 
 as yet untainted with the follies and the fasliions of 
 the world ; from hps that no unholy jest, no thought- 
 less impiety, as yet has stained. The music began ; 
 the air was plaintive. K it had not the sublimity of 
 oiu" best sacred music, it was feeling, chaste, and 
 beautiful. I descended qiuckly from the mound, 
 and placed myself near enough to the window indis- 
 tinctlv to catch the words. But mv dreams of 
 grateful devotion and moral purity, how were they 
 dissipated, when the first words I distinguished were 
 an impassioned address to a heathen god, beginning 
 *• Dieu d' Amour," and going on Avith a great deal 
 about " les Astres," " les Parques," and other 
 objects of a pagan's worship : My pleasiu-e was 
 past ; but curiosity retained me on the spot, and 
 I waited patiently another and another song. The 
 second was Italian, the sweetest language of music, 
 and the most penerted. The best I coidd hope here, 
 was, that performers and audience were aUke ignorant 
 of the nonsense, not to say indelicacy, of the words 
 thev were sinking. At last I distino;iushed the 
 accents of our native tongue, and something of a 
 better hope reAived^for now the young performers 
 at least must know the meaning of their words. I 
 heard the name of God — the Christian's God : and 
 listened Avith redoubled earnestness : though, in truth,
 
 TUE LISTENER. 7 
 
 tlierc seemed somctliing of proftmation in the mix- 
 ture ; but, alas ! it was more in accordance than I 
 thought. That sacred name was used but as an 
 expression of earnestness on subjects wnth which the 
 thought of Him could not possibly combine. How 
 I wished I were at that moment on the mound, to 
 see if a blush did not suffuse the clieeks of the singer, 
 as she uttered a name she could not be accustomed 
 to profane : Or can it be, that the lips of iiniocence 
 may sing without thought, or feeling, words they 
 dare not speak — sentiments they would blush to feel 
 — ^breathe out a mockery of prayer under cover of a 
 foreign language, and make sport of names, at the 
 mention of which, angels in heaven bow their heads 
 with reverence ? The best that can be said is, that 
 they think no wrong ; and, in the enjoyment of the 
 music, give no heed to the meaning of the words ; 
 but that is not the less a danger to which we are 
 insensible ; and custom has gone far indeed to do its 
 work of mischief, if words of folly and impiety can 
 pass our lips without exciting our attention. Again 
 my mind recurred to what music might be — to what 
 it ought to be. Its powerful influence on our hearts 
 — its fitness to excite and to express the best and finest 
 feelings of our nature — above all, its peculiar suit- 
 ability to speak the feelings of a grateful heart, at 
 peace with God and with itself, I listened no more 
 that night.
 
 8 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. n. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 I saw the leaves gliding down a brook — 
 Swift the brook ran, and bright the sun burn'd — 
 The sere and the verdant, the same course they took; 
 And sped gaily and fast, but they never return'd. 
 And I thought how the years of a man pass away. 
 Threescore and ten — and then where are they ? 
 
 H. Neele. 
 
 " Threescore years and -ten," thought I to mj'- 
 self, as I walked, one rainy morning, as a sailor 
 walks the quarterdeck, up and down a short alcove, 
 extending before the windows of a modern house. 
 It was one of those days in June in which our sum- 
 mer hopes take umhrage at what we call unseasonable 
 weather, though no season was ever known to pass 
 without them. Unlike the rapid and delightfid 
 showers of warmer days, suddenly succeeding to the 
 sunshine, when the parched vegetables and arid earth 
 seize with a\-idity and imbibe the moisture ere it 
 becomes unpleasant to our feelings, there had fallen 
 a drizzling rain throughout the night ; the saturated 
 sod returned to the atmosphere the humidity it could
 
 THE LISTENER. 9 
 
 no longer absorb, and there it hung in chUling 
 thickness between rain and fog. The birds did not 
 sing, for their Uttle wings were heavy, and their 
 phimage roughed. Tlie flowers did not open, for the 
 cold drop was on their cheek, and no sunbeam was 
 there to welcome them. Nature itself wore the garb 
 of sadness ; and man's too dependent spirits were 
 ready to assume it : those at least that were not so 
 happy as to find means of forgetting it. Such was 
 the case with my unfortunate self. I had descended 
 to the breakfast -room at the usual hour, but no one 
 appeared — I looked for a book, but found none ex- 
 cept Moore's Almanack and Paterson's Road-book. 
 The books were kept m the library, beyond aU 
 dispute their proper place, had I not been in a 
 humoiu- to think otherwise. The house was too hot, 
 and the external air was too cold ; and I was fain to 
 betake myself to that last resource of the absolutely 
 idle, a mechanical movement of the body up and 
 down a given space. And from the alcove where I 
 walked I heard the ticking of the timepiece — and as 
 I passed the window I saw the hands advance — every 
 time I had returned they had gone a little further. 
 " Threescore years and ten," said I to myself, " and 
 a third or a fourth of it is nature's claim for indis- 
 pensable repose — and many a day consumed on the 
 bed of sickness — and many a year by the infinnities 
 of age — and some part of aU necessarily sacrificed 
 to the recruiting of the health by exercise. And 
 what do we with the rest ? " Xotliing answered me
 
 10 THE LISTENER. 
 
 but the ticking of the clock, of which the hands were 
 traversing between nine and ten. They had nearly 
 met at the latter hour, when the party began to 
 assemble within : and each one commenced, for aught 
 I could discover, the functions of the day — for neither 
 their appearance nor their remarks gave any intima- 
 tion that they had been previously employed. One, 
 indeed, declared the weather made her so idle she 
 had scarcely found strength to dress herself — another 
 confessed he had passed an additional hour in bed, 
 because the day promised him so little to do up. 
 One by one, as they dropped in, the seats at the 
 breakfast-table filled; and as a single newspaper 
 was all the apparent means of mental occupation, I 
 anticipated some interesting conversation. I waited 
 and I watched. One ran the point of his fork into 
 the table-cloth — another balanced her spoon on the 
 tea-cup — a third told backwards and forwards the 
 rings on her fingers, as duly as a friar tells his beads. 
 As such actions are the symptoms sometimes of 
 mental occupation, I began to anticipate the brilliant 
 results of so much thinking. I cried Hem ! in hopes 
 to rouse them to expression, and not quite unsuccess- 
 fully : for one remarked it was a wretched day, 
 another wished it was fine, and a third hoped it 
 shortly would be so. Mean time the index of the 
 clock wont round — it was gaining close upon eleven 
 before all had Avithdrawn from the table. My eye 
 followed one to the window-place, where, with her 
 back to the wall, and her eyes fixed without, she
 
 TlIE LISTENER. 11 
 
 passed a full half-hour in gazing at the prospect, 
 or wishing, perhaps, the mist did not prevent her 
 seeing it. A very young lady was so busy in pulling 
 the dead leaves from a geranium, and crumbling 
 them in her fingers, I could not doubt but some im- 
 portant purpose was in the task. A third resumed 
 the newspaper he had read for a wdiole hour before, 
 and betook himself at last to the advertisements. A 
 fourth repaired to the alcove — gathered some flowers, 
 ])icked them to pieces, threw them away again, and 
 returned. " Cease thy prating, thou never-resting 
 timepiece," said I to myself, " for no one heeds thy 
 tale. What is it to us that each one of thy tickings 
 cuts a link from our brief chain of life ? — Time is the 
 gift of Heaven, but man has no use for it." 
 
 I had scarcely thought out the melancholy thought, 
 when a young lady entered with an elegant work-T)ox, 
 red without and blue within, and filled with manilbld 
 conveniences for the pursuance of her art. Glad was 
 I most truly at the sight. By the use of the needle 
 the naked may be clothed — ingenuity may economise 
 her means, and have more to spare for those that 
 need it — invention xnay multiply the ways of honest 
 subsistence, and direct the ignorant to the use of 
 them ; most glad was I, therefore, that the signal of 
 industry drew more than one wanderer to the same 
 pursuit — though not till much time had been con- 
 sumed in going in and out, and up and down, in 
 search of the materials. All was found at last — the 
 party worked ; and I, as usual, listened. " I think
 
 12 
 
 THE listent:r. 
 
 this trimming," said one, " will repa}- me for my 
 trouble, though it has cost me three months' ■work 
 already, and it will be three months more before it 
 is finished." — " Indeed," rejoined her friend, " I wish 
 I were half as industrious : but I have been working 
 six weeks at this handkerchief, and have not found 
 time to finish it : now the fashion is past, and I 
 shall not go on." — '■ How beautifullv vou are wea\-ino' 
 that necklace I — is it not ven>' tedious ? " — " Yes, 
 almost endless ; but I delight in the work, otherwise 
 I should not do it — for the beads cost almost as 
 much as I could buy it for." — " I should like to begin 
 one tlus morning," interposed a fourth, " but the 
 milliner has sent home my bonnet so ill trimmed, it 
 will take me all the day to alter it. The bow is on 
 the wrong side, and the trimming at the edge is too 
 broad. It is verj- tiresome to spend all one's life in 
 altering things we pay so much for." — '• I wish," 
 said a little girl at the end of the table, " that I 
 might work some trimmings for my frock, but I am 
 obliged to do this plain work first. The poor lame 
 girl in the tillage, who is almost starving, would do 
 it for me for a shilling, but I must save my allowance 
 this week to buy a French trinket I have taken a 
 fancy to." 
 
 • " Poor thing ! she is much to be pitied," said the 
 lady of the trimming ; " if I had time, I wotdd make 
 her some clothes." 
 
 And so they worked, and so they talked, till I and 
 the timepiece had counted many an hour wliich they
 
 THE LISTENER, 13 
 
 took no account of — when one of tliem yawned and 
 said, " How tedious are these wet days ! — it is really 
 impossible to spin out one's time without a walk." 
 
 " I am surprised you find it so," rejoined the lady 
 of the beads ; " I can rarely make time for walking 
 — though keeping the house makes me miserably 
 languid." And so the morning passed. It was four 
 o'clock, and the company dispersed to their apart- 
 ments. I pretend not to know what they did there ; 
 but each one returned between five and six in an 
 altered dress. And then half an hour elapsed, in 
 which, as I understood from their impatience, they 
 were waiting for dinner, each in turn complaining of 
 the waste of time occasioned by its delay ; and the 
 little use it would be to go about any thing when it 
 was so near. And as soon as dinner was over, they 
 began to wait for tea, with exactly the same com- 
 plainings. And the tea came — and, cheered by the 
 vivifjang draught, one did repair to the instrmnent, 
 and began a tune, — one did take up a pencil, and 
 prepare to draw, — and one almost opened a book. 
 But, alas ! the shades of night were growing fast — 
 ten minutes had scarcely elapsed before each one 
 resigned her occupation with a murmur at the dark- 
 ness of the weather ; and tliough some person sug- 
 gested that there were such things as lamps and 
 candles, it was agreed to be a pity to have lights so 
 early in the midst of summer, and so another half 
 hour elapsed. 
 
 The lights, when they came, would have failed to
 
 14 THE LISTENER. 
 
 relumine an expectation in my bosom, had not their 
 beams disclosed the forms of various books which 
 one and another liad brought in for the evening's 
 amusement. Again I watched, and again I listened. 
 " I wish I had something to do, mamma," said the 
 little girl. " Why do you not take a book and 
 read?" rejoined her mother, " My books are all up- 
 stairs," she replied ; " and so near bed-time, it is not 
 worth while to fetch them." — " This is the best novel 
 I ever read," said a lady, something older, turning 
 the leaves mean time so very fast, that those who are 
 not used to this method of reading, might suppose 
 she found nothing in it worthy of attention. " I 
 dare say it is," said another, whose eyes had been 
 fixed for half an hour on the same page of Words- 
 worth's poems — " but I have no time to read novels." 
 — " I wish I had time to read any tiling," said a 
 third, whom I had observed already to have been 
 perusing attentively the title-page of every book on 
 the table, publisher's name, date, and all ; whilst a 
 fourth was too intensely engaged in studying the blue 
 cover of a magazine to make any remark whatever. 
 
 And now I was much amused to perceive with 
 what frequency eyes were turned upon the dial-plate, 
 through all the day so little regarded. Watches 
 were dra\vn out, compared, and pronounced too slow. 
 With some difficulty one was found that had outrun 
 his fellows, and, determined to be right, gave per- 
 mission to the company to disperse, little more than 
 twelve hours from the time of their assembling, to
 
 THE LISTENER. 15 
 
 recover, as I supposed, during the other twelve, 
 dressing and undressing included, the effect of their 
 mental and bodily exertions. " So," I exclaimed, as 
 soon as I found myself alone, "twelve times round 
 yonder dial-plate those little hands have stolen, and 
 twelve times more they may now go round unheeded. 
 They who are gone to rest have a day the less to live, 
 and record has been made in Heaven of that day's 
 use. Will He who gave, ask no reckoning for His 
 gifts ? The time, the thoughts, the talents — the 
 improvement we might have made, and made not — ■ 
 the good we might have done, and did not — the 
 health, and strength, and intellect, that may not be 
 ours to-morrow, and have not been used to-day — will 
 not conscience wdiisper of it ere they sleep to-night ? 
 The days of man were shortened upon earth by rea- 
 son of the wickedness the Creator saw. Threescore 
 years and ten are now his portion, and often not half 
 the number. They pause not ; they loiter not — the 
 hours strike on — and they may even go — for it seems 
 they are all too much. The young, with minds as 
 yet unstored, full of error, full of ignorance in aU 
 that it behoves them most to know, unfit alike as yet 
 for earth or heaven — the old, whose sum of life is 
 almost told, and but a brief space remaining to repair 
 their mistakes, and redeem the time they have lost — 
 the simple and ungifted, who, haATng from nature 
 but little, need the more assiduity to fulfil their 
 measures of usefulness, and make that little do the 
 most it may — the clever and highly talented, who
 
 16 THE LISTENER. 
 
 have an almost appalling account to render for the 
 much received — ^they all have time to waste. But 
 let them remember, time is not their own — not a 
 moment of it but is the grant of Heaven — and 
 Heaven gives nothing without a purpose and an end. 
 Every hour that is wasted, fails of that purpose ; 
 and in so far as it is wasted or ill spent, the gift of 
 Heaven is misused, and the misuse is to be answered 
 for. Methinks I would be allowed to whisper nightly 
 in the ears of my young friends, as they lie down to 
 rest, " How many minutes have you lost to-day, that 
 might have been employed in your own improvement, 
 in your Maker's service, or for your fellow-creatures' 
 good?"
 
 THE LISTENER. 17 
 
 No. III. 
 CONVEESATION. 
 
 Conversation is the daughter of reasoning, the mother of knowledge, 
 the breath of the soul, the commerce of hearts, the bond of friend- 
 ship, the nourishment of contentment, and the occupation of men 
 of wit. 
 
 " Hold your tongue, INIiss Julia ; little girls should 
 be seen and not heard," said Mrs B.'s nursery gover- 
 ness to a little sprite of seven years old, who was 
 essaying to take a turn in the chatter of the breakfitst- 
 table. For I would not have my readers suppose 
 that a nursery breakfast passes \\dthout chatter. I 
 who traverse houses from corner to corner, and listen 
 from behind the doors, know better. From the 
 nursery to the kitchen, from the school-room to the 
 parlour, all is chatter, and one might conclude the 
 power of talking increases in inverse ratio with the 
 information possessed. But be it not thence con- 
 cluded that I am no friend to talking. Wo listeners 
 are considerably interested in the furtherance of the 
 custom : and it may even appear, ere the end of my 
 tale, that I have a very different object in view than 
 that of putting my young friends to silence. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 THE LISTENER. 
 
 It is objected by some, that young people talk too 
 much, and by others, that they talk too little ; and 
 each remark is just — for they do both. But here, be 
 it observed, I speak only of persons under twenty ; far 
 be it from me to suppose that any lady above that age 
 can be charged with the habit I presume to censure. 
 
 When young people are alone, freed from the con- 
 straints of society and the presence of those who are 
 older and wiser than themselves, their ceaseless 
 volubility, the idleness, uselessness, and folly of their 
 conversation is all too much ; not a pause to reflect 
 upon their words — not a moment to weigh the senti- 
 ments they hear — not a care for the time they waste, 
 or for the habits of trifling and exaggeration they 
 acquire. But in society they talk too little. An 
 luireasonable fear of exposing their sentiments loses 
 to them the best means of ascertaining if they are 
 right. A want of that simplicity of mind, wliich, 
 conscious of no design, does not look to be charged 
 with a wrong one, makes them fear to be thought 
 ostentatious — while the real diflSculty of expressing 
 themselves, from want of being accustomed to it — a 
 difficulty their indolence would rather keep than 
 make an effort to subdue — prevents their joining in 
 conversation on subjects on which they are fully able 
 to speak, and would gain information by doing so : 
 Modesty forbids them to suppose they can contribute 
 to the pleasure of the conversation, and pride is not 
 well pleased to take the benefit and contribute 
 nothing.
 
 TIIE LISTEXER. ]9 
 
 I have wondered often liow all this befalls — but 
 now methinks I have stolen a key that may unlock 
 the mystery. Little Julia was to be seen and not 
 heard — that is to say, she was to ask no questions 
 when her infant mind was struggling to enlarge itself 
 by increase of knowledge — she was to express no 
 feeUng that moved her little bosom, or thought that 
 awakened in her dormant intellect. But Julia was 
 to listen, I suppose ; and much may be learned by 
 silent attention. She listened — and so did I — and 
 we learned a great deal — for we heard all that the 
 footman had told the cook, and the cook had told the 
 nursery-maid — and we gained an insight into our 
 neighbours' affairs, and heard many wonders, the 
 incredibility of which never failed to secure behef ; 
 whereas what was simply true and certain was warmly 
 contested. Added to all this, were the schemes of 
 deception and petty artifices that I do not judge it 
 honourable to disclose. 
 
 This, then, I thought within myself, is little Julia's 
 first lesson in the art of talking ; a lesson she will 
 probably repeat after her own manner, the first time 
 she escapes with her younger sisters to a private 
 corner ; and not being allowed to incjuire, her mind 
 must work, for work it will, upon the hopeful ma- 
 terials it has gathered ; and I heard her in truth, not 
 long after, exaggerating, and mimicking, and wonder- 
 ing, and disputing, as fast as her happy little tongue 
 could move, to evince its delight at the resumption 
 of its powers.
 
 20 THE LISTE^'ER. 
 
 The powers of speech are among the most im- 
 portant committed to our charge ; and as capaVjle as 
 any other of a right or a -vn-ong cultivation; there 
 is tliis only difference: that while other powers lie 
 dormant from neglect, these will be in action whether 
 cultivated or not, and if we do not direct them to 
 the right, will most certainly expend themselves on 
 the wrong. If a young person is not allowed, or not 
 encouraged to speak with her parents and equals, she 
 will i-equite herself by talking to her waiting-maid : 
 and if she be not accustomed in society to converse 
 rationally and sensibly, she will most surely spend 
 the powers given her for better purposes, in idle 
 gossip or mischievous slander. 
 
 From the lessons in the nursery, Julia passes to 
 the school-room. She there learns much, and per- 
 haps thinks much, but has little opportunity to 
 conmiunicate. K the discipline be strict, she is 
 desired to hold her tongue, and mind her lessons : if 
 it be indulgent, she may talk, indeed, as fast as it 
 pleases her — she may repeat, with the more exagge- 
 ration the better, all the tittle-tattle she has heard 
 elsewhere — what this person says, and that person 
 does, and the other person wears — but no one takes 
 any care to lead her to subjects useful and improv'ing, 
 to correct her misconceptions, and false ideas, and 
 rash assertions. And here I entreat my readers to 
 attend — for if the fault has been hitherto charged 
 to the nvu'se and to the governess, it now becomes 
 their own.
 
 THE LISTENER. 21 
 
 And SO it was, that some years after my first 
 acquaintance Avith Julia in the nursery — It was a 
 cheerless night — the heavens were hung with the 
 thick pillowy clouds that betoken coming snow — 
 scarcely might here and there a pallid star peep 
 forth, perceived but a moment ere it was gone, and 
 returned no more, I watched them long, and they 
 became fewer and fewer — and one by one I saw the 
 clouds close over them, as time closes OAer the joys 
 that are past. And now the vapours united into 
 one unshadowed and unbroken mass of blackness. 
 The winds just whispered through the leafless trees, 
 a low and melancholy sound, and I began to feel the 
 cold droppings of the fleecy shower. More silent 
 than the thief upon his midnight errand, unheard 
 and unsuspected from within, the snow stole down 
 upon the iron earth, to prepare for the returning sun 
 far other landscape than that he shone upon before 
 he set. I was some distance yet from home, and 
 liking to observe nature in all her varied aspects, I 
 sought shelter in the porch of a handsome dwelling- 
 house that fronted the path I was treading. There, 
 through an opening in the crimson curtains of an 
 adjoining window, I looked upon a scene strikingly 
 contrasted with that which was without. A blazing 
 fire, recently fed with tlie dry log, crackled and 
 sparkled on the hearth. The reeking urn, with the 
 tall candles by its side, was hissing on the table. 
 The downy rug and manj'-coloured carpet, with the 
 deep crimson of the curtain, gave a glow, a tone of
 
 22 THE LISTENER. 
 
 warmth to the picture, strikingly opposed to the 
 growing whiteness of the scene without. A number 
 of young persons were in the room ; the pLiinness of 
 their dress, then- easy familiarity and small numbers, 
 did not indicate a party, and yet there were more 
 than might belong to a single family. This was not 
 hard to understand. And how powerfully came to 
 my mind, at the moment, the boundless nuuiificence 
 of that Being, who has pro^dded enjojniients for every 
 season, comforts for nature's most sad and cheerless 
 hours : What was to them the chilling shower that 
 fell without, or the frost that bound the palsied earth 
 in iron hardness ? In the enjoyment of present 
 pleasures, other, but not less, they sighed not at 
 recollection of the tints of autumn or the summer's 
 sun. And then came into my gladdened mind all 
 the delights of social intercourse — of sentiments 
 sweetly responding to each other — of feelings ten- 
 derly participated — of argument without dispute — 
 reproof without unkindness. And I thought, if I 
 might not share it, I might now at least contemplater 
 it : and so I tried to list what passed within. To 
 ordinary persons this might have been difhcult. But 
 what can professed listeners not hear ? 
 
 The youthful party, for such it Avas, had recently 
 met, as it seemed to me, to pass a social ev^ening, all 
 on familiar terms and intimately acquainted ; there- 
 fore there was neither reserve nor form to check 
 their communications. The tea was making, and 
 as they sipped the fragrant draught, the talk went
 
 THE LISTENER. 23 
 
 blitliely round. It began as usual with the weatlior. 
 I do not exactly object to this ; because something 
 must be said first ; and as the beginning address is 
 a great difficulty to the reserved and modest, it is 
 very well to have an established form of commence- 
 ment, fitted for all circumstances. But I did think 
 half an hour something too long for this prelude. 
 And I did think besides, that when one called it 
 miserable weather, and another said it was a wretched 
 day, and a third declared it put her quite out of 
 temper, and a fourth -wished she could sleep till it 
 was finer, the speakers either did not well regard 
 the meaning of their words, or had formed an extra- 
 ordinary estimate of misery and wretchedness, as 
 well as of the value of time, and the preservatives of 
 good-humour. And I began to be something mi- 
 patient, when one remarked at some length on tlie 
 wonderful shortening of the days, which, as it usually 
 occiu-s in November, I thought scarcely might need 
 a remark, much less an expression of surprise or 
 complaint. The subject next in succession was that 
 of dress. Here, too, the gentle critic must concede 
 something to what makes a necessary part of a 
 woman's business ; and so I was very patient for a 
 while. But, indeed, this subject so far outlived its 
 predecessor, the remarks were so useless, the eager- 
 ness so disproportioned to the occasion; the impor- 
 tance attached to it so much too great, and the ex- 
 penditure of thought on it so very obvious, I began 
 to be well-nigh weary of my listening, when it
 
 24 THE LISTENER. 
 
 diverged a little from dress in the abstract, to dress 
 in the application, and all the dresses of all the 
 ladies in the parish, red, blue, and black, Sunday 
 and working-day, were numbered, described, and 
 discussed. 
 
 But wo to him whose discontent would have a 
 change at any rate, before he knows for what ! From 
 the dress we passed to the persons, and from the 
 persons to the affairs, of others. What was before 
 but useless, now became mischievous. Words were 
 repeated, tales were told, surmises were whispered, 
 peculiarities were mimicked, falsehoods were circu- 
 lated, and truths were ridiculed. The only hope 
 that promised some limit to the evil circulated was, 
 that as all talked at once, no one could receive 
 much impression from what another said. But I, 
 the silent Listener, did — for I observed that one in 
 particular was so addicted to exaggeration, that if 
 she told a truth, it became a falsehood on her lips — 
 another was so possessed with the image of self, that 
 even in talldng of others, she never failed to push 
 in the / and the me at every sentence, either by the 
 way of comparison, or simile, or illustration — and 
 another Avas so, if not envious, at least censorious, 
 that she rei)lied with a hut to every the least sug- 
 gestion of merit, or palliation of demerit, in another 
 — in a fourth, I remarked that her opinion changed 
 so rapidly, in one thing only was she decided, that 
 of differing from whoever happened to be heard last 
 — another was so absolutely certain of every thing.
 
 THE LISTENER. 25 
 
 one was almost constrained to believe her an eye- 
 witness of all that had passed in the three kingdoms 
 since she was born, and for twenty years before. 
 But no one more displeased me than a little lady, 
 who could assume every body's countenance, numic 
 every body's tone of voice, and caricature every 
 body's manners. 
 
 Full two good hours more had elapsed before the 
 conversation had progressed through all these shades 
 of subject, and there came a transition for which I 
 could not well account ; it having arisen m a corner 
 whence I could not distinctly hear amid the tumult. 
 But suddenly it seemed to me, from certain words I 
 caught, that my young party were speaking of reK- 
 gion. I was not long in doubt how the conversation 
 might have passed from things so frivolous to a theme 
 so important ; for I soon was doomed to know that 
 the frivolity of talk does not depend upon its sub- 
 ject. These young critics were talking, indeed, of 
 preachers, and of sermons, and of last Sunday's 
 congregation, and who was there, and who ought to 
 have been there and was not. And one minister 
 was compared with another, and one extolled, and 
 the other depreciated. And the last sermon at their 
 parish church, which seemed to be tolerably well 
 remembered, was closely criticised — one liked this 
 part, and one did not like that part, and some ridi- 
 culed and even mimicked the peculiarities in the 
 expression and manner of the preacher. And then 
 the mistakes and inconsistencies of all the rcUgious
 
 26 THE LISTENER. 
 
 people in their circle of acquaintance were hinted 
 and wondered at, and very conscientiously bewailed. 
 It was a point as difficult, indeed, as it seemed to be 
 important, to determine, amid conflicting opinions, 
 who amongst them were to be considered rehgious, 
 and who were not. And so they went on — But I 
 forbore to listen. The night's increasing chillness 
 warned me thence — and as I betook myself to my 
 solitary home, I tried in vain to recall, of what I 
 had heard, one single expression of feehng, one 
 thought that bespoke reflection, one breathing of 
 piety, cultivation, or good sense. Yet had I reason 
 to beheve the young persons possessed all these — 
 they had been carefully, politely, and reUgiously 
 educated — they knew much, and probably felt much 
 — ^YhJ then was it so ? From habit smiply — habit, 
 unresisted by others when they were younger, and 
 now unresisted by themselves, growing every year 
 more inveterate, shortly to become too difficult to 
 conquer. Dispersed in society where good sense, 
 piety, and intellect, give the tone to the discourse, 
 these young people would be found silent, reserved, 
 and embarrassed, wishing in vain tliey had words in 
 which to clothe their thoughts, or courage to express 
 their feelings, and ask elucidation of their doubts. 
 And tlieir minds must have more than the ordinary 
 power of resistance, if they come not eventually to 
 prefer the company of the trifling, the frivolous, and 
 the senseless. 
 
 JNIeun time the Oracle of Wisdom has declared,
 
 THE LISTENER. 27 
 
 " The thought of foolishness is sin." What sin, 
 then, in its halntual and confirmed expression, be- 
 come by habit the language of our lives! What sin 
 in the perversion of that power whose use is unlimited 
 in good — in tolling forth the praises of God — in 
 speaking comfort to the suffering — in giving infor- 
 mation to those that know not — in adding the highest 
 zest to intellectual pleasures — the most exquisite 
 enjoyment to social intercourse ! Rational con- 
 versation is the means above all others calculated 
 to correct our mental errors, to shame our selfish 
 passions, to correct the false estimate we form of 
 ourselves, and induce a liberal and benevolent con- 
 sideration of the feelings of others. It is the genial 
 fire applied from time to time, to save the heart from 
 the icy coldness that steals upon it 'mid the selfish 
 occupations of the world. It is the overflow of 
 feelings too big for the bosom to hold and be at 
 peace. It is the gentle consolation that neither age, 
 nor sorrow, nor infirmity, forbids to us — the draught 
 oblivious, in which suffering, the most poignant, can 
 for a while forget itself — the offspring of confidence 
 and love, better thriAing on the hearth of domestic 
 privacy, than in the sullen splendours of dissipation. 
 And is it even so, that of a gift like this, we make 
 an instrument of folly — to dissipate every serious 
 thought^ — to put to the blush every right feeling — to 
 disseminate falsehood and mischief — wound others, 
 and corrupt ourselves ?
 
 28 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. IV. 
 POLL PEG. 
 
 She for her humble sphere by nature fit, 
 Has little understanding and no wit, 
 Receives no praise ; but though her lot be such, 
 Toilsome and indigent, she renders much — 
 Just Imows, and knows no more, her Bible true. 
 
 COWPER. 
 
 All who enter on the world are in pursuit of hap- 
 piness ; each one questions of another where it is, 
 or fancies he perceives it from afar ; but very few 
 confess that they have found it. The young, start- 
 ing into life with sanguine hopes and spirits gay, 
 expect it every where : the more experienced, hav- 
 ing sought it long and found it not, decide that it 
 is nowhere. The moralist tells us there is no such 
 thing. The historian almost proves it by the miseries 
 he details. Poverty says, It is not with me — and 
 Wealth says, Not with me. Splendour dashes by 
 the cottage door, heaves the rich jewel on her bosom 
 with a sigh, and says the dwellers there are happier 
 than she is. Penury looks out upon her as she
 
 THE LISTENER. 29 
 
 passes, loathes lier own portion, and silently envies 
 what she must not share. Ignorance, with dazzled 
 and misjudging eye, admires the learned, and es- 
 teems them happy. Learning decides that " igno- 
 rance is bliss," and bewails the enlargement of 
 capacity it cannot find enough to fill. Wherever 
 we ask, the answer is still, " Seek further." Is it 
 so, then, that there is no happiness on earth ? Or 
 if it does exist, is it a thing of circumstance, confined 
 to certain states, dependent on rank and station — 
 here to-day and gone to-morrow, in miserable de- 
 pendence on the casualties of life ? We are often 
 asked the question by those by whom the world is 
 yet untried, who, even in the spring-time of their 
 mirth, are used to hear the complaints of all around 
 them, and well may wonder what they mean. We 
 afteet not to answer questions which never were 
 answered yet — but we can tell a story of something 
 that our ear has heard and our eye has seen, and 
 that many besides can testify to be the truth. And 
 well may we, who so often listen to what we like 
 not, be allowed for once to tell a pleasant tale. 
 
 Distant something more than a mile from the 
 village of Desford, in Leicestershire, at the lower 
 extremity of a steep and rugged lane, was seen an 
 obscure and melancholy hovel. The door stood not 
 wide to in\ite observation ; the cheerful fire gleamed 
 not through the casement to excite attention from 
 the passenger. The low roof and outer wall were 
 but just perceived among the branches of the hedge-
 
 30 
 
 THE LISTENER. 
 
 row — uncultured and untrimmed — that ran between 
 it and the road. As if there were nothing there that 
 any one might seek, no way of access presented 
 itself, and the step of curiosity that would persist in 
 finding entrance, must pass over mud and brier to 
 obtain it. Hav-ing reached the door with difficulty, 
 a sight presented itself such as the eye of delicacy 
 is not used to look upon. It was not the gay con- 
 tentedness of peasant life that poets tell of, and 
 prosperity sometimes stoops to envj. It was not the 
 labourer resting from his toil, the ruddy child ex- 
 ulting in its hard, scant meal, the housewife singing 
 blithely at her wheel, the repose of health and fear- 
 lessness — pictures that so often persuade us happi- 
 ness has her dwelling in the cabins of the poor. 
 The room was dark and dirty — there was nothing 
 on the walls but the bare beams, too ill joined to 
 exclude the weather, with crevdces in vain attempted 
 to be stopped by rent and moulded paper. A few 
 broken utensUs hung about the room — a table and 
 some broken chairs were all the furniture, except 
 what seemed intended for a bed, yet promised little 
 repose. The close and smoky atmosphere of the 
 apartment gave to it the last colouring of discom- 
 fort and disease. Within there sat a figure such as 
 the pencil well might choose for the portrait of 
 wretchedness. Quite grey, and very old, and scarcely 
 clothed, a woman was seen sitting by the fire-place, 
 seemingly unconscious of all that passed around her. 
 Her features were remarkably large, and in expres-
 
 TIIE LISTEJTER. 31 
 
 sion harsh — her white hair, turned back from the 
 forehead, liung uncombed upon her shoulders — ^her 
 withered arm, stretched without motion on her knee, 
 in form and colouring seemed nothing that had lived 
 — her eye was fixed on the wall before her — an 
 expression of suffering, and a faint movement of the 
 lip, alone giving token of existence. 
 
 Placed with her back towards the door, she per- 
 ceived not the intrusion, and while I paused to listen 
 and to gaze, I might have determined that here at 
 least was a spot where happiness could not dwell — 
 one being, at least, to whom enjoyment upon earth 
 must be forbidden by external circumstance — with 
 whom to live was of necessity to be wretched. 
 Well might the Listener in such a scene as this 
 be startled by expressions of delight, strangely con- 
 trasted Avith the murmurs we are used to hear amid 
 the world's abundance. But it was even so. From 
 the pale shrivelled lijjs of this poor woman we heard 
 a whispering expression of enjoyment, scarcely arti- 
 culate, yet not so low but that we could distinguish 
 the words, " Delightful," " Happy." 
 
 As we advanced with the hesitation of disgust 
 into the unsightly hovel, the old woman looked at 
 us with kindness, but without emotion, bade us be 
 seated, and, till questioned, showed very little incli- 
 nation to speak. Being asked how she did, she at 
 first replied, " Yery ill," then hastily added, " My 
 carcass is ill — but I am well, very well." And then 
 she laid her head upon a cold, black stone, project-
 
 32 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ing from the wall beside the fire-place, as if unable 
 to support it longer. We remarked that it was bad 
 weather. " Yes," she answered — then hastily cor- 
 recting herself — " No, not bad — it is God Almighty's 
 weather, and cannot be bad." — " Are you in pain ? " 
 we asked — a question scarcely necessary, so plainly 
 did her movements betray it. " Yes, always in pain 
 — ^but not such pain as my Sa\'iour suffered for 
 me — his pain was worse than mine — mine does not 
 signify." Some remark being made on the wretched- 
 ness of her dwelling, her stern features almost relaxed 
 into a smile, and she said she did not think it so; 
 and wished us all as happy as herself. As she 
 showed little disposition to talk, and never made 
 any remark till asked for it, and then in words as 
 few and simple as might express her meaning, it was 
 slowly and by reiterated questions that we could 
 draw from her a simple tale. Being asked if that 
 was all the bed she had on which to sleep, she said 
 she seldom slept, and it was long that she had not 
 been able to undress herself — but it Avas on that 
 straw she passed the night. We asked her if the 
 night seemed not very long. "No — not long," she 
 answered — "never long — I think of God all night, 
 and when the cock crows, am surprised it comes so 
 soon." — " And the days — ^you sit here all day, in pain 
 and unable to move — are the days not long?" — 
 " How can they be long ? Is not He with me ? 
 Is it not all up — up ? " an expression she frequently 
 made use of to describe the joyful elevation of her
 
 THE LISTENER. 33 
 
 mind. On saying she passed much time in prayer, 
 she was asked for what she prayed. To this she 
 always answered, " Oh ! to go, you know — to go — 
 when He pleases — not till He pleases." To express 
 the facihty she found in prayer, she once said, it 
 seemed as if her prayers were all laid out ready for 
 her m her bed. But time would fail us to repeat 
 the words, brief as they were, in wliich this aged 
 saint expressed her gratitude to the Saviour who 
 died for her — her enjoyment of the God who abode 
 with her — her expectations of the heaven to which she 
 was hasting — and perfect conteutedness with her 
 earthly portion. It proved on inquiry to be worse 
 than it appeared. The outline of her history, as 
 gathered at different times from her own lips, was 
 this : — 
 
 Her husband's name was Peg ; her own being 
 Mary, she was usually knoA\Ti by the appellation of 
 Poll Peg, and had been long remembered in the 
 village, as li\'ing in extreme poverty, and going about 
 to beg bacon at Christmas time. Her youth had 
 been passed in ser\ace of various kinds ; and though 
 she did not know her age, it appeared from public 
 events which she remembered to have passed when 
 she was a girl, that she could not be less than 
 eighty. Later in life she had kept sheep u})on the 
 forest hills, and, in the simplicity of her heart, would 
 speak of her days of prosperity when she had two 
 sheep of her own. She could not read — but from 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 34 .THE LISTENEK. 
 
 attending divine service had become familiar with 
 the language of Scripture, and knew, though hitherto 
 she did not regard, the promises and threatenings it 
 contains. We know nothing of her pre\ious charac- 
 ter ; that of her husband and family was very bad — 
 but we are not informed that hers was so. The first 
 earnest religious feeling she related of herself, was 
 felt some short time previous ; when walking alone 
 in the fields, she bethought herself of her hard fate 
 — a youth of toil, an old age of want and misery — 
 and if she must go to hell at last, how dreadful was 
 her portion ! Struck Avith the appalling thought, she 
 knelt down beneath the hedge to pray — the first 
 time, perhaps, that heartfelt and earnest prayer had 
 gone up to Heaven from her lips. 
 
 Not very long after this, as we understand, the 
 old woman was taken ill, and unable to move from 
 the straw, at that time her only bed, in a loft over 
 the apartment we have described — where, little shel- 
 tered by the broken roof and less by the rags that 
 scarcely covered her, she lay exposed to the incle- 
 mencies of the weather, without money to support 
 or friend to comfort her. It was in this situation 
 that her mind, dwelling probably on the things that 
 in health passed by her unregarded, received the 
 strong and lasting impression of a vision she thought 
 she beheld, probably in a dream, though she herself 
 believed that she was waking. In idea she saw the 
 broad road and the narrow, as described in Scripture. 
 In the broad road, to use her own expressions, there
 
 THE LISTENER. 35 
 
 were many walking ; it was smooth and pleasant, 
 and they got on fast — ^but the end of it was dark. 
 On the narrow road she herself was treading, and 
 some few others — but the way was rugged — some 
 turned back, and others sat down unable to proceed. 
 She herself advanced till she reached a place more 
 beautiful, she said, than any thing to Avhich she 
 could compare it. When asked what it was like, 
 she could not say, but that it was very bright, and 
 that there were many sitting there. Being ques- 
 tioned who these were — she said they were like 
 men, but larger and more beautiful, and all dressed 
 in glitterings — such was her expression — and one 
 was more beautiful than the rest, whom she knew 
 to be the Sa\'iour, because of his readiness and kind- 
 ness in recei^^ng her. But the most pleasing im- 
 pression seemed to be left by the Hallelujahs this 
 company were singing. She was told by Him she 
 knew to be the Saviour, that she must go back for 
 a little time, and then should come again to dwell 
 with them for ever. 
 
 Thus ended her vision — ^but not so the impression 
 it made. The recollection of the scene she had Avit- 
 nessed, and of the bliss that had been promised her, 
 was the source of all her happiness. Turning her 
 eye from earth to heaven, and fixing all her thoughts 
 on that eternity to which she was hastening, it left 
 her, not what she before had been, wretched on 
 earth and unmindful of any thing beyond — but with 
 a heart deeply impressed with the love and mercy
 
 36 THE LISTENER. 
 
 of God, fully and undoubtedly relying on her Sa- 
 viour's promise, and pro\ang the reahty of those 
 feelings by earnest devotion, and most cheerful ac- 
 quiescence in her Maker's vdU. It was not the 
 fervour of a first impression — the enthusiasm of an 
 excited imagination. She survived six or seven years, 
 'but time made no change on her feelings. She 
 passed those years in the extreme of poverty, de- 
 pendent on the alms of some few persons who knew 
 and visited her : she passed them in pain and help- 
 lessness ; mocked and ill-treated by her husband and 
 her sons, and insulted often by her unfeeling neigh- 
 bours, who came to laugh at her devotion, and 
 ridicule her hopes. For these, as well as for some 
 who \'isited her for kinder purposes, she had but one 
 answer — she wished them all like her ; prayed that 
 they might only be as happy as herself. \Vhen told 
 what she had seen was a mere dream and a delusion, 
 she said it did not signify to tell her that — she had 
 seen it, and it was the recollection of it that made 
 her nights so short and her days so happy. " And 
 what does it signify," she added, " that they swear 
 at me, and tell me I am a foolish old woman — don't 
 I know how happy I am ?" During the many years 
 that she survived, the minister of the parish saw her 
 constantly, and found httle variation in her feelings, 
 none in her firm adherence to the tale she at first 
 had told, and the persuasion that what she had seen 
 was a blessed reality, sufficient to make her happy 
 in every extreme of earthly ^vretchedness. And he
 
 TIIH LISTENER. 37 
 
 saw licr die, as she had lived, in holy, calm, and con- 
 fident reliance on her Saviour's promise. 
 
 To what I have written, I could find much to add, 
 having notes of all that passed during the protracted 
 years of this devoted woman's life. But my })ur- 
 pose was not to make a stoiy. I have witnessed 
 only to what I saw, and repeated only what my ear 
 has listened to. And I have repeated it but to prove 
 that the happiness which all men seek, and most 
 complain they find not, has sometimes an abode 
 where we should least expect to find it. Tliis is an 
 extreme case — extreme in mental enjoyment as in 
 external misery. But it is true. And if it be so, 
 that a being debarred the commonest comforts of life, 
 almost of the light and air of heaven, suffering, and 
 incapable even to clothe herself, or cleanse her 
 unsightly dwelling, could yet pass years of so much 
 happiness, that her warmest expression of gratitude 
 to her benefactors was to wish them a portion as 
 happy as her own — what are we to say to those, 
 who, amid the ovei-flow of sublunary good, make the 
 wide world resound with their complainings ? How 
 are we to understand it, that, while blessings are 
 showered around us as the summer rain, there is so 
 little real happiness on earth ? — Because we seek it 
 not aright — we seek it where it is not— in outward 
 circumstance and external good, and neglect to seek 
 it, where alone it dwells, in the close chambers of 
 the bosom. We would have a happiness in time 
 independent of eternity — we would have it inde-
 
 38 THE LISTENER. 
 
 pendent of the Being whose it is to give ; and so we 
 go forth, each one as best we may, to seek out the 
 rich possession for ourselves. Those who tliink they 
 are succeeding, will not list our tale. But if there 
 be any, who, ha^^ng made a trial of the world, are 
 disposed to disbelieve the existence of what they 
 seek — if there be any among the young, who start 
 at the report, and shrink from the aspect of their 
 already clouded prospects, we would have them hear 
 a brighter tale. There is happiness upon earth. 
 There is happiness for the poor and for the rich ; 
 for the most prosperous and the most desolate. 
 There is happiness, but we will not have it.
 
 THE LISTENEU. 39 
 
 No.y. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 So much of the happiness of social life is derived from the use of 
 language, and so profitless would the mere power of language be but 
 for the truth that dictates it, that the absence of the confidence which 
 is placed in our declarations may not merely be in the highest degree 
 injurious to the individual, but would tend, if general, to throw back 
 the whole race of mankind into that barbarism from which they have 
 emerged. 
 
 Dr Browf. 
 
 Waxking one morning in the garden at an hour 
 •when there is little to listen to, except the small 
 twittering of the wakeful lark, the distant footsteps 
 of the cattle, and the coarse voices of their di-ivers 
 preparing to go fortli to their labour, I desired at 
 least to hear, what aU who will listen may, a word 
 of truth from the still voice of nature. There is 
 so striking an affinity between the moral and the 
 natural world, resembling consequences so surely 
 resulting from resembling causes, one might imagine 
 the world of things inanimate had been formed and 
 framed but as a picture to show forth what is passing 
 within us, and warn us of the things that affect our 
 moral welfare : a fable, as it were, of which we are
 
 40 THE LISTEXER. 
 
 to find the moral, and apply it to ourselves. There 
 is scarce a moment of oui' lives in which, if we be 
 pleased to pause and look around, we may not learn 
 a useful lesson from sometliing that is passing among 
 the natural objects that encompass us. 
 
 The garden that morning was very gaily dressed 
 — the Moss-rose drooped its head, overladen with 
 the weight of dew that was upon it, more beautiful 
 in its tears than when opening in full splendour 
 to the mid-day sun. The pale Lily, scentless and 
 colourless, seemed in its spotless purit}^ to shun the 
 charms that embellished other flowers. And the 
 Pink, and the gay Pansy, and nmnberless others, 
 were there, all ranged in correct and beautiful order, 
 unmixed with any noxious or unsightly weed : ex- 
 cept that on one single spot I marked the first germ 
 of something that did not seem to be a flower, and 
 yet, having no distinct form, could not well be deter- 
 mined to be a weed. I paused a moment in thought 
 to pull it up — But what harm was there in it ? It 
 bore but two small leaves, and why not let it grow ? 
 And so it grew — and in a few weeks it spread far 
 and wide its rank, luxuriant branches — the flowers 
 that crept upon the soil were smothered beneath it, 
 while its taller neighbours were encompassed by its 
 leaves. And each morning as I renewed my walk, 
 I marked the growth of the unsightly weed, spread- 
 ing farther and farther to mar the neatness and 
 beauty of the border. Its roots had mingled with 
 the roots of the tender flowers, its branches had
 
 THE LISTENER. 41 
 
 interwoven with their branches, and it would now 
 be a task of ditficulty to part them without injury. 
 
 And on the last morning that I walked there, I 
 bethought myself of what this weed might resemble, 
 that from so small and innocent a beginning, had 
 grown into such speedy and abundant mischief. Alas ! 
 there were many things that it resembled but too 
 closely. Many were the ^^ces that came into my 
 mind as the results of early indulgence — But in as 
 much as this garden had been richly cultivated and 
 fairly kept, and but for the rapid growth of this 
 neglected weed, had seemed almost without a ble- 
 mish, there was one thing in particular it seemed to 
 me to resemble ; for I had known that vice to subsist 
 in minds of considerable cultivation, and hide itself 
 under very highly-polished manners ; the single 
 blemish of an else fair character. 
 
 As the ground, acciu'sed for our sake, when left 
 unwatched, brings forth the poisonous weed, so the 
 human heart, if unchecked in its propensities, will 
 bring forth evil — ^but none, perhaps, so spontaneously 
 as falsehood. There seems to be from earliest infancy 
 a disposition to it, and it is generally the first great 
 fault a child becomes guilty of. 
 
 Falsehood, in its grosser form, is so palpable a 
 sin, and so revolting, that we need say nothing here 
 to prove it so. The full-grown weed not any one 
 would spare, could they find means to root it out. 
 But the weed was a weed, before it seemed so, and 
 the poison was already in its root. And so are there
 
 42. THE LISTENER. 
 
 forms of falsehood that excite no disgust, and create 
 but small alarm, if any, when first detected in the 
 character — nay, are too often fostered and encou- 
 raged. 
 
 Had Anna told a direct falsehood in her infancy, 
 she would have been corrected with seriousness — 
 the guilt of it would have been made plain to her, 
 and every proper means employed to prevent a re- 
 currence of the fault. But no one gave heed to the 
 slight inaccuracies into which she was betrayed by 
 a lively imagination and a hurried mode of expres- 
 sion — her mistakes excited mirth, and were not 
 seldom repeated in her presence, as proofs of wit or 
 subjects of amusement. So welcome a lesson was 
 promptly learned, and what was at first carelessness 
 soon became design. The plain and simple truth 
 gained no attention ; a very little exaggeration would 
 make mirth for herself and her companions. In 
 all this Anna meant no sin — and during her child- 
 hood, perhaps, it scarcely might amount to sin, 
 because it deceived no one and injured no one. But 
 the rank weed grew apace. From exaggerating by 
 design, she grew so accustomed to it, that it became 
 almost impossible to her to speak literally. One 
 hour was, by her reckoning, always three — five hun- 
 dred stood for twenty — every rood was a mile, and 
 every common accident a marvel, if not an impossi- 
 bility. These may seem trifles, and so perhaps they 
 were — but they did not long continue so — The 
 prattle of the child grew into the converse of the
 
 THE LISTENER. 43 
 
 woman — and where was then the truth too sacred 
 to be sacrificed to Anna's wit ? The words of others 
 distorted, their actions misconstrued, and their affairs 
 misstated, to make them ridiculous and herself amu- 
 sing. From exaggeration to invention is but a pass 
 imperceptible — no matter who was wronged or who 
 deceived — habit had absorbed the sense of wrong, 
 and a laugh had become the price current for a lie. 
 These lies, perhaps, were not meant to injure — 
 but every falsehood may injure, whatever be in- 
 tended. Anna, at first, gave pain without knowing 
 it. But she could not stop here. There are occa- 
 sions in every one's life where a falsehood may serve 
 our present interests — where a falsehood may gratify 
 our resentment, may shield us from disgrace, or 
 secure us a triumph over those who contend with us. 
 Would Anna pause when these occasions came ? 
 Would she, who told falsehoods daily without a 
 motive, hesitate when it could serve some important 
 purpose ? When passion was excited and interest 
 at stake, would she, for the first time in her life, 
 stop to consider the criminality of saying what was 
 not true ? No — Anna will surely tell at last, if it 
 serves her purpose, the most injurious and deliberate 
 falsehood. 
 
 Now, however the world may join in with the 
 laugh, however willingly the idle may listen and the 
 thoughtless applaud, such a character is not esteemed. 
 The gay and the giddy may seek them when they 
 would be amused, but friendship takes them not to
 
 44 THE LISTENER. 
 
 her boLom — feeling holds no communion \rith them 
 — sorrow asks of them no comfort — wisdom takes 
 with them no counsel — candour, simplicity, and good 
 sense, shrink instinctively from their touch. How- 
 ever brilliant, and however entertaining, however 
 innocent, even in intention, the person whose words 
 are habitually not true, is lowered in the scale of 
 moral- creatures — their opinions have very little 
 weight, their testimony is but little regarded, and 
 their sincerity but rarely trusted : even though they 
 were never yet guilty of a mischievous deception. 
 But we must look higher than this. There is One 
 above us who himself is Truth, and to whom all that 
 is not, must be hateful. He has promised to bring 
 mto judgment every idle word, and has already passed 
 sentence upon the guilt of " whosoever loveth and 
 maketh a lie." Surely they are dangerous weapons 
 these to make us sport with. With the utmost 
 caution we may use, we shall not escape the con- 
 demnation, should He be extreme to mark our words. 
 There is so much deception in our hearts, that we 
 rarely even know the truth exactly ; and there is so 
 nuich temptation to disguise or discolour it, that 
 perhaps scarce a day goes by us in which we are not 
 betrayed into some evasion. Tlie weed is too surely 
 indigenous to the soil, and every hour that we spare 
 to check its growth, we spare an enemy that will 
 spoil the lustre of our garden. The best, and the 
 sweetest, and the purest in moral loveliness, will be 
 attainted by its unhallowed touch.
 
 THE LISTENER. 45 
 
 Early let us go to our garden, and look if the 
 small germ be there — and every morning return to 
 see if it be coming. And mark well the manner of 
 its growth. It does not come at once, a bold and 
 mischievous falsehood. Being in society, we hear 
 something that hurts or oft'ends us — desiring that 
 another should share our indignation or redress our 
 wrong, we add to it, perhaps, no more but an aggra- 
 vative tone. It is but wounded feeling, or just ab- 
 horrence of sin : True — but it is falsehood. Walking 
 by the way-side, we meet an object of distress — 
 anxious to interest others for their sake, we exagge- 
 rate the picture of suffering, or conceal its alleviation. 
 Our motive is but benevolence : True — but it is 
 falsehood. We have been witness to some incident, 
 or listened to some recital — a very Kttle embellish- 
 ment will make it highly marvellous, and excite 
 interest or afford amusement — no one can be harmed 
 by it : True — but it is still falsehood. Well, the weed 
 is fair and green — shall we let it grow on another 
 day ? We have committed some fault — if we con- 
 fess it, we shame ourselves for ever, and sink in the 
 esteem of those we love. A falsehood for this time 
 w^ill conceal it, and we will do the wrong no more. 
 True — but another sin, and probably a greater, is 
 added to the fii'st, and He who knows all is loft out 
 of the account. Being innocent, we have been 
 ^n-onged, or we have been the imwilling occasion of 
 WTong ; by a falsehood, mischief may be prevented 
 — With no other defence in our power, we may
 
 46 THE LISTENER. 
 
 surely prevent crime, and secure ourselves from 
 injury. But this is no more than to choose to 
 ourselves the culprit's part, and, being innocent, 
 voluntarily to claim guilt on our behalf — It is better 
 to suffer innocent, than guilty to escape. We are 
 brought unawares into a situation in which, if the 
 truth be not denied, we shall seem unkind, ungrate- 
 ful, insincere. We know that we are not so, though 
 appearances are against us ; falsehood becomes here 
 but the servant of truth — ^we use it only to prevent 
 mistake. Methlnks our fatal weed is growing now 
 apace. That which at first seemed the handmaid of 
 generous feeling, hath passed over to the service of 
 self — not yet, it is true, to serve any evil propensity 
 or indulge any culpable desire. It seems but a fair 
 background to set off our flowers. Let it grow on. 
 Hard service truly has that propensity which once 
 is enlisted to wait on the selfish interests of man. 
 Envy, jealousy, and emulation, anger, resentment, 
 and revenge, ambition, vanity, and pride — all these 
 make a part of human selfishness, and claim to be 
 served in their turn. The weapon is in a hand well 
 practised to its use. "Wlaen better feeling predo- 
 minates, the use of it seems to be for good. But 
 when passion surprises us, can the well-practised 
 hand forbear the ready weapon? Envy can, by a 
 word of falsehood, bear down its proud superior — 
 emulation can, by a falsehood, pass over the head of 
 its rival — revenge can sate itself, anger can safely 
 spend itself in falsehood — pride, and vanity, and am-
 
 THE LISTENER. 47 
 
 bitlon may be served by it. And tlnis we have the 
 weed full grown! We may use it oftener or sel- 
 domer, as the temptation arises, or as passion impels 
 
 but that we shall use it when occasion urges, is 
 
 not doubtful. And who now can tell the deformity 
 of the weed we have spared ? It may misrepresent 
 the most pure intention, it may blight the fairest 
 character, it may attaint the holiest mind, bring 
 ridicule on the most sacred truths, betray the most 
 generous trust, destroy all confidence and honest 
 intercourse in society, and provoke and insult that 
 high, holy, and omniscient Being, whom nothing can 
 deceive, and who will bear with no deception. 
 
 Faintly we have sketched the mischiefs, and faintly 
 described the manner of the growth — We have 
 given some examples, but they are a few among a 
 thousand. We warn you of the danger of the first 
 departure from truth — of the playful brandishing of 
 so dangerous a weapon. Thus much, at least, must 
 be acknowledged — falsehood is sin — sin can never 
 be a trifle or a jest.
 
 48 THE LISTE>-ER. 
 
 Xo. VI. 
 CHKISTMAS TIME. 
 
 O nuit bienheureuse, en laquelle est ne le Christ, le Seigneur, je 
 te trouve beaucoup plus claire et plus resplendissante que tous les 
 beaux jours de I'annee; car tu as ete eclairee de ce bel soleil d'en 
 haut, au Mgard duquel le soleil meme n'est que tenebres ! Bien- 
 heureuse nuit, en laquelle on chante le triomphe dans le ciel, et on 
 publie la pais en terre aux hommes, auxquels Dieu prend son bon 
 plaisir! 
 
 Drelincourt. 
 
 In every period of nature's story, attached to every 
 creed, and making a part of every mode of worship, 
 religious festivals of some kind have been obsen-ed ; 
 and they have for the most part worn a character 
 not ill-becoming the Deity in whose honour they 
 were held. The Greek kept his festival with arms 
 in hand, and in doing honour to his warrior gods, 
 could find no fitter celebration than games of agility 
 and feats of strength. The more savage Eoman, in 
 whose hard bosom inhumanity was the proudest \dr- 
 tue, feasted his deities Avith gladiatorial sights. The 
 dark Indian, not very much mistaking the spirit he 
 senses, holds festivals in honour of the Devil, in wliich 
 his scalped and tortui-ed enemies make at once the
 
 THE LISTENER. 40 
 
 offering and tlie sport. While to his obscene, unholy 
 gods, the unchaste Hindoo holds feasts of infamy, 
 pollution, and dishonour. 
 
 Far other festival was theirs, who, mid the dark- 
 ness of an idolatrous world, were taught to serve the 
 God of truth and love. They kept their Passover 
 with fasting and prayer. In theu- year of Jubilee, 
 the oppressed had restitution, and the prisoner went 
 free. AMiere superstition overclouds our holy faith, 
 the religious festivals ha\e assumed a like character. 
 Saints and martyrs who have come in to share their 
 Maker's glory and divide his worship, have all their 
 festivals ; and if we note the idle pomp, and useless 
 offerings, and heartless ceremonies, with which they 
 are celebrated, we must confess them not ill-suited 
 to deities of earth, introduced with worse than Pa- 
 gan polytheism, into the worship of the Christian 
 Church. 
 
 Restored, in profession at least, to the simplicity 
 of the gospel faith, disencumbered of all that man 
 had intermixed with the spiritual worship demanded 
 of us from God — forming their church, whether Epis- 
 copal or otherwise, on that which they believe to be 
 the scripture model, Protestants have left their reli- 
 gious anniversaries but few and simple. Christmas 
 and Easter are the two great festivals of their year 
 — the latter only partially observed — the former, we 
 believe, universally. How do we keep it ? As suitably 
 to our profession as the Hindoo to his? As much 
 in accordance with the character of Him we serve, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE LISTENER. 
 
 as the Olympic games with the battle-loving gods of 
 Greece ? 
 
 It was thus I questioned myself, as one evening 
 I sat pensive and alone, close on the hearth of my 
 solitary chamber. No one was nigh to answer to 
 my doubts. I trimmed my candle, and stirred my 
 fire, and listened as if something should bring me a 
 reply. Silence, indeed, there was not — for there was 
 a sound within of eager footsteps passing to and fro. 
 But what had I to do with that ? And there was a 
 noise of carriage-wheels without — ^but what had that 
 to do with the subject of my thoughts ? The books 
 that lay crowded on my table were my sole compan- 
 ions. Could I not question them? I opened one, 
 and it said, AMien the wise men behold the star that 
 announced the Saviour's birth, they rejoiced with 
 exceeding great joy ; and Avhen they found him, they 
 fell down and worshipped him. And it said again, 
 that when that birth in Bethlehem was announced, 
 there appeared a multitude of the heavenly host, 
 praising God, and saving, Glorj^ to God in the high- 
 est, and on earth peace, good- will toward men ! 
 
 On earth and in heaven, then, this season was a 
 season of rejoicing ; and we keep it in memory of 
 an event the most important that ever happened in 
 this nether world — so important, that exulting angels 
 shared the triumph of the news they brought. We 
 keep it in honour of Him, who on earth despised 
 the pomps and vanities of life, disowned the turbu- 
 lence of earthly passion, turned aside from the paths
 
 THE LISTENER. 51 
 
 of idleness and folly, and spoke with his sacred lips 
 full many an awful "Woe" on all who loved them. 
 His holy soul was bent on other purposes — his eyes 
 wept tears of pity for the world's insensibility — his 
 heart was rent and broken for its sins — and his hal- 
 lowed spirit at last surrendered, to purchase manu- 
 mission for the bond-slaves of the earth, and make 
 them heirs of bliss eternal. And now in heaven he 
 sits in unspotted purity enthroned, watching Avith 
 eye compassionate the people he has loved on earth 
 to save them from the dangers and temptations that 
 encomi)ass them ; to win their hearts to penitence, 
 and faith, and love. 
 
 And what to us was that event we celebrate ? 
 What share have we in the joy that was proclaimed 
 in heaven at his coming? Euined, lost, degraded, 
 and condemned, his coming was to us, if it was any 
 thing, pardon, and peace, and restoration to the 
 fas'our and the likeness of God. The deepest humi- 
 liation that such an interference was needed, the 
 most exalted joy that our need was thus provided 
 — joy, greater than when the captive is set free 
 • — j^y' grefiter than when the sentenced criminal is 
 pardoned, becomes us at this season. But what joy ? 
 When we celebrate the memory of one we love, we 
 tell fondly of his deeds — we bring to mind things 
 that had nearly stolen from our thoughts — we re- 
 peat his sayings — bring forth each valued memento 
 of his love — seek the scenes, and renew the employ- 
 ments, that best remind us of him ; if he has been
 
 52 THE LISTEXER. 
 
 renowTied for any thing, our music, our decorations, 
 and our sports, bear all some reference to his cha- 
 racter or his doinsrs. Christmas is the celebration of 
 our Savnour's birth. When angels told it, they gave 
 glory to God on high. When wise men heard it, 
 they fell down and worshipped. "When Christians 
 
 celebrate it, they 1 had not time to finish all 
 
 I might have said of chastened gaiety, of warm and 
 humble gratitude, of pious recollections, joyful praises, 
 and confiding prayers, when a great increase of noises 
 called off" my attention to what was passing beyond 
 the precincts of my solitude. 
 
 Our Christmas festival is not confined to the single 
 day set apart by our Church for religious service. 
 The season of rejoicing we usually call Christmas, 
 extends to the length of weeks, distinguished from 
 all others in the year by frequent festivities pecidiar 
 to itself; especially among the younger part of the 
 community, to whom it is usually a time of holiday 
 and domestic indulgence. And I soon perceived this 
 was one of those nights which peculiarly develop 
 what we mean by Christmas-time ; and I recollected 
 besides, that it was the New-year's Eve, a night of 
 no common distinction among the distinguished. 
 "VVTiat a happy opportunity to solve my previous 
 doubts, and set my mind at rest ! I went out of my 
 chamber in haste, to listen what might be passing. 
 As I drew nigh to the spot, to which a glare of 
 lights and a sound of music attracted me, I saw 
 many an airy figure passing and repassing in the
 
 THE LISTENER. 53 
 
 distance, I drew near — ^but why need I pause to 
 describe it ? Who does not know what is meant by 
 a Chilch-en's Ball at Christmas ? ^Many a beautiful 
 little creature, whose cheek in the morning had been 
 flushed with health, was already paling in the mid- 
 night glare — their glistening eyes and panting bo- 
 soms betrayed an unnatural excitement, while their 
 unclothed and fragile limbs already moved with list- 
 lessness and languor. I thought the glittering trin- 
 kets on their bosoms did but attaint their purity, and 
 their splendid and fantastic dresses transform the 
 most exquisite of nature's works into the likeness of 
 the mimic puppet-show. But they, it seems, thought 
 otherwise — and so did the parents and elder specta- 
 tors who lined the circumference of the ball-room. 
 The beauty of one, and the elegance of another, and 
 the dress of a third, engrossed all eyes, and set all 
 tongues in motion. On one pale cheek, I saw the 
 blush of mingled modesty and pride grow deeper and 
 deeper as repeated words of admiration met her ear. 
 I saw a second, whom Christmas balls had already 
 cured of that first weakness, send her bright eyes 
 round in search of the admiration at Avhich she 
 blushed no longer. I traced in some the restlessness 
 of envy, the skulk of inferiority, and the languor of 
 perceived neglect. In none — no, not in one of all 
 that fairy crowd, saw I the calm of innocence or the 
 smiplicity of childhood. Unnatural exultation, or 
 premature depression, was the exjiression of every 
 countenance there. Mean time, the fete went on.
 
 54 THE LISTEXER, 
 
 They looked at their watches — I looked at mine, 
 and perceived they were preparing for the midnight 
 hour. 'Tis well, I said, to note it ; for, at its sound- 
 ing, another year is stricken off from their short tale 
 of life. Of the threescore years — perhaps of the 
 twenty — or the ten — it may be not half of that, 
 granted them by the Creator to give him glory and 
 make ready for eternity, here is one more numbered 
 off, and gone to make report in heaven of its use. 
 How much of gratitude they owe for all the happi- 
 ness in that year enjoyed — how much regret for all 
 the errors and neglects with which they stained it — 
 what remembrance, what love of Him, witliout whose 
 birth on earth, at this season celebrated, each closing 
 of the year would be but the signal of approaching 
 and eternal miseiy ! How much humilitj' and holy 
 awe at thought that even now it may possibly be so! 
 It is a moment of no common interest. The year is 
 closed — its pleasures can no more be enjoyed, its 
 wasted moments can no more be used, the deeds that 
 were done in it cannot be recalled, its dangers are 
 escaped and its sufferings are over — ^very brief has 
 it been, and the one that succeeds it will be no longer. 
 Our last it may be — one less to us it must be. 
 
 Midnight struck. The music became louder and 
 gayer than before — the dance went on with redoubled 
 energy — every cheek glowed, and every eye kindled 
 — old and young, all were now engaged — my eye 
 searched every feature, to find if one of aU these 
 thoughts were written there — forgetfubiess, absolute
 
 THE LISTENER. 55 
 
 inebriation as to every rational recollection, was all 
 the expression I could trace — a senseless joy because 
 a year they had misused was gone, and another they 
 meant to misuse was come, and the eternity they had 
 forgotten was brought nearer, and the life they de- 
 lighted in was receding. How long the intoxication 
 lasted, I cannot say, for I withdrew to my chamber 
 to reflect on what had passed. 
 
 This, then, is the festival Christians hold in ho- 
 nour of their God — in remembrance of that meek 
 and suffering Lord ! — Eemembrance, alas ! who re- 
 membered him in that gay room? Was not their 
 object rather to forget him ? How dissonant to theii* 
 ears would have come the mention of his name — 
 how little appropriate any emblem of his love — how 
 almost profane to have made mention of his deeds 
 or reference to his character I — Remembrance ! Oh ! 
 if there had come, indeed, to any bosom there, a re- 
 collection of the meaning of Christmas, of the stable 
 where the holy babe slept for our sakes on the cold 
 manger — of the meanness and contempt with wliich 
 the Son of the Most High in mercy clothed himself 
 — the life of sorrow to wliich he was at this season 
 born — how meek, how holy, and yet how wronged 
 — by ourselves how much neglected and forgotten — 
 surely the thought had marred their gaiety, and put 
 to shame their strange festivity ! 
 
 Was this forgetfulness the glory angels sung ! 
 Was this uidifFerence the worsliip wise men ofiered ! 
 Yet thus we teach our children to celebrate the
 
 5Q THE LISTENER. 
 
 birtli-tlme of their Saviour. Instead of the Inno- 
 cent, domestic treat, the game of healthful play, the 
 holiday sweetened by previous industry', the useful 
 or amusing present, things that formerly would con- 
 stitute their Christmas gambols, it is the seed-time 
 now for implanting every sinful feeling and unholy 
 passion. Pride, and vanity, and rivalship, and envy, 
 are to be awakened, time wasted, health impaired, 
 and spirits exhausted. Many a long day expended, 
 in thought at least, about the dress they are to 
 wear ; many another in weariness and languor, and 
 disgust of less-exciting occupations ; attention un- 
 timely called to the advantage of personal attractions ; 
 a false estimate induced of the comparative value of 
 internal and external excellence. These are the 
 evils now, without which so many of our young 
 people cannot pass a happy Christmas — cannot cele- 
 brate — how strange the distortion ! — the love and 
 mercy of that holy Being to whom the very touch of 
 evil is most hateful ; who turns aside his head from 
 the first movement of that sin which bound his sa- 
 cred brow with thorns. He to whose glory and ser- 
 vice our time, and thoughts, and health, and spirits 
 are due, is to be honoured at this season by the more 
 than usual want and perversion of them all. He to 
 whose memory the fetes are held, is to be more to- 
 tally forgotten, if possible, at this season than in aU 
 the year besides. The expression of our joy may be 
 the ball, the theatre, the rout — any thing, in short, 
 80 it have no reference to that which is our professed
 
 THE LISTENER. 57 
 
 cause of rejoicing. We must be liappy, because it 
 is Christmas, the time of our Saviour's birth into the 
 world — but do not remind us of the circumstance, 
 lest it make us sad. 
 
 Would we have no rejoicing then ? While hea- 
 thens rejoice in their Apollo or their Vishnu, are 
 Christians to go all the year in weeds of penitence, 
 with mournful and downcast looks? No season of 
 peculiar joy and exultation ? Nay, surely not. Let 
 Christmas be the happiest season of the year — there 
 is much reason that it should — let the poor have their 
 sober feasts and our children their glad holidays. 
 But let us not be more inconsistent than heathens 
 are, excluding from our feasts the thought of him 
 we affect to celebrate, and offering him only what we 
 know he loathes. 
 
 Would we know what are consistent and what are 
 inconsistent modes of rejoicing at such a season, me- 
 thinks mere common sense might tell us. We need 
 be at no loss to discover what amusement consists 
 with the glad remembrance of our Saviour's coming, 
 the circumstances, cause, and consequence of that 
 event — with all the love and obedience we owe to 
 him because of it. We can surely discern what em- 
 ployment reminds us of him, and what disposes us 
 to forget him : what, if he were yet on earth, he 
 would consecrate with a blessing, and what he would 
 turn from with a keen reproof or a compassionating 
 tear. Yes, we do know — our ignorance is a feint — 
 we know very well when we are about a thing,
 
 58 THE LISTENER. 
 
 whether we would rather that the eye of our God and 
 Saviour were averted, and his ear deafened, or at 
 least that nothing should remind us of his presence ; 
 or whether it is pleasing to us to think that he is 
 near, cheeking our propensities to wrong, guarding 
 us fi'om ill, prospering our pursuits, and sanctifying 
 our enjoyments. "Wliatever consists with the grateful 
 remembrance and desired presence of oiu- Saviour, is 
 a fit amusement for the season — whatever excludes 
 them cannot be so. 
 
 If we say that on these terms we can have no 
 mhth, no amusement, and our children and our ser- 
 vants no enjoyment of then* Christmas — then, in 
 truth, I know not what to say, but that our children, 
 and our servants, and ourselves, are in a strange 
 case : — we cannot rejoice in our Savioiu"'s coming, 
 vmless we may forget him — we cannot keep liis birth- 
 time, unless we may otibnd him. K this be so, we 
 had better at least change the name of our festival, 
 and the pretext for our festivities — for though we 
 may be very glad it is the 25th of December, or 
 the Gth of January, we are clearly not glad it is the 
 day in which man's redemption was proclaimed from 
 Heaven, or in which wise men fell do^vri and ac- 
 knowledged their infant King. There was a period 
 in our country's liistory in which the same season 
 of the year was kept in honour of Woden, or some 
 vSaxon god. In the North of England the common 
 people still make a sort of little images at Christmas, 
 which they call Yule Doos — this in modern language
 
 THE LISTENER. 59 
 
 would he Christmas Gods — a custom no doubt deri- 
 ved from their pagan ancestors : in them it is no 
 idolatry, as they attach no meaning to it whatever, 
 and only do it because it always has been done. 
 But let us look to oiu'selves, lest, under a Christian 
 name, we but keep the heathen's feast ; serving there- 
 in some God of our own devising ; doing honour to 
 time and sense, and the world, and ourselves — to 
 every thing but Him by whose holy name we call 
 our unholy sports.
 
 60 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. VII. 
 FEARS. 
 
 The butler desired me, with a very grave face, not to venture my- 
 
 self in it after sunset, for that one of the footmen had been almost 
 
 frightened out of his wits by a spirit that appeared to him in the shape 
 
 of a black horse without a head — to which he added, that about a 
 
 month ago, one of the maids coming home late that way, with a 
 
 pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling in the bushes that 
 
 she let it fall. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 I DO not desire to make great things of small, or 
 to magnify into vices the little discrepancies of char- 
 acter that so incessantly blemish the moral pros- 
 pect around us. Vice is one thing, folly is another. 
 In their importance, no comparison can be made. 
 Against vice, in its fairest and most delusive form, 
 we hope we shall be found ever to protest, whatever 
 sanction custom, fashion, or opinion, may have given 
 it. But there are some things which are not vices, 
 which cannot be called morally wrong, and which 
 yet need to be reported of as follies, where the 
 whisper of admonition may be timely heard. Next 
 to being good, it is desirable to be agreeable — next 
 to being virtuous, it is essential to be wise. When
 
 THE LISTENER. 61 
 
 WO have woeclod our garden, we trim and prune our 
 flowers to make them bloom the fairer. So if, in 
 my silent wanderings through a noisy world, I make 
 report of some things I have heard, that to my read- 
 ers seem not to bear the character of wrongs, I beg 
 it may not be believed I thought them so, or listened 
 to them with feelings no less painful than to some 
 other things by which man is injured and the Deity 
 offended. But we are not content to mix up the 
 bitter wormwood in our dishes, because it is not the 
 poisonous nightshade. Must we encourage a folly 
 because it is not a vice, and torment each other and 
 ourselves because it does injury to no one ? Of the 
 extent of the folly I leave the wise to judge ; of the 
 grievousness of the torment, I presume to judge my- 
 self, having amply proved it, as I trust to make It 
 appear. 
 
 It was my misfortune once to visit a family of 
 people, very excellent, and very amiable, and for any 
 thing that I desire to say to the contrary, very wise 
 in things of moment. Besides the mother, there 
 were several young people of different ages, reaching 
 from infancy almost to womanhood, all happy, all 
 compliant, and all obliging — except when they hap- 
 pened to be assailed with what they were pleased to 
 call fear — but as fear has always respect to danger, 
 fancied, real, or possible, I should prefer to find 
 some other name for it, because I can prove that 
 it existed where danger was not possible, nor even 
 by themselves apprehended. What influence these
 
 62 THE LISTENER. 
 
 attacks had upon their own ha2;)pinGss it is hard to 
 judge, because some people find their enjoyment in 
 the miseries tliey create for themselves — but they 
 made woful inroads on the enjoyments of others ; 
 and for compliance, good-humour, and good-breed- 
 ing, j)oor chance, indeed, had they to stand against 
 the influence of these vehement emotions. 
 
 Though the hour was late, I had scarcely laid 
 myself down to rest on the night of my arrival, ere 
 I was aroused by the buzzing of voices, and the sound 
 of soft, stolen footsteps in the adjoining gallery. The 
 young ladies had been disturbed by extraordinary 
 sounds, or such at least as would have been extra- 
 ordinary, had not the hearing of them recurred every 
 other night. One was afraid to go to bed, and an- 
 other was afraid to get up — one could not come into 
 her room, and another could not come out of it. 
 Some thought they heard, and others were sure they 
 heard, but nobody knew what. Nor was it easy to 
 perceive the purjiort and end of the commotion — 
 for no one made any attempt to ascertain the real 
 ground of alarm ; probably because they knew not 
 where to look for it — or, more likely, because they 
 were too much used to their own fears to expect to 
 find any ground for them at all. And so, after much 
 listening, and starting, and whispering, they were 
 pleased at last to go to rest, and generously allowed 
 me to do the same. 
 
 I ventured in the morning to suggest, that the 
 indulgence of unreasonable fears was not the con-
 
 THE LISTENER. G3 
 
 comitant of a strong mind, and did in itself much 
 tend to weaken it : that in the presence of real 
 danger it luafits us for exertion, and in the absence 
 of it, costs us as much suffering as the evil itself 
 might do. I was answered by stories manifold and 
 various, of things that had been, and things that 
 might be ; and the absolute certainty they still re- 
 tained of ha\ing heard noises, though not one in 
 tlieir morning senses really supposed there had been 
 any thing to make the noise. 
 
 Willing to close a conversation I thought so little 
 improving, I proposed to two of the younger girls 
 to walk with me in the grounds. It was agreed to 
 with pleasure ; they were polite, cheerful, and obli- 
 ging, till we had walked — must I own, not more than 
 some few hundred yards ? — when a small frog jiunped 
 out from tlie grass before us, and passed to the side 
 of the path. A scream that might have startled 
 even the insensible frog, broke from one of the young 
 ladies, and they both protested they would go no 
 farther on that path. It was in vain I represented 
 to them that a frog is the most harmless of living 
 things, having neither bite nor sting with which 
 to Avound ; and that, moreover, whether it were 
 harmless or harmful, it had taken itself willingly 
 away from us. Tliey replied only that it was a 
 hideous, shocking creature, and frightened them to 
 death. Equally in vain I urged my wish to reach 
 the place to which that path would lead us — my 
 wishes had no weight against their fears — they would
 
 64 THE LISTENER. 
 
 not go, and excused themselves by saying tliey were 
 dreadfully afraid of live things. We turned aside 
 and took another path. — But alas ! not far had we 
 pursued it, when I saw upon the green turf, where 
 it had untimely fallen, a sweet little bird already 
 dead and cold, its pretty eye unclosed, and not a 
 feather ruffled. I picked it up to admire it, when 
 suddenly both my companions let go my arm, and 
 stepped some paces back, protesting loudly that they 
 were dreadfully afraid of dead things, and should 
 never like to walk that path again. Methought 
 their path of life would scarce be easy, to whom the 
 li\dng and the dead were thus alike terrific. 
 
 We now pursued our walk, but soon in utter 
 hopelessness, on my part, of any thing like comfort 
 or enjojmient. If we were to cross a meadow there 
 was a cow, or at least a horse in it — whichever way 
 we turned my companions saw a man, or a dog — 
 and when there was neither man nor dog, nor any 
 thing else, alive or dead, the way was so lonely they 
 were afraid to go forward. They could not sit in 
 the shade, lest the inhabitants of the bushes should 
 descend on their head — they could not sit in the sun, 
 lest the winged insects should settle on their clothes. 
 If I presented them with a flower, they let it fall, 
 because they mistook the green leaf for a caterpillar. 
 I wished them most heartily at home, and made 
 what haste I could to rid myself of such troublesome 
 companions. 
 
 But scarcely had we reached the house, when,
 
 THE LISTENER. G5 
 
 for the promoting of the day's amusement, a drive 
 was proposed to view some neighbouring ruins. It 
 will be believed I was comforted to find my walking 
 companions were to be changed for some a little 
 older, to whom I hoped the live things and dead 
 things might be less alarming. But alas ! we had 
 now no need of either. When the carriage went up- 
 hill, they were afraid it would run back ; when it 
 went down-hUl, they were afraid it would run for- 
 ward. If the horses ran slowly, they were sure they 
 would never go on ; if they went fast, they were sure 
 they would never stop. The drive was romantic and 
 beautiful in the extreme, but the ladies saw notliing 
 except the ruts in the road. I attempted conversa- 
 tion, but was interrupted by a scream every time the 
 carriage lost its exact perpendicular. And at last, 
 when the ebullition of their fears could be forborne 
 no longer, they insisted on stopping the carriage to 
 enquire if the road was not very bad, and if it was 
 safe to go forward. The former was too obvious to 
 need the asking, the latter they were determined not 
 to believe. Wlien the carriage could not stop, they 
 insisted upon getting out to walk, and then, having 
 made the driver go slower and slower, till the fleet 
 hours of days were nearly spent, they discovered that 
 they should surely be benighted before their return, 
 and of course be murdered, over and above having 
 their necks broken by the badness of the road. These 
 were certainly no pleasing anticipations ; and, if I 
 did not partake the imaginary iUs, I was sufficiently 
 VOL. I. " E
 
 66 THE LISTENER. 
 
 tired of the real ones, to oppose returning without 
 the accomplishment of our purpose ; and listened all 
 dinner-time to assertions, proved and explained, of 
 the absolute impossibility of reaching the place to 
 which we had set out. 
 
 ' All dinner-time, did I say ? It might have been 
 so, had not an unhappy wasp presented itself with 
 the sweets of the second course. There was other 
 company besides myself at table, but that could not 
 signify when a wasp was in the case. The servants 
 were all put in requisition with tongs, poker, and 
 shovel ; the children started and jumped, and overset 
 every thing in their way ; and the dinner remained 
 to cool till the murder of the foe almost restored 
 peace to the society — but not quite — -for one was 
 still sure it would crawl. Having a little girl next 
 me, of whose good sense I had on some occasions 
 formed a favourable opinion, I ventured to ask her 
 why she was so much afraid of a wasp. She replied, 
 as I expected, because it might sting her. I asked 
 her if she had ever been stung by one. She assured 
 me she had, in endeavouring to drive it from the table, 
 whence, had she left it alone, it would probably have 
 gone of itself quite harmlessly. I asked her of the 
 pain, and how long it lasted, and whether it was 
 difficult to bear. Her answer implied, that though 
 the pain was acute it Avas short, and that the re- 
 mainder of my question seemed to her ridiculous. 
 I then submitted it to her candour, whether, in the 
 worst issue of the case, which, considering the num-
 
 THE LISTENER. 67 
 
 ber of wasps that fly, and the number of people who 
 will not let them fly in peace, occurs but seldom, 
 the quantity of pain was really equal to the quantity 
 of fear she had betrayed ; and whether, in the cer- 
 tain anticipation of just so much pain by any other 
 cause, she should have felt any fear at all ? She 
 confessed that she should not ; because, as she sensi- 
 bly remarked, a slight and temporary inconvenience 
 from bodily pain was not worth a complaint, much 
 less an anticipatory fear. But all this did not seem 
 to her, reason why she should not scream at the sight 
 6f a wasp. Nor indeed was it, as she gave me 
 occasion to learn before the lapse of many hours— for 
 the entrance of a moth, that never yet in the memory 
 of man was known to sting, created to the full as 
 much commotion later in the evening : so much, in- 
 deed, that most of the party retreated out of the 
 room in the midst of our musical festivities, and left 
 me to play to myself. 
 
 Well I know, that ladies who have grown up in 
 the indulgence of such fears, and have come at last 
 to persuade themselves there is a degree of delicacy 
 and refinement in them, must go on unto the end 
 under the penalty due to their folly ; that of tor- 
 menting themselves and annoying others. But as 
 my whispers are for the ears of those with Avhom 
 nothing is yet too late, I would represent to them 
 the absolute inconsistency of such feai's Avith good 
 sense and a rational mind. All extravagance is folly 
 — ^because sound sense mainly consists in giving to
 
 68 THE LISTENER. 
 
 things theii" due degree of importance, and propor- 
 tioning the sentiment to the occasion that calls it 
 forth. Fear, therefore, beyond the occasion, must 
 be folly, even when some degree of danger exists : 
 and though, as a passion inherent to our nature, we 
 cannot but be subject to it, we believe it will generally 
 be found greater or less in proportion as the mind 
 is strong or weak. The unreasonable indulgence of 
 fear — we speak now of that fear which has a real 
 object and occasion — is surely not inconsistent with 
 the calm and humble trust we profess to repose in 
 a superintending Providence, without whose know- 
 ledge hami cannot by any means befall us. If it be 
 urged that we ought to foresee and provide against 
 danger, that is true — ^but fear, so far from accele- 
 rating this provident care, usually unfits us for using 
 the means we have of avoiding or resisting evil ; the 
 coin'ageous will escape, where the timid must in- 
 evitably suffer. But that sort of fear, if, for want 
 of another term, we so must call it, which is our 
 present subject of reprehension, has nothing what- 
 ever to do with danger — call it timidity, sensibility, 
 or whatever we may, it is nothing but weakness and 
 folly ; and we may depend upon it, that being purely 
 selfish, it is always unpleasing. It is constitutional 
 in some minds, no doubt, more than in others ; but 
 if we have a constitutional weakness of frame, we 
 use all means to overcome it, and often mth success. 
 Then why not so with this, our mental weakness ? 
 But, in fact, much more depends on habit and educa- 
 
 *
 
 THE LISTENER. 69 
 
 tion than on nature. Some children are absolutely 
 taught it, and others are foolishly humoured in it, 
 till it is no longer in their ovm power, or in the power 
 of any one, to subdue it. I am certainly inclined to 
 make an exception in those very extraordinary and 
 wonderful cases of natural antipathy, of which the 
 existence is too certain to be disputed, and too in- 
 scrutable to be understood ; where an instinctive 
 horror of some one particular thing gives such a 
 keen perception of its presence as nothing can baffle 
 or deceive. This, perhaps, it may be impossible to 
 conquer. But this bears no analogy whatever to 
 the multifarious fears, and horrors, and dislikes, of 
 which we have been speaking, by which reason and 
 good sense are offended, selfishness fostered and in- 
 dulged, and the feelings and convenience of others 
 generally sacrificed to our own. 
 
 Addressing myself exclusively to my younger 
 friends, I would induce them to consider that most 
 of those living things for which they have conceived 
 a horror, are in themselves beautiful, and should be 
 objects of our admiration. I believe there is not 
 in the whole creation a thing that can properly be 
 termed disgusting. It may be troublesome and 
 annoying, if it obtrudes itself where comfort and 
 cleanliness forbid its entrance, and may justly be 
 removed, or, if necessary, destroyed. But in them- 
 selves, both reptiles and insects are most curiously 
 and exquisitely wrought, and instead of shrinking 
 from them with senseless horror, we may accustom
 
 70 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ourselves to look at them with sensations of extreme 
 pleasure, as the works of Him whose wisdom and 
 power they manifest, and of whose bounty they 
 partake, in the enjoyment of the existence he has 
 bestowed on them. It is to some persons, and might 
 be to all, if they would cultivate the feeling, a source 
 of infinite delight to watch the swarms of insects 
 that people the whole creation in the mid-day of a 
 summer sun. There are those who receive as much 
 pleasure from the insect that settles on their finser, 
 as from the wild-flower that blossoms under their 
 feet. This complacent feeling in the contemplation 
 of nature's living works, and that of persons who 
 shrink from them with disgust, are merely habits of 
 mind : the one may just as well be cultivated as the 
 other. 
 
 In respect to the fear of accidents and injuries 
 from our fellow-creatures, I believe the best cure for 
 it is an abiding sense of the ever-present Providence 
 of God ; and if we are constitutionally timid, we 
 cannot better subdue it than by cultivating this 
 consciousness of the Divine protection, in such a 
 manner that it may recur to our minds on the first 
 movement of alarm ; in short, so as to become in- 
 fluential on our habits and sensations, and make a 
 part of all our thoughts and feelings.
 
 THE LISTENER. 71 
 
 No. VIII. 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 Is there a timp when moments flow 
 
 More lovelily than all beside ? — 
 It is, of all the times below, 
 
 A Sabbath even in summer tide. 
 
 Edmkston. 
 
 It was a Sabbath evening in the height of summer. 
 The sun had been some half-hour gone, but his beams 
 still lingered in the clear horizon, and still the fleecy 
 cloud was tinged with a fading touch of red. The 
 blue vault had not yet deepened into grey, nor the 
 landscape become obscure in the growing twilight. 
 And yet there was a mellowing tint upon the scene, 
 that gave of softness what it stole of splendour — 
 like the brilliant and gifted spirit that religion has 
 chastened into stillness. The flower that had droop- 
 ed, and the leaf that had withered in the noonday 
 heat, were already recovered by the evening's fresh- 
 ness ; while the Thrush prolonged her song, and the 
 Red-breast lingered on the bough, as if unwilling 
 to part from such a day. Peace and repose were 
 the character of the scene, and fancy well might
 
 72 THE LISTENER. 
 
 picture that the task of life was done, and all things 
 ready for eternal rest. 
 
 In all there seemed a fitness for the day, and for 
 the feelings vrith which I Avas returning from the 
 evening servdce. The words of love and peace had 
 dropped like holy balm upon the bosom, and put to 
 rest its agitating cares. Shame and contrition had 
 sunk the soul too low for opposition, and mercy had 
 won it into grateful acquiescence. At peace with 
 God, because it had drunk deeply of his grace and 
 truth, at peace with the world, because it seemed no 
 longer worth contention, at peace with itself, because 
 self was degraded and dethroned, the spirit partook 
 of the evening's Sabbath hue, and only wished it 
 could be always so. " And will it not be always so," 
 I thought, as I walked slowly homeward, " when 
 our life's working-days are over, and the eternal 
 Sabbath daAvns upon our souls ? A little while, and 
 wliat is now but a brief foretaste, a passing sem- 
 blance of celestial peace, will be an eternal and 
 unchanging reality. A little while, and the smile 
 of our Fatlier will no more be averted, the world 
 renounced will no more resume its power, and self- 
 submitted will no more rebel. And if there be such 
 pleasure in an early Sabbath, interrupted as it is 
 with our coldness, and carelessness, and earthliness, 
 what will be the bliss of that eternal Sabbath for 
 which we are preparing?" And then I considered 
 the goodness of God in this institution, by which 
 one day in seven is separated from the rest, to be
 
 THE LISTENER. 73 
 
 employed in making happy what the occupations of 
 the other six too often tend to make ^\Tetched, and 
 to sanctify what they are too well fitted to corrupt. 
 Prone as we are to sin, and subject as we are to 
 sorrow, our most lawful occupations are fraught with 
 anxiety and danger- — ^WTiat comfort, then, that there 
 is one day in which it is our duty to neglect them, 
 to forget them, and give up ourselves entirely to 
 thoughts and pxn-suits of whicli the fruits are love, 
 and holiness, and joy : to have nothing to do but to 
 acquaint ourselves Avith God and be at peace ! I 
 passed the day-labourer in his clean white frock, his 
 Bible and prayer-book tucked under his arm, and 
 thought how he must enjoy the repose of such a day, 
 his only means of instruction, perhaps his only pause 
 from effort and endurance. I overtook the pale 
 mechanic, and fancied, from the expression of content 
 upon his features, that he was telling over the 
 stores of consolation he had gathered, to feed on 
 in his close workshop all the week. The children of 
 charity were tripping by my side, in their plain 
 round bonnets and dark frocks, the bag of books on 
 their arm, or the basket in their hand — I looked at 
 them, and hoped something had that day been taught 
 them that would sweeten the rude lot for which they 
 were preparing. A little longer musing, and I should 
 have persuaded myself the Sabbath was a day that all 
 men love, and the calm of nature what all were shar- 
 ing, and the song of gratitude what all were singing. 
 But truth was at hand, and fancy must give place.
 
 74 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ^Vhen I turned from the meadows into the public 
 road, tlie passengers began to thicken on my path. 
 The town had poured out her population in every 
 direction for their everung walk, and the hills and 
 the pathways were scattered thick with figures of 
 various appearance, all well-dressed and neat, and 
 seemingly free from care. There was nothing at 
 first strongly to invade my previous feelings. I could 
 still fancy that the poor labourer, or richer trades- 
 man, was enjoying with his wife and children the 
 beauties of creation and the grateful recollection of 
 a day well spent : and in many a lowly hovel, as I 
 passed it, I saw, in interesting group, the father 
 attentively perusing his Bible, while the mother was 
 setting out the plain spare supper, where every thing 
 looked clean once in the week at least. Truth might 
 indeed liave told, that some who enjoyed the leisure 
 of the day had thought nothing of Him whose day 
 it was, and some who were tasting of nature's 
 charms felt nothing of gratitude to Him who gave 
 tliem ; but so much was not written on their brow ; 
 and they wore at least an air of enjoyment that be- 
 came the hour. 
 
 Not so, when, proceeding a little further, I met 
 the gay equipage returning from an evening drive — 
 Not so when I saw the light skiif, with sails unfurl- 
 ed, gliding merrily towards the shore. Whoever 
 was within them, here was the day of God profaned 
 by the direct breaking of his holy law. He had said, 
 Remember that thou do it not — they did it, and
 
 THE LISTENER. • 75 
 
 boldly denied the harm. Whatever innocence niiglit 
 be assumed in those who took the pleasure, they 
 were guilty of the sin of those they taught and paid, 
 to pursue on the Sunday the occupation of the week, 
 and unhallow in thought and deed the day that God 
 made sacred. They would say, perhaps, they spent 
 an hour in a recreation very harmless, and no way 
 inconsistent with their thoughts of holiness — ^but for 
 their one hour of harmless recreation, others must 
 toil many — the cattle that were used must be cleaned, 
 the hand that plied the oar for them would ply for 
 others, encouraged by their example — the words of 
 God are plain and positive, and impossible to mis- 
 construe ; therefore the breach of them is a bold 
 refusal to comply with his command, made openly 
 in the face of earth and heaven. They would urge, 
 no doubt, that they had enough kept holy the day, 
 in going twice to the ser^'iee appointed. Alas ! if 
 they had been there, it should almost seem to make 
 their guilt the greater — for there they had heard 
 the command enforced, and there they had prayed 
 to be inclined to keep it, and thence they had re- 
 turned resolved to break it, and deny the wrong. 
 
 The evening was closing fast — already the dark 
 outline of form was all that remained distinct ; and 
 as I entered the town, the doors were closing and 
 lights were beginning to gleam from every ^nndow. 
 My pleasing reverie had been painfully dissipated — 
 my mind was occupied in considering of the way in 
 which Sunday evening is usually passed — and, presum-
 
 76 - THE LISTENER. 
 
 ing that when windows stand open, no secrets are 
 passing within, I set myself to observe how people 
 were employed in the various houses as I passed 
 them ; not without hope that I might gather some- 
 thing useful, in the way of warning or example for 
 my readers. 
 
 I ]>assed a window where noisy mirth bespoke the 
 late dinner party ; where it was evident the company 
 would not, and the domestics could not, remember 
 it was the Sabbath — except in so far as they sighed 
 in secret that decency allowed them not to dance or 
 play at cards — but there I paused not. There was 
 nothing doubtful among these. They, too, had been 
 to church — themselves — ^but not their servants, who 
 had this dinner to make ready. As soon as they 
 came forth from the sacred walls, they had passed 
 with all speed from house to house to make their 
 morning calls — I say not, to wipe off the serious im- 
 pression of the service, for it had made none, but 
 to get rid of the time till the bells should chime 
 again. Unless they preferred a drive, they had gone 
 a second time to church — they had plenty of time 
 to dress for dinner, and then, thanks to this party, 
 there was no more trouble about disposing of the 
 hours till bed-time. 
 
 Neither did I stop long, where, in a more decent 
 way, but with much the same purpose, a few friends 
 had called in upon some other few, for the charitable 
 purpose of passing away an evening on which they 
 thought it right to be quiet and abstain from their
 
 THE LISTENER. 77 
 
 Aveekly occupations, and yet found it very tedious. 
 But I made a longer pause when I arrived under a 
 window wliere there were clearly none present but 
 the family that abode there, and it was pretty evi- 
 dent that no one had lost the recollection that it 
 was the Sabbath. Knew I this from the smile of 
 gratitude and heavenly peace that shone on their 
 features ? My readers shall judge. " I wish it wa3 
 bed-time," said a little girl, not usually in haste to 
 go to bed ; " I am so tired of having notliing to do ! " 
 Though in truth she had risen two hours later than 
 usual that morning. 
 
 " I think our clock must be too slow," replied her 
 brother. "You know we were hardly dressed for 
 breakfast when the bells began to ring this morning. 
 It must be more than half-past nine :" and with a 
 weary yawn he threw himself on the rug to play 
 with the spaniel. 
 
 All were not alike unfortunate — for I observed a 
 young lady at her wxiting-desk, folding and sealing 
 as many letters as one can reasonably suppose she 
 might have occasion to write in a week. How 
 happy for her correspondents, that one day in seven 
 was a leisure day — a day on which the hours, being 
 less valuable, could be better spared than on any 
 other ! As I could not see within the letters, I am 
 bound in charity to suppose the subject of them was 
 in unison with the feelings and preA-ious occupations 
 of the day. How should they be otherwise ? A 
 heart that, from the rising till the going down of
 
 78 THE LISTENER. 
 
 the Sabbath sun, had been in earnest devotion before 
 God, had mourned in many a prayer the conscious- 
 ness of sin, and gro^ni light under the sweet assurance 
 of its pardon — and had trembled at the awful de- 
 nunciations pronounced on the dissembler, and been 
 moved, amazed, overwhelmed, with the contempla- 
 tion of the Redeemer's love and the Father's fond 
 forbearance — It was impossible that such a heart 
 could turn immediately to common themes, the amuse- 
 ments of yesterday and the business of to-morrow, 
 and the thousand trifles that bespeak a mind un- 
 occupied by deeper interests. If I could not pene- 
 trate the letters to find where the heart had been, 
 and where the thoughts, I was at least certain that 
 they had been together, and that the language of 
 the letters had gone after them ; and I felt much 
 grief at a practice that could leave it doubtful 
 whether they might not altogether have gone wrong. 
 No common observer could know that a young lady 
 who kept all her letters to write on a Sunday, did 
 so that they might wear a deeper tone of piety, be 
 the more faithful mirror of her better feelings, con- 
 veying greater good to others and more glory to 
 God. Common observers might even go so far as 
 to suppose it was a profane compountling between 
 her conscience and her choice — permitting her to 
 send her spirit to scenes where in person she dared 
 not go, and to occupy her thoughts with things she 
 dared not do. I could not but bewail the bad ex- 
 ample of a practice so equivocal, where the deed was
 
 THE LISTENER. 79 
 
 plain to all, the inducement to it ' a secret between 
 herself and God. ' 
 
 Reclining on a sofa opposite, I observed another 
 lady intent upon the perusal of a newspaper. There- 
 in, at least, was nothing equivocal ; for the contents 
 of a newspaper are known to all : and doubtless, 
 the mind tliat had been fed all day upon the high 
 and holy things of heaven and eternity, must have 
 found it a seasonable draught of temporalities to rid 
 itself of the effects or impressions that might remain. 
 I had some reason to doubt, from all I heard, whe- 
 ther this young lady would not have thought it 
 wasting time to read the newspaper on a Monday, 
 because she had so many other things to do. But 
 on Sunday, alas ! — on Sunday, on that day which is 
 God's and not our own, it was a relief to find any 
 thing that might be done. And all together could 
 not stay the weariness with which they turned their 
 eyes towards the lagging time-piece, that seemed 
 but to go the slower for their impatience to be rid 
 of a day, which, though shortened at either hand, 
 was still too long. 
 
 And yet these people, and thousands who do like 
 them, are going, so they tell us, and take it but ill 
 that we should doubt it, to that blessed dwelling- 
 place where there is no employ but one, the very- 
 one of which they grow so weary here : where the 
 utmost reach of happiness is no more but the com- 
 pletion and duration endless, of that which they are 
 so little willing to begin — a rest from the agitating
 
 80 THE LISTENER. 
 
 cares of time and sense, and a devoting of time, and 
 thoughts, and powers to the worship of the Deity, 
 the contemplation of his works, and the performance 
 of his will. This is a happiness that is not for us 
 here, we cannot reach it if we would. But that we 
 may taste of it, that we may cultivate a desire and a 
 liking to it, an imperfect Sabbath has been at cer- 
 tain intervals appointed us, in which we are per- 
 mitted, nay, commanded, under all the penalties of 
 disobedience, to take of the food on which our per- 
 fected spirits will eternally be fed, if the feast of 
 heaven be preparing for us. The day comes round, 
 and finds so little welcome, it is but an importunate 
 intruder on our enjoyments, an interruption to our 
 business. The food we are required to take is so 
 unpalatable, we are obliged to mix with it as much 
 as possible of our weekly fare to enable us to take 
 it. So averse are we to this faint semblance of the 
 eternal state, that not even the terrors of Grod's 
 broken law can force us to partake of it. The 
 aversion must be strong indeed that will make us 
 risk so much by disobedience, rather than make the 
 sacrifice of a few brief hours. And to what is it we 
 are so averse ? Let us consider.
 
 THE LISTENER. 81 
 
 No. IX. 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 For Friendship is no plant of hasty growth ; 
 Though rooted in esteem's deep soil, the slow 
 And gradual culture of kind intercourse 
 Must bring to it perfection. 
 
 Joanna Bail lie. 
 
 There are a great number of things that every 
 body says for no reason that can be perceived, but 
 because every body always has said them ; and, 
 whatever be the recommendation to these current 
 opinions, or rather assertions, for opinion has little 
 to do with them, it is certainly not their truth. There 
 is not one in ten of the persons who talk on these 
 universal topics, that has ever considered whether 
 what it is customarv to sav, be true or not ; and 
 though they are matters of everyday experience, 
 they seldom pause to compare their habits of talk- 
 ing with their actual observation on the subject. 
 But observation, unfortunately, we most of us make 
 none, tUl past the age at which it would most avail 
 us. We take up our sentiments, and not seldom our 
 very feelings, upon trust, and it is not tiU after many 
 VOL, I. F
 
 82 THE LISTENER. 
 
 a hard rub and bitter pang, we come to perceive 
 that, had we felt more justly, we need not have suf- 
 fered. Perhaps this is an evil in some degree 
 irremediable ; there are many who cannot, and more 
 wlio will not, think and judge on their own behalf — 
 what they were taught in their youth they ^vill be- 
 lieve in their age, and what they said at fifteen they 
 will go on saying at fifty; though the whole course 
 and current of their observations, had they made 
 any, would go to disprove it. But if this is the 
 case, and if it must be so, it is but of the more im- 
 portance what habits of thinking and feeling young 
 people receive, on entering a world that will not 
 change its course to meet their expectations, or show 
 overmuch indulgence to their mistakes. If the mis- 
 chief ended where we began to trace it, with the 
 mistaken sentiments given forth in the talk of so- 
 ciety, it would be small, and we would let it pass as 
 a harmless fiction — but not seldom it goes to the 
 dearest and tenderest interests of oui' bosoms, to the 
 very vitals of our earthly happiness. It may indeed 
 do worse — for it may assail our virtues and attaint 
 our souls with sin, by giving a check to the benevo- 
 lent affections, and inducing a morose and c;yTiical 
 habit of feeling towards our fellow-creatures, the 
 very reverse of what Christianity enjoins. 
 
 These reflections, something long, as those may 
 have tliought who are in a hurry to know what they 
 mean, were excited in my mind by a conversation I 
 recently heard in a party of young ladies, and which
 
 THE LISTENER. 83 
 
 I take as a pattern and semblance of twenty other 
 conversations I have heard in twenty similar ])arties. 
 Friendship was, as it very often is, the subject of 
 the discussion, and though the words have escaped 
 my memory, I can well recall the substance of the 
 remarks. One lady boldly asserted that tliere was 
 no such thing as friendship in the world, where all 
 was insincerity and selfishness. I looked, but saw 
 not in her mirthful eye and unfurrowed cheeks any 
 traces of the sorrow and ill-usage, that, I thought, 
 should alone have wrung from gentle lips so harsh 
 a sentence, and I wondered where, in twenty brief 
 years, she could have learned so hard a lesson. Have 
 known it, she could not ; therefore I concluded she 
 had taken it upon trust from the poets, who are fain 
 to tell all the ill they can of human nature, because 
 it makes better poetry than the good. The remark 
 was taken up, as might be expected, by a young 
 champion, who thought, or said without thinking, 
 that friendship was — I reaUy cannot undertake to 
 say what — but all the things that young ladies usu- 
 ally put into their themes at school — something very 
 interminable, illimitable, and immutable. From this 
 the discussion grew, and how it was, and what it 
 was, went on to be discussed — I cannot pursue the 
 thread of the discourse, but the amount of it was 
 this. One thought friendship was the summer por- 
 tion only of the blest ; a flower for the brow of the 
 prosperous, that the child of misfortune must never 
 gather. Another thought, that all interest being
 
 84 THE LISTENER. 
 
 destructive of its very essence, it could not be trusted 
 unless there was an utter destitution of every thing 
 that might recommend us to favour or requite affec- 
 tion. This lady must have been brought to the depth 
 of wretchedness ere she ever could be sure she had 
 a friend. Some, I found, thought it was made up of 
 a great deal of sensibility, vulgarly called jealousy, 
 that was to take umbrage at every seeming slight, 
 to the indescribable torment of either party. Some 
 betrayed, if they did not exactly say it, that they 
 thought friendship such an absolute unity, that it 
 would be a less crime to worship two gods than to 
 love two friends ; and therefore, to bring it to its 
 perfection, it was necessary that all beside should be 
 despised and disregarded. Others, very young, and 
 of course soon to grow wiser, thought it consisted 
 ill the exact disclosure of your OAvn concerns, and 
 those of every body else, with which you might 
 chance to become acquainted ; others, that it requir- 
 ed such exact conformity in opinion, thought, and 
 feeling, as should make it impossible to differ ; and 
 others, that it implied such generous interference 
 even with the feelings as well as affairs of its object, 
 that it should spend itself in disinterested reproaches 
 and unasked advice. But however differing else, 
 all were sure that friendship but usurped the name, 
 unless it were purely disinterested, endlessly durable, 
 and beyond the reach of tune and circumstance to 
 change it ; and all were going forth in the full cer- 
 tainty of finding friends, each one after the pattern
 
 THE LISTENER. 85 
 
 of hor own imagination ; the first speaker only ex- 
 cepted, who was fully determined never to find any, 
 or never to trust them if she did. 
 
 I marked with pained attention the warm glow 
 of expectation so soon to be blighted, and reflected 
 deeply on the many heartaches with which they must 
 unlearn their errors, I saw that each one was likely 
 to pass over and reject the richest blessing of earth, 
 even in the very pursuing of it, from having sketch- 
 ed in imagination an unresembling portrait of the 
 object of pursuit. " When friendship meets them," 
 I said, " they will not know her. Can no one draw 
 for them a better likeness ? " 
 
 It is the language of books and the language of 
 society, that friends are inconstant, and friendship 
 but little to be depended on ; and the belief where 
 it is really received, goes far to make a truth of that 
 which else were false, by creating what it suspects. 
 Few of us but have lived ah'eady long enough to 
 know the bitterness of being disappointed in our 
 affections, and deceived in our calculations, by those 
 with whom, in the various relationships of life, we 
 are brought in contact. Perhaps the aggregate of 
 pain from this cause is greater than from any other 
 cause whatever. And yet it is much to be doubted, 
 whether nearly the whole of this suffering does not 
 arise from our own unreasonable and mistaken ex- 
 pectations. There are none so unfortunate, but 
 they meet with some kindness in the world — and 
 none, I believe, so fortunate, but that they meet with
 
 86 THE LISTENER. 
 
 much less than they might do, were it not their own 
 fault. 
 
 In the first place, we are mistaken in our expec- 
 tation that friendship should be disinterested. It 
 neither is, nor can be — it may be so in action, but 
 never in the sentiment — there is always an equiva- 
 lent to be returned. If not, it may be generosity, it 
 may be benevolence, but friendship is not the name 
 for it. As soon as we intermingle with our fellow- 
 creatures, we begin to form preferences to one above 
 another. The circumstances that decide tliis pre- 
 ference are infinitely various ; but be they what they 
 may, the movement in the first instance is purely 
 selfish. In the advances we make, the attentions we 
 pay, and the attempts to recommend ourselves to 
 their affections, it is our happiness, not theirs, of 
 which the increase is in our \dew. In some wav or 
 other, they pleased us before we began to love them ; 
 our friendship therefore is a purchase, not a gift ; a 
 part of the price is paid, and the rest is in exj^eeta- 
 tion. If we examine the movements of our own 
 hearts, we must be sure that this is the case ; and 
 yet we are so unreasonable as to expect our friends 
 should be purely disinterested, and, after having se- 
 cure<l their affections, we neglect to pay the price, 
 and expect they should be continued to us for no- 
 thing. We grow careless of pleasing them, incon- 
 siderate of their feelings, and heedless of the govern- 
 ment of our own tempers towards them — and then 
 we complain of inconsistency if they like us not so
 
 THE LISTENER. 87 
 
 well as when dressed out in our best for the reception 
 of their favour. Yet it is in fact we that are changed, 
 not they. 
 
 Another fruitful source of disappointment in our 
 attachments is, that while we are much more quick 
 in detecting the faidts of others than our own, we 
 absurdly require that every one should be faultless 
 but ourselves. We do not say that we expect this 
 in our friends ; but we do expect it, and our conduct 
 proves that we expect it. We begin also with be- 
 lieving it. The obscurity of distance, the veU that 
 the proprieties of society cast over nature's defor- 
 mity, the dazzling glitter of exterior qualities, baffle 
 for a time our most penetrating glances, and the im- 
 perfect \dsion seems all that we would have it. Our 
 inexperienced hearts, and some, indeed, that should 
 be better taught, fondly believe it to be all it seems, 
 and begin their attachment in full hope to find it so. 
 "Wliat wonder, then, that the bitterest disappoint- 
 ment should ensue, when, on more close acquaint- 
 ance, we find them full of imperfections, perhaps of 
 most glaring faults, and we begin to express disgust, 
 sometimes even resentment, that they are not what 
 we took them for. But was this their fault or ours ? 
 Did they not present themselves to us in a garb of 
 mortal flesh ; and do we not know that mortals are 
 imperfect, soiled with sin — nay, sunk so veiy, very 
 low in it, that however the outside be fair, the inte- 
 rior is corrupt and altogether vile ? He who knows 
 all, alone knows how corrupt : — the heart itself, en-
 
 88 THE LISTENER. 
 
 lightened by his grace, is more deeply in the secret 
 tlian any without can be — but if the thing we love 
 be mortal, something of it we must perceive — and 
 more and more of it we must perceive as we look 
 closer — and if this is to disappoint and revolt us, 
 and draw harsh reproaches and bitter recriminations 
 from our lips, there is but One on Avhom we can fix 
 our hearts with safety — and He is one, alas ! we 
 show so little disposition to love, as proves that, with 
 all our complainings and bewailings of each other's 
 faultiness, our friends are as good as will at present 
 suit us. 
 
 Another cause of mortification is, that we expect 
 too much from those who do truly and really love 
 us. We expect that they should prefer our interests, 
 feelings, and purposes to their own. This is not, and 
 cannot be. Truth has recorded many instances, and 
 fiction has invented an abundance more, in which, 
 on some gi*eat emergency, this has been the case ; 
 and in the common relationships of life, we may 
 every day see the most lovely and endearing instances 
 of self-negation in favour of those on whom our 
 hearts are fixed. But these are sacrifices, they are 
 efforts against the current ; they ought never to be 
 presumed upon, and never exacted, if it be possible 
 to avoid it. But instead of this forbearance, the 
 most willing hand becomes the most hardly taxed — 
 the more kindness we receive the more we demand 
 — the friend who professes to love us must yield 
 every thing for us ; bear every thing from us, and
 
 THE LISTENER. 89 
 
 do every tiling for us ; and if it come out at length 
 that he have interests, and purposes, and feelings of 
 his own, we are wounded and surprised, and exclaim 
 against the fallibility of human affections. Yes, they 
 are fallible, and they are limited, as all things finite 
 are ; and if we did not persist in disbelieving this 
 truth, wo need not suffer those bitter disappoint- 
 ments. There never was but One whose love con- 
 fessed no limit ; and he was more than man. The 
 more he was provoked the more he loved ; his kind- 
 ness grew upon the injuries that repulsed it, and the 
 greater the burdens heaped upon him, the lower 
 bowed his sacred head to bear them. His favour 
 neither grew on our deservings, nor is chilled by our 
 demerits ; he gives all and takes nothing in return ; 
 and the more we demand, the more we confide, so 
 much the more is he willing to bestow on us. But 
 this is the portrait of no earthly friend, and unless 
 it bear some resemblance to ourselves, we have no 
 right to expect it should be. 
 
 And then the mutability of all sublunary things — 
 Is it in the power of human constancy to fix them ? 
 However determined to keep them, can the plea- 
 sures of to-day be the pleasures of to-morrow, drunk 
 on with unsated appetite ? Does the waste of years, 
 and the growth of knowledge, and the change of 
 habits, make no change in our feelings and tastes ? 
 We part from our friend in the full glow of reci- 
 procal affection, and think to meet again exactly as 
 we parted. Our attachment may indeed outlive the
 
 90 THE LISTENER. 
 
 separation, and from youth to age be substantially 
 the same. But mean time the character of each is 
 slowly changing, new habits are acqiiii'ing, and new 
 judgments forming. We meet again and are sur- 
 pi'ised to find no more the unity of spirit that once 
 united us, the assimilation of feeUng that once made 
 our society so delightful to each other. And again 
 in bitter disappointment we inveigh against the false- 
 ness and versatility of those who once took so much 
 delight in us. But are they to blame ? Is it not 
 the common course of all things earthly, on which 
 changed and changeable is irrevocably written ? 
 
 And lastly, but not least productive of these pain- 
 ful issues, there is the false system under which we 
 form our friendships, as we do all things else that 
 concern us upon earth — a system of error as it re- 
 gards ourselves, our situation, and our destiny. We 
 forget that we are strangers and pilgrims upon earth, 
 hurried forward to a distant and far other state. Our 
 friends may be our fond companions by the way, 
 they may assuage our sorrows and heighten our de- 
 lights, and with a transient tenderness may hold our 
 hands and assist us in our task ; but their bosoms 
 must no more be our resting-place than any other 
 thing on earth — they are treasures that must be 
 parted from, they are possessions that time must 
 steal, they are goods that must corrupt and pass 
 away. Heaven has pronounced it so, and so it must 
 be. And if in this, as in all other things, we per- 
 sist in acting, feeling, and expecting, as if the world
 
 THE LISTENER. 91 
 
 were our home, and the things of it our lasting he- 
 ritage, instead of being, as they might, our sweetest 
 eousohition, our purest enjoyment, and highest zest 
 of life, our friendships must become a source of 
 mortification, chagrin, and discontent. 
 
 But are we, therefore, to say there is no such 
 thing as fi'iendship, or that it is not worth the seek- 
 ing ; morosely repel it, or suspiciously distrust it ? 
 If we do, we shall pay our folly's price in the for- 
 feiture of that without which, however we may pre- 
 tend, we never are or can be happy : preferring to 
 go without the very greatest of all earthly good, 
 because it is not what perhaps it may be in heaven. 
 Rather than this, it would be wise so to moderate 
 our expectation and adapt our conduct, as to gain of 
 it a larger measure ; or, as far as may be possible, to 
 gatlier of its flowers without exposing ourselves to 
 be wounded by the thorns it bears. This is only to 
 be done by setting out in life with juster feelings 
 and fairer expectations. 
 
 It is not true that friends are few and kindness 
 rare. No one ever needed a friend and deserved one, 
 and found them not : but wo do not know them when 
 we see them, or deal with them justly when we have 
 them. We must allow others to be as variable, and 
 imperfect, and faulty as ourselves. An old writer 
 has most forcibly said — " To say nothing of our 
 friends, will not the sinking of our own hearts below 
 the generous tenor of friendship, blast the fruits of 
 it to us ? Did we use so little aftection in making
 
 92 THE LISTENER. 
 
 a friend, that we need none to keep liim? Must 
 not Ave be always upon the stretch in some minute 
 cautions and industries, in order to content that 
 tender aiFection we would have in our friend ? Can 
 we make our love to him visible amidst the reserve 
 and abstraction of a pensive mind ? In our sanguine 
 hours do we not assume too much, and in our me- 
 lancholy think ourselves despised ? " Whether we 
 feel it or not, this is the truth of ourselves, and if of 
 ourselves, of others also. We do not wish our young 
 readers to love their friends less, but to love them 
 as what they are, rather than as what they wish 
 them to be — and instead of the jealous pertinacity 
 that is wounded by every appearance of change, and 
 disgusted by every detection of a fault, and ready to 
 distrust and cast away the kindest friend on every 
 trifling difference of behaviour or feeling, to culti- 
 vate a moderation in their demands, a patient al- 
 lowance for the effect of time and circumstance, an 
 indulgence towards peculiarities of temper and cha- 
 racter, and above all, such a close examination of 
 what passes in their own hearts, as will teach them 
 better to understand and excuse Avhat they detect in 
 the hearts of others; ever remembering that all 
 things on earth are earthly, and therefore changeful, 
 perishable, and uncertain.
 
 THE LISTENER. 93 
 
 No. X. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 Beside the several pieces of morality to be draw-n out of this vision, 
 I learned from it, never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy 
 the happiness of another ; since it is impossible for any man to form 
 a right judgment of his neighbour's sufferings. 
 
 Addison. 
 
 I DO not know whether my readers ever felt a de- 
 sire of the sort, but I have often thought it must be 
 pleasant to listen in the days of ^sop, when every 
 Thrush could offer counsel in a voice as sweet as 
 that with which she bids farewell to the departing 
 sun, and every butterfly could whisper a warning to 
 the frivolous and vain, before the cold wind numbed 
 her golden bosom. However remotely wandering 
 from the walks of men, however much condemned 
 to solitude and silence, he could hear something that 
 was worth the listing ; and worth the telling, too, 
 as the world has seemed to think ; since, for ages 
 after, it is content to read what the Fabler has ceased 
 to tell, and the birds and the beasts have so un- 
 kindly ceased to utter. 
 
 Perliaps my readers do not believe that it ever
 
 94 THE LISTENER. 
 
 has been so. That is a scepticism very unfavourable 
 to the reception of my story — but if it be so, I can 
 only say, that aU I repeat, I clid surely hear, and if 
 they listen they may hear it too — and perhaps they 
 will think with me, that since it cannot be the dis- 
 course of creatures rational, I do wisely to attribute 
 it to those we term irrational. Perhaps, could these 
 irrationals be heard in their own behalf, they woidd 
 say our fables do them much injustice. They have 
 shared our miseries, but not our sins. The wolf 
 devours the lamb because he is hungry, and the lamb 
 is the food that nature has appointed him : when he 
 no more is hungry, he will no more slay the lamb. 
 He obeys the hard necessity brought on him by man's 
 delinquency, and thinks and knows no wrong. But 
 the jealousy, and the pride, and the hard unkind- 
 ness, and the restless discontent, and aimless mis- 
 cliief, is all reserved for bosoms rational — we have 
 put into the mouths of the viper and the lion, words 
 of wi'ong that amid all created things, perhaps, were 
 never heard but from our o^vn. However this may 
 be, I must proceed with my tale ; and if my readers, 
 after a careful perusal, should be of opinion that I 
 was deceived, and that the creatures I saw and heard 
 were neither birds nor beasts, I willingly submit to 
 their decision. 
 
 One day — if it was not in the days of iEsop, it 
 must have been in some region not veiy commonly 
 known — I was wandering by myself in the fairest 
 of scenes, on the finest of days, and in the best of
 
 THE LISTENER. 95 
 
 luimours — How could I be otherwise ? It was a day 
 and a scene in which the spirit that dehghts in na- 
 ture's charms feels almost a painful struggle to 
 enlarge its powers that it may enjoy them more — It 
 was not hot, for the fi-esh breeze blew from the sea, 
 bearing witli it the perfume of the moss and herbage 
 over which it passed — It was not cold, for a briglit 
 autumn sun wanted yet some hours of setting ; and 
 if now and then a silver fleece passed over it as a 
 veil, it was but to change the tints and vary a pro- 
 spect nothing could improve. Either my mind was 
 that day free from cares, or in the overwhelming 
 sense of gratitude for the bounty that with so much 
 beauty clothes this perishable world, the remem- 
 brance of them was for the time absorbed ; could I 
 be dissatisfied where all besides was harmony and 
 peace ? Every thing was beautiful, and every thing, 
 as I thought, seemed happy. A crowd of living 
 creatures gave animation to the scene, and each one 
 appeared, in my delighted vision, exactly formed to 
 be what it was, and to do what it was doing ; and 
 could any one be other than itself, I thought it must 
 lose something of its fitness and its charms. Yonder 
 cold Worm, I said, that crawls in naked ugliness 
 upon the soil, and cannot rise from it, should I take 
 it up and lay it upon that rose, would thank me 
 little for my pains — it would pine on its beauty, and 
 starve upon its perfumes — and what would avail it, in 
 its earthy prison, the Beetle's golden wing, or the 
 velvet bosom of the fluttering Moth ? From nature's
 
 96 THE LISTENER. 
 
 largest work, to the least insect that frets the leaf, 
 each thing has organs, and feelings, and habits, 
 exactly suited to the place it is to fill — were it other 
 than it is, it could not fill its place — and being what it 
 is, were it removed to any other, it would surely be 
 less happy. The flower of the valley would die upon 
 the mountain's top ; and as surely would the hardy 
 mountaineer, now flourishing on Alpine heights, 
 languish and die if transplanted to the valley. The 
 Maker of the world, then, has made no mistakes, 
 has done no injustice — every thhig, as he has 
 arranged it, is what it sliould be, and is placed 
 where it should be, and none can repine, and none 
 complain. 
 
 I thought so, but I was mistaken — things are very 
 different when you come to look into them, from what 
 they appear on superficial observation. Viewed from 
 a distance, the troubled ocean seems an unbroken 
 surface ; go closer, it becomes a scene of tumult 
 and destruction. And I, alas ! was not destined to 
 carry home the delusion I had brought out, or had 
 falsely gathered in the contemplation of nature's 
 works, and the Creator's wisdom and munificence. 
 Instead of all being fitness, beauty, and harmony 
 serene, I had to learn that all was absolutely ^vrong, 
 and nothing could be altered Avithout being amended. 
 First, from the tall summit of a rocking Fir-tree 
 I heard the solitary raven thus bewail himself: — 
 "It is surely hard that I am doomed to dwell for 
 ever on the top of this tall tree, battered by every
 
 THE LISTENER. 97 
 
 storm that blows, and chilled by every bitter blast. 
 For many an age, my ancestors, they say, dwelt 
 here before me — but why must one be born to a des- 
 tiny not of one's own choosing ? Yon tiny Linnet's 
 nest, could I get into it, would suit my taste exactly, 
 and I might spend my days in quietness and peace." 
 
 "This element," said a Trout to liis fellow, as 
 they glided down the stream, " is neither healthy 
 nor agreeable. The sunbeam plays upon the surface 
 but to mock us, and never comes beneath to warm 
 our blood. There is no reason that ever I have 
 heard, why fishes have not as much right to fly in 
 the air as either birds or butterflies." — " True," re- 
 plied his fellow, " and we would try it in despite of 
 fortune, but that our lungs are so badly formed, I am 
 not sure we could breathe when we came there." 
 
 " I am a contented creature," croaked out a Frog 
 that sat crouching by the streamlet's side — " I like 
 my condition well enough, nor ever wish to live but 
 in this mud — yet I confess I see no reason why that 
 gay pheasant should wear such brilliant feathers, 
 while I have none. The gifts of Providence are 
 very partially tlistributed, methinks." 
 
 A bulky Cabbage (for in those days vegetables as 
 well as animals could speak), from an un weeded bed, 
 where without much care it had grown full large and 
 round, was just then looking through the window of 
 a greenhouse, and Avith no small bitterness of tone 
 exclaimed, " How blinded, how misjudging are 
 mankind ! While I, a most wholesome and useful 
 
 VOL. I, G
 
 98 THE LISTENER. 
 
 vegetable, am left here to grow as I may, through 
 summer heat and winter cold, these tawdry japoni- 
 cas, fit for nothing but to look at, are to be nursed, 
 and stoved, and watered. It is hard indeed to bear 
 the world's injustice!" — "And I," rejoined an Ox, 
 comfortably grazing in a field, who had, doubtless, 
 overheard the last remark, " had I the management 
 of this world's good, would have a very different 
 arrangement, and if any did not labour, neither 
 should they have food. I, who have toiled all day, 
 am fed on grass, and sent forth to gather it for my- 
 self, while yonder idle spaniel is reared on dainties 
 from his master's hand — but ere he be allowed to 
 eat, he ought to be yoked as we are, and sent forth 
 to plough." — " It is true," replied a team-Horse, 
 his companion ; "I see no reason why we, of animals 
 the largest and the best, should be obliged to do the 
 work for aU. Why should not those idle blackbirds 
 come down and prepare the ground for easting in 
 the seed, while we go sit upon the tree and sing tiU 
 it suits our appetite to come and pick up what others 
 sow ? " 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " whistled a pretty, painted Gold- 
 finch, with whom berries that day were rather scarce ; 
 " to what a hard destiny am I condemned ! Were 
 I yon ugly barn-door fowl, I should be fed and 
 sheltered for the sake of my eggs and chickens — but 
 in this sordid, selfish age, beautiful as I am, no one 
 cares for me, because I can give them nothing in 
 return."
 
 THE LISTENER. 99 
 
 And next there came buzzing by mc a fine gilded 
 Fly, fluttering and feasting itself upon every smaller 
 insect it could catch, till I began to wonder where 
 its appetite would be stayed — when, finely spun be- 
 tween the branches of a rose, a strong spider's web 
 caught the gay reveller, and held him fast in chains, 
 " So !" exclaimed the prisoner, " thus it is to live in 
 a world of treachery and crime ; placed by Provi- 
 dence at the mercy of every bloated spider ; the in- 
 nocent still the victim of the ba«e ! " 
 
 And so I went on and on, and listened and lis- 
 tened, and nothing could I hear throughout all the 
 creation I thouglit so beautiful, but plaints of dissa- 
 tisfaction, and charges of injustice: all were dissa- 
 tisfied with what they were, and injured because 
 they were not something else. My heart sunk with- 
 in me at the hearing — I listened no mwe, but I had 
 gained ample food for meditation. 
 
 Can it be then, I said within myself, that He, the 
 Beginning and the End of all things. Creator, Lord, 
 Disposer of the world, has done injustice to every 
 creature he has placed in it ? There are those, it 
 is true, who have made it what He made it not, and 
 have introduced for themselves sins and misei'ies, 
 ■which he at first ordained not — but it is not of these 
 we hear so much complaining — the cry perpetual is 
 against the providential circumstances, of nature or 
 of fortune, to which each is subjected. However 
 infidelity deny, or carelessness forget it, these cir- 
 cumstances do, and ever will remain in the hand of
 
 100 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Him who is Lord of all : therefore, every complaint 
 that is uttered against our fortunes, is a complaint 
 against him, for He assigned it. 
 
 From the cold dust which was all alike before his 
 spirit breathed on it, he moulded a world of creatures, 
 so vanous as none btit Deity could devise ; but end- 
 lessly variable as they were, each one was in its for- 
 mation minutely perfect ; not one had a want that 
 it had not the means of supplpng ; not one had 
 a faculty without some purpose for which it was 
 imparted. The more deeply we examine into the 
 secrets of the natural world, the more certainly and 
 surprisingly we find it so. Examine the minutest 
 flower, and see with what wonderful forethought, as 
 it were, it is supplied wdth organs, active, though to 
 all appearance motionless, to feed itself, to grow, 
 and to produce its fruit : not all alike, but each one 
 differently. Had they been all alike, all must have 
 grown on the same soil, in the same aspect — now, 
 from the hardy Lichen that braves the rigour of the 
 poles, to. the tender offspring of a tropical sun, there 
 are some that can thrive in all. There is no doubt 
 that of two plants of certain descriptions placed near 
 each other, each one from its different formation 
 will imbibe the different juices suited to itself; on 
 which its companion would have died, perhaps. It 
 is certainly not without a reason, whether that rea- 
 son can be traced or not, that one leaf is clothed 
 with silken hairs, while another has a coat of glossy 
 smootlniess. Why has the Yine the long, winding
 
 THE LISTENER. 101 
 
 tendril that never grows upon the oak? Why are 
 tlie seeds of the Mistletoe denied the power of root- 
 ing in the earth, and yet have a quality no other 
 seed possesses, of adhering to the bark of trees on 
 which they take root and live ? Wliy, but because 
 it is tlie place that Grod assigns them? More dis- 
 cernible still is the fitness of every thing in the 
 animal creation. Why has the Beetle rough harsh 
 scales upon its wings, when it could fly like the 
 Butterfly without them ? Plainly because it was 
 meant to dwell in holes and crevices, where without 
 them its wings would be broken and destroyed. 
 Why is the bill of the Sparrow drawn to a sharp 
 straight point, while that of the Hawk is curved and 
 hooked ? Because the Sparrow is to pick out the 
 minute seed from its hiding-place in the flower, and 
 the Hawk is to rend the flesh of the animals it feeds 
 upon. We know all this, and we admire it, and admit 
 the wisdom and beauty of the arrangement — it would 
 seem to us a thing most strange, perverse, and ludi- 
 crous, that the Frog, abiding in the muddy pool, 
 should sigh to be invested with the Pheasant's tail 
 — that the finned Trout should propose to bo flying 
 through the air, and the Cabl»age to be nursed and 
 stifled in the green-house. But, alas ! bears it no 
 resemblance to the things we hear and see elsewhere, 
 to something that we feel and in our folly utter ? 
 
 The same Being who created the animals and the 
 vegetable race, determined for us our powers, our 
 characters, and circumstances. So exactly right in
 
 102 THE LISTENER. 
 
 those, can it be here only he is wrong ? Can he 
 have placed one of us in a situation in which we 
 ought not to be^ cleniecE us any natural advantages 
 it would be desirable we should possess, or given 
 us powers and faculties' unsuited to the part he means 
 us to perform ? It is impossible. Our pride sug- 
 gests it ; our folly gives it utterance almost as often 
 as we speak of ourselves or our affairs ; scarcely any 
 one among us thinks he is by nature and fortune 
 where and what he should be. Yet not more absurd 
 are the complaints and wishes we have imagined in 
 the wiser brute, than those we hear from the lips of 
 beings capable of knowing and reflecting on their 
 absurdity — professing too to be aware from whom 
 all things are, and by whose will all things are 
 determined. 
 
 It is most true, indeed, that by man's defection 
 confusion has been introduced into the Creator's 
 perfect work, and that in one sense we are not and 
 cannot be what we ought to be, and what we should 
 desire to be. But while to this moral perversion 
 we are sufficiently insensible, our murmurs and com- 
 plainings are ever breathed against the natural and 
 pro\-idential portion assigned us upon earth. To 
 hear the language of society, one might suppose 
 that every individual in it had been wronged, by not 
 being or having something that he is not or has not. 
 How unfitted he is for the station he is in, how un- 
 fortunate it is that he happens to be so placed, how 
 liappy and how useful he might have been under
 
 THE LISTENER. 103 
 
 otlier circumstances, how hard is liis portion, how 
 unequal the distribution of things, how blind is for- 
 tune, how unjust is fiite, how inequitable is the 
 world in his behalf — what is all this but the lan- 
 guage of creatures who think they could arrange 
 the affairs of tlie world better than he who does it, 
 and understand the nature and propensities of men 
 better than he who made them ? 
 
 But far from understanding what is best for each 
 other, we may be assured we do not understand it 
 even for ourselves. We come into the world very 
 differently moulded and endowed, our minds as little 
 resembling each other as our persons : and equally 
 various are the portions to which we are born. The 
 circumstances of after life, as much the arrangement 
 of our Maker as our first introduction to it, make 
 even more difference perhaps than our original con- 
 stitution. The result is, that each one has character, 
 talents, powers, habits, feelings, necessities, and ca- 
 pabilities, as peculiarly his own and distinct from 
 others as his station in life, which, as we know, 
 can be occupied but by one. Now, whatever these 
 be, we may rest assured we have no right whatever 
 to complain : no injustice has been done us, and no 
 unfitness is imposed on us : where Proxddence has 
 placed us is where we ought to be ; and except in so 
 far as by our sin we may unfit ourselves, of which 
 we have little right to complain, we are what for 
 our situation it is best we should be. As much 
 right has the Worm to complain that he has not tlio
 
 104 THE LISTE>'ER. 
 
 Beetle's wings, or the Eaven that he is not as small 
 as the Linnet, as we to complain that we have not 
 the talents, the beauty, or the fortune of another. 
 As reasonable is it for the Ox to desire to sit upon 
 the tree and sing, while the Blackbird tills the soil, 
 as for men to envj and malign each other for being 
 differently placed and differently accommodated. 
 We cannot read, indeed, the fitness and propriety of 
 things in the afiairs of men as we can in the natural 
 world — because we know not our own hearts, the 
 cause and consequence, and eternal issues of God's 
 deahngs with us — but are we not bound to believe 
 it ? And if to believe it, to act, and speak, and feel 
 as if we did so ? Are we at liberty to suppose that 
 we alone of all created things are misformed, mis- 
 managed, and misplaced ?
 
 TILE LISTENER. 105 
 
 No. XL 
 EMULATION. 
 
 II faut rejeter non seulement ce faux eclat de I'esprit, mais encore 
 la prudence humaine, qui paroJt la plus serieuse et la plus utile, pour 
 entrer comme les petits enfants dans la simplicite de la foi, dans la 
 candcur et dans I'innocence des muuurs, dans I'horreur de pedie. 
 
 Fenelon. 
 
 As in the hazy darkness of the scarcely-breaking 
 twilight, every object is indistinct and uncertain, and 
 the more the eye searches the more it is bewildered, 
 and the foot moves uncertainly, unable to discern 
 between the firm greensward and the darkening 
 chasm — so obscured, so uncertain were the moral 
 perceptions of mankind, ere the daystar of Christian 
 truth rose upon our world. They who talked most 
 of virtue, and professed to love it most, and would 
 perhaps have loved it had they known what it was, 
 mistook the nature of the good they sought, and 
 took evil in its stead. When the great man of an- 
 tiquity prepared the tissue of moral beauty witli 
 which to di-ess himself for popular applause, pride 
 and selfishness were the thread with which he wove 
 it, the flowers he wrought in it were the evanescent
 
 106 THE LISTEinEU. 
 
 charms of time and sense. Examining the finest 
 specimens of Greek and Eoman virtue, what do we 
 find them ? The hero was one to whom the world 
 was a plaything, and men's lives a toy. His hard 
 bosom was forbidden every kindly emotion; every 
 tender sympathy was imperiously sacrificed to a stern 
 will determined on self-aggrandisement. He was a 
 traitor, a tyrant, and a robber ; yet he lived admired 
 »nd beloved ; and died, as he believed, the favourite 
 of the gods — atill looking to the laurel wreath as 
 his eternal crown, and the tortures of his enemies 
 as the amusement of his Elysium. The sage, the 
 philosopher, though a more harmless, was a more 
 self-deluded being still. He sought the applause of 
 the world in affecting to despise it, and did but call 
 off his senses, passions, and feelings from the things 
 around him, to fix them solely and entirely on him- 
 self. He mistook for greatness the contempt with 
 which he rejected all the good that God or man 
 could offer, and for magnanimity the defiance with 
 which he braved Heaven itself to subdue him. And 
 these were the high standards of heathen virtue, by 
 others admired at a distance, and at a distance 
 imitated. A self-sufficing pride, an impatient sus- 
 ceptibility that would not suffer the slightest touch 
 of wrong, a bitterness of revenge that never pardoned 
 it — these were among the foremost of a heathen's 
 virtues. In considering the institutions of Lycurgus 
 and other ancient legislators for the education of 
 youth, harsh and unnatural as they appear to us, we
 
 THE LISTENER. ]07 
 
 are struck with their fitness to effect the purpose 
 designed in them, of rearing their children to what 
 had been accepted as the standard of moral ex- 
 cellence. Having determined that there was more 
 disgrace in the discovery of a theft, than in the theft 
 itself, the Spartans pursued a consistent purpose in 
 teaching their children to steal adroitly ; and thus 
 throughout, we find the institutions of the wisest of 
 heathen nations admirably fitted to make their chil- 
 dren what they considered that they ought to be — 
 virtuous according to their dark perceptions — heroes 
 and wise men, such as we have described. 
 
 Perhaps my readers are thinking, and my critics 
 making ready to assert, that I am talking instead of 
 listening ; and lamenting what has bei-n, rather than 
 observing what is. But they are mistaken. Little 
 connected as may seem the subjects, I never should 
 have thought of Cato, or Lycurgus, or Csesar, or 
 Diogenes, if I had not listened one whole day in 
 mute attention to the progress of education in a 
 certain school-room, and foUo^dng thence into the 
 world its tutored inmates, traced in idea the results 
 of all the lessons I had seen them learning. Wlien 
 they were taught music, it was expected they should 
 play — when they were taught French, it was ex- 
 pected they should understand it — and except in 
 some few unhappy instances, I suppose the results 
 corresponded with the expectations. But some 
 things I observed were taught them that it was not 
 expected they should learn, or desired they should
 
 108 THE LISTENER. 
 
 practise — and if, in after life, they evinced an un- 
 expected proficiency in these studies, few, perhaps, 
 of their instructors would recognise the fruit of their 
 own labours, the produce of the seed their industry 
 had sown. 
 
 Parents who brought theii' daughters to this school 
 — at least I heard it of so many, that I am inclined 
 to suppose it of the rest — had said, either that they 
 were so stupid they could not, or so clever they 
 would not, pursue their studies well at home ; and 
 they thought that the emulation excited by rivalship 
 with others would much tend to promote their pro- 
 gress. The governess who should venture to con- 
 tradict this introductory clause would probably lose 
 her school ; added to which, it is an admitted rule, 
 that what every one says must be true; by parity 
 of reasoning, what one is always hearing one must 
 believe ; and conscientiously, and in pure good faith, 
 this lady undertook what was asked of her, and per- 
 formed what she undertook — the young ladies were 
 powerfully stimulated by the very means prescribed, 
 and made a very rapid progress in every tiling — 
 Alas ! yes, in much that was unperceived and unsus- 
 pected by those who meant not to teach them any 
 thing but good — unperceived by any one, perhaps, 
 but myself, whose peculiar business there it was to 
 look out for what was wrong ; not maliciously, as I 
 beg my readers to believe — but as the physician 
 enquires for the s^taptoms of the disease he appre- 
 hends.
 
 THE LISTENER. 109 
 
 In the centre of a long and carpetlcss floor, around 
 a coverless table — a cold and uncomfortable pro 
 spect, that I hope had not the same chilling influence 
 on their faculties as it would have on mine — and in 
 defiance of all consequent spine-complaints, placed 
 upright upon a backless form, there sat a large circle 
 of ladies, not many years apart in age, and consi- 
 dered, I suppose, from their being classed together, 
 on something like a level of attainments. They 
 were recei\'ing, it ai:»peared, a lesson of French from 
 the master, and producing for his inspection the 
 lessons conned or -written in his absence. A pert- 
 looking little creature, whose confidence bespoke a 
 priority her size could not have claimed, handed up 
 her exercise Avith all the air of certain and cheaply 
 earned success, chattered through her lessons as if 
 they had grown upon her tongue ; and in a tone of 
 carelessness withal, that seemed determined to show 
 it cost her no pains. Monsieur, too happy to escape 
 the murderous garbling of his native tongue, to 
 which he was perpetually condemned, reiterated his 
 " Bon, bon," " Brave, brave," with many a whis- 
 pered and broken sentence — " Bien habile" — " tres 
 petite " — " bonne fille " — the last being withal by no 
 means proved. The little lady turned her black 
 eyes round the circle with a look that said as plain 
 as words, "Now, stupid girls, do the best you can, 
 for you cannot help yourselves." This young lady 
 was too well bred to laugh or mock ; but as I watched 
 her through the remaining lessons, a slight move-
 
 110 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ment of the upper lip when any one made a blunder, 
 a certain wriggle on her seat whenever their igno- 
 rance caused detention, betrayed sufficiently her im- 
 patience of their slowness, and triumph in her own 
 superiority. 
 
 A pretty, pensive-looking girl, taller by half the 
 head than her companions, in whose meek eye a 
 sensitive timidity beamed almost distressingly, had 
 the misfortune to be addressed with a preliminary 
 exliortation to do as well as the demoiselle who had 
 preceded her. The exordium was fatal — a lesson, 
 very respectably done, and giving e\'ident tokens of 
 a great deal of pains, was begun and finished ^vith a 
 blush, that, to put the best construction on it, con- 
 fessed a painful sense of inferiority, and a feeling of 
 shame, that having done the best, it was not better. 
 Many others followed — among the rest a heav-y- 
 looking girl, whose air of cowed despondency par- 
 ticularly took my attention — the helpless blockhead 
 of her class, whose right to be hindmost had never 
 been disputed since she came into it. Her ill-formed 
 lips could no more pronounce the words than her 
 memor}^ could retain them. Yet this poor girl was 
 urged, and upbraided, and reminded how much she 
 was bigger than those who were less, and how little 
 less than those who were bigger, and how absolutely 
 inferior to them all; and the air of discourasrinsr 
 indiffi^rence with which the books were thrown back 
 to her, was only equalled by the sullen acquiescence 
 in disgrace with which they were received.
 
 THE LISTENER. Ill 
 
 My attention was at this moment distracted by a 
 voice behind me raised something above concert 
 pitch, in reproaches against a chihl wliose ruddy, 
 vacant face, and large bhie eyes, beamed any thing, 
 at that moment, but a sister's feeling, for having 
 allowed a younger sister to get so much before her ; 
 while the sister's swarthy countenance and deep- 
 sunk eye, bespoke a power of intellect with which 
 the little Hebe might have contended long enough. 
 In this corner was a scene of excitation equal to any 
 thing the most anxious mother could desire for the 
 stimulus of her daughter's talents. The ladies here 
 were all upon their feet in a circle round their 
 teacher, answering questions made to them in suc- 
 cession, and taking places, as it is called, according 
 to the correctness of the replies. It was not on their 
 own proficiency only the victory now depended — all 
 honours must be won upon a rival's blunders ; and 
 like the riders on a balanced, plank, the uprising of 
 the one was proportioned to the downgoing of the 
 other. Never were pugilists met with looks of more 
 determined contention than these gentle wrestlers 
 for literary honour. I could not mark without a 
 pang the look of disappointment in a child who knew 
 the answer, when she found the one above her knew 
 it too ; and the eager delight with which another 
 heard the blunder that gave scope for the display of 
 her own proficiency. Envy, malice, jealousy, con- 
 tempt, every evil passion of which their little bosoms 
 were susceptible, played in succession on their fea-
 
 112 THE LISTENER. 
 
 tures : their teacher, mean tune, as if she took them 
 all for virtues, went on adding fuel to the flame, in 
 praises, taunts, and comparisons, without any regard 
 to the passions she was exciting, or the feelings she 
 was perverting. 
 
 I heard much more, but I have told enough for 
 my purpose. This is the stimulant which, under the 
 gentle name of Emulation, is thought indispensable 
 to the successful education of children. The term 
 itself is found in Scripture classed with no fair 
 company — but we mind not the term, which we are 
 aware in the original admits of a good as well as a 
 bad sense. Is the tiling itself good ? It is asserted 
 that cliildren will not learn without it — that com- 
 })etition is essential to their progress. We doubt it 
 much : we see not why the praise absolute may not 
 be as enticing as the praise comparative. But let 
 this point be conceded, if it must, and be it admitted 
 that a girl will learn more in the hope of outshining, 
 or the fear of being outshone, than she can do either 
 from the desire of knowledge, or a wish to please her 
 instructor, or any other motive. Still the question 
 is not at rest. 
 
 The daystar of truth has risen upon our world, 
 and opened to our view a standard of moral excel- 
 lency such as heathens never dreamed of. Pride, 
 the stronghold of a heathen's wtue, has been disco- 
 vered to be a soul-destroying sin — the very sin that 
 drove angels from Heaven, and man from paradise. 
 Strife, resentment, ambition, rivalry, contention, enyj^.
 
 THE LISTENER. 113 
 
 self-preference, have been determined to be sins — the 
 eternal blessing has been pronounced by lips divine, 
 not on the successful contender for this world's praise, 
 but on the meek in spirit and the pure in heart. 
 Our children are Christians, devoted in baptism, 
 and, as every pious parent hopes, hereafter to be 
 accepted as the servants and followers of Him, who, 
 when he comes to acknowledge them as such, will 
 not ask what they know, but what they are. Do we 
 act as consistently as heathens did, teaching them 
 that all the attainments and all the knowledge in the 
 world were a dear-bought purchase at the expense 
 of- one right feeling, of one solid Christian virtue ? 
 I fear not. Let any one of my young readers but 
 watch the movements of her own heart, and judge 
 of the fact ; for she is competent to do so, however 
 young. "WTiat is her motive for the extraordinary 
 exertions she is making in some particular study 
 to-day ? The wish to gain approbation and esteem, 
 a desire to make the utmost use of the talents given 
 her, perhaps the simple wish to excel in that parti- 
 cular study for her own gratification — or is it the 
 fear that some one will do better, that some one she 
 desires to surpass will come up to her ? Suppose 
 the point gained, and herself held up as an example 
 and a shame to those who have done worse, she is 
 delighted ; but why ? Would she have been equally 
 delighted if every one else had done as well ? Or 
 suppose she has failed — why is she depressed ? With 
 regret that she did not make more exertion, and a 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 THE LISTENER. 
 
 resolve to repair it to-morrow ; or with despite that 
 others succeeded better, envy of their superior talents, 
 and dissatisfaction with her own ? If the former be 
 the case in any of these supposed probabilities, the 
 stimulus of rivalry was clearly imnecessary, for her 
 feelings were independent of all comparison — if the 
 latter, she gained improvement perhaps, she gained 
 an accomplishment perhaps, and she went to bed 
 satisfied that she had done well. But she had been 
 proud, or jealous, or envious, or discontented. Pride, 
 enxy, jealousy, and discontent, are sins ; by every 
 indulgence of them God is oifended ; by every ex- 
 citement of them an evil passion is fostered and 
 strengthened. 
 
 The nature of this seed is but too well proved by 
 the harvest it produces. In society, among women 
 especially, a close observer might be astonished, if 
 less inured to it, at the little idea of wrong attached 
 to feelings of this description. There are few women, 
 perhaps not one, who, if she knows herself, can say 
 she was never pained by the praises of another, nor 
 ever depreciated the merits of another to enhance 
 her own. If we say this is natural, and cannot be 
 prevented — yes, but it is hateful, it is sinful, it is 
 diabolical. The Gospel has been sent to disclose to 
 us our state of natural delusion, by the shedding on 
 our bosoms of a purer light ; and it has ranked these 
 feelings in the catalogue of moral crimes, most offen- 
 sive to God and man, and deserving of eternal con- 
 demnation. We, in our great wisdom, keep the
 
 THE LISTENEK. 115 
 
 ojiinions of our heathen ancestors ; and, in our great 
 madness, act upon them, teach them to our children, 
 and say they cannot be educated without tliem. 
 Then let them remain for ever ignorant. We 
 strangely miscalculate, even for our happiness in 
 this world, when we sacrifice character to acquire- 
 ments of any kind. That is indeed to part from our 
 decent and necessary clothing, for the purchase of 
 some brilliant jewel with which to deck ourselves. 
 I surely shall not be suspected of too lightly estima- 
 ting the advantage of mental cultivation and polite 
 accomplishments. By every proper motive, by every 
 sinless incentive, we may provoke our pupils to exer- 
 tion — to the gifted we may say. Make use by assiduity 
 of what you have — to the less endowed. Make amends 
 by assiduity for what you have not ; and by praise or 
 blame enforce the precept. But, if we mus*t choose 
 between the moral and the intellectual good — if the 
 culture that is to raise the flower, must foster with 
 it the poisonous weed, we hold the utmost acquisition 
 of human intellect light indeed. Its future fruits 
 will never allay the passions excited for its acquisi- 
 tion. WTien sin becomes the burden and the shame 
 of a bosom struggling, and yet unable to repress it, 
 learning and talent will not whisper peace. When 
 the applause, and the triumph, and the approbation 
 of men, are past and forgotten, the evil thought, the 
 sinful emotion, will remain upon the conscience ; 
 and, unless mercy blot it thence, on Heaven's eternal 
 records.
 
 116 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. XII. 
 EVIL SPEAKINO. 
 
 'Tis slander, 
 
 Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tonpue 
 Outvenoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath 
 Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
 All corners of the world. 
 
 One day — I suppose my readers do not exactly 
 care what day, or what sort of a day, or at what 
 hour, or whether in spring or autumn, in sunshine 
 or in clouds — I tell these particulars sometimes, when 
 1 want to fill out my paper ; but, on this occasion, I 
 have enough to say without them. So it was one 
 day — I had been walking a considerable distance 
 through lanes where nature, unchecked by any inter- 
 ference on the part of man, brought forth together, 
 in boundless luxuriance, her bitters and her sweets 
 — the poisonous Nightshade twined her branches 
 round the honeyed Woodbine — the Bindweed laid its 
 head of pure and spotless white on the hard bosom 
 of a neighbouring Thorn — the Thistle and the Hare- 
 bell grew side by side. It was with difficulty, in some 
 places, I had made my way through the midst of
 
 THE LISTENER. 117 
 
 them ; and sometimes the Brambles caught my dress, 
 and sometimes I set my foot upon a Thistle — and 
 when I attempted to gather a flower, the thorns 
 pricked and the nettles stung me. But I do not 
 remember that I felt any surprise, or any sort of re- 
 sentment, that they did so. I neither wondered they 
 should grow there, nor desired that they should be 
 rooted out. I cannot recollect, indeed, that I had 
 any thoughts upon the subject^ — it was so natural 
 they should be there, and being there, that they 
 should do what they did — all seemed too much of 
 course to claim any observation. 
 
 Lea\'ing these wild and lawless paths, I entei-ed 
 by a gateway into grounds, that, though scarcely 
 extensive enough to claim the title of a park, were 
 yet approaching to it in character, very beautiful, 
 and of no inconsiderable extent. Though the house 
 was not in sight, no one could doubt it was the pad- 
 dock of some goodly mansion, on which the owner 
 expended constant attention, and which it pleased 
 him to adorn and beautify. The magnificent trees, 
 feathered even to the ground, showed the care with 
 which they had been protected from the browsing 
 of the cattle. The flowering shrubs told, by their 
 sunny looks, that they or their forefathers had been 
 bred in something less than fifty-two degrees of lati- 
 tude. A slender Leveret stole fleetly over the turf, 
 scarcely bending under its steps ; and a Squirrel, that 
 looked as if he had been just combed and dressed, 
 was leaping among the trees — but the Cur that
 
 118 THE LISTENER. 
 
 should on tor there was doomed to death, by notice 
 Avritton upon a board ; and his owner too, unless the 
 spring-guns could distinguish betAveen the honest 
 man and the thief. And now my path was broad 
 and straight, and beaten very hard : having no more 
 to force my road through narrow ways and paths 
 uncertain, I began to walk freely and carelessly ; oc- 
 cupied Avith the altered beauty of the scene around 
 me, I did not look where I was treading. Nature 
 was not displaced by art, for she was here in all her 
 splendour, in the full-dress garb with which taste, 
 and industry, and wealth, had clothed her, yet decked 
 in no- other beauties than her own. My mind be- 
 came occupied with admiring, that He, who had 
 made a world so beautiful that nothing could be 
 wanting to it, had yet left to its inhabitants the 
 means of irapro\ang it, and adding to its charms — 
 for doubtless, even in Eden, it was the business of 
 man to train and beautify what nature made : and 
 now that it has become his harder task to humour 
 the unwilling soil, and provide against a capricious 
 climate, a mass of the most exquisite materials re- 
 main to him, and his toil and care are repaid by 
 every combination of beauty taste can suggest, and 
 skill accomplish. While I was thinking all this — 
 one may think a great many wise things in less time 
 than one can say them — and not regarding where I 
 walked, I set my foot upon some low thistles, negli- 
 gently loft upon the path, and while it tingled from 
 their thorns, felt very much inclined to upbraid the
 
 THE LISTENER. 119 
 
 thistles that grew where thistles should not, and the 
 gardener that did not dig them up, and the master 
 that did not keep a better gardener. But why did 
 that excite surprise, and almost indignation here, 
 which a short time before did not awaken so much 
 as a reflection ? 
 
 The world is a wide wilderness. Things good 
 and excellent are strangely mixed in it with corrup- 
 tions the \ilest and the basest. The most enormous 
 crimes crowd round and stifle the most generous 
 feelings. Natural virtues, the broken outlines of 
 that image once impressed upon the heart of man, 
 now indistinct, and faint, and almost gone, are found 
 in such base company — it is true of nations as of 
 individuals — that on the most brilliant character are. 
 marked the foulest spots. We have but to read the 
 history of men in their natural state, to learn that 
 this has been so — we have but to study the lives and 
 characters of persons under no other influence than 
 that of natural feeling, to be assured it is so still. 
 But in this wilderness there is a garden, which He 
 who made it surely takes pleasure in. He has fen- 
 ced it round, he has gathered out the stones from it, 
 he has planted it with the choicest vines. Separated 
 from an idolatrous, self-adoring world, drawn round, 
 as it were, Avith the compass of his most holy word, 
 as fiir as the light of truth has in its spirit reached, 
 the Redeemer has aj^jiropriated to himself a people 
 under the appellation of Christians, to worship him, 
 and love him, and, as far as in their weak humanity
 
 120 THE LISTENER, 
 
 they can, to follow in his footsteps. He has left this 
 fair garden under no ordinary culture : He knows 
 that the soil he made it from is ever what it was, 
 disposed to bear the brier and the thorn that choke 
 the goodly produce of his care. But what could 
 have been done more for it, that he has not done ? 
 The mid-day of Gospel truth shines on it : the most 
 holy precepts and most sanctifying doctrines are 
 shown forth in it — Like the light dues of the morn- 
 ing that fall, we see not whence, the Holy Spirit sheds 
 its influence on the heart — the sweetest hopes and 
 richest promises are whispered abroad for our en- 
 couragement. The result is, in some respects, what 
 we might expect it to be. It is true that sin springs 
 up every hour in the corrupted bosom, but it is not left 
 to flourish there unchecked ; a purer morality takes 
 place of nature's blindness, a stronger principle comes 
 in aid of nature's weakness. Have we not reason, 
 then, to be more startled, and more concerned, if, in 
 walking through this cultured ground, we meet with 
 wrongs that should not flourish there ? Is it there 
 we must be cautious of the thistles and the briers 
 that prick and entangle us at every step ; and walk 
 as insecurely as among those who know no better 
 guide than their own perverted will ? 
 
 It should not be ; but it is so, in one respect at 
 least ; there is one evU to which Christianity puts no 
 stop ; even real, vital, spiritual religion, as far as I 
 have seen, puts no stop to it ; with some few, very 
 few, individual exceptions.
 
 THE LISTENER. 121 
 
 So much I have said in introduction, the better to 
 excuse the earnest offence I have taken against wliat 
 is conmionly treated as a jest. To say I listened is 
 superfluous here ; for whether you will hear, or whe- 
 ther you will forbear, it is impossible to escape the 
 sound — Slander, E^•il speaking, — what shall I call it, 
 for it has many names ? From one end of society to 
 tlie other, among the grave and the gay, tlie wise 
 and the foolish, where shall you escape? You might 
 as well live on the ocean's edge, and say you will not 
 list the breaking of the waters. We must hear it, 
 and we have heard it so long, that I fear we have lost 
 all idea of guilt attached to it. And most of all, I 
 fear that our children cannot escape the infection, 
 but must grow up with the same habits of doing, 
 insensibly and without reflection, what their mothers 
 and grandmothers have done before them. It is for 
 theii" sakes, if not directly addressed to them, I have 
 chosen the subject — the thistle may be eradicated 
 when it first springs up ; but let it root itself, let it 
 get firm possession of the soil, and the task becomes 
 diftieult, if not impossible. 
 
 Evil speaking — I prefer that word to others, be- 
 cause it includes truth as well as falsehood — per- 
 vades every sort of society ; the only variation is in 
 the different sort of tilings people amuse themselves 
 with saying of each other. In a frivolous fashion- 
 able, polite circle, I observe it has regard to things 
 external — to the persons, fortunes, pedigree, and 
 connexions of its subjects. Somebody's grandfather
 
 122 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ■was something that he should not have been, or, at 
 least, that he had rather not have been, if he could 
 have helped it. Somebody has by no means so much 
 fortune as they seem to have, and some are guilty of 
 having lived more years than any body supposes. 
 Those who sing cannot sing, and those who dance 
 cannot dance, and somebody's nose is the wrong 
 shape, and somebody's hair is the wrong colour, and 
 one lady's diamonds are paste, and another lady's 
 plate is borrowed — one is ostentatious because she 
 talks too wisely, another is weak because she talks 
 too foolishly. I am sure, and so do these — ^but it 
 all amounts to nothing ; and, saving the loss of time 
 and words, I do not think there is much harm done ; 
 for no one charges the other with any wrong, pre- 
 cisely because they do not care whether she commits 
 it or not — their estimate of evil makes their evil 
 speaking idle rather than injurious. 
 
 In a society a little more rational, as if the rank 
 weed flourished better the better were the soil, it is 
 the character, the conduct, the vital interests of life, 
 that are invaded. Every fault exposed, every luck- 
 less word repeated, thoughts, motives, and feelings 
 ascribed, where the plain act was all that could be 
 known — this is bad enough ; for it loosens the bonds 
 of kindness between man and man^ it excites preju- 
 dices and suspicions, wounds the feelings, and affects 
 the earthly interests — but this is not the worst. 
 There is a sort of society we usually call religious, 
 or serious society — company, that is, from which
 
 THE LISTENER. 123 
 
 the mention of God and our eternal interests is not 
 excluded as impolite discourse, nor shunned as a 
 melancholy topic ; where right and wrong are wliat 
 God appro\es and disapproves ; where, when earth 
 is spoken of, Heaven is not forgotten, and when 
 wrong is mentioned, sin before God is meant. Is it 
 possible the weed can flourish here ? Alas, it is here 
 it has its most bitter, its most cruel growth — for the 
 subjects of slander here are life and death — eternal 
 life and death eternal. The sinner whom God spares 
 and waits for, a fellow-sinner scoffs at and despises 
 — the stain that Jesus washes with his tears, a fel- 
 low-sinner eagerly exposes — ^the penitent bosom that 
 Heaven has comforted, has every wound made to 
 bleed afresh by the taunts and the whispers of his 
 fellows. They whom, for their Saviour's sake, the 
 Father has declared he will not judge, on earth are 
 more hardly judged than any, by those who stand 
 alike condemned and alike obtaining mercy. The 
 errors and inconsistencies the Almighty bears with 
 men pronounce at once to be decisive. The axe 
 which mercy has suspended yet another and another 
 year, and Jesus in Heaven, perhaps, is even now 
 entreating should be withheld another year to these, 
 man would lay instantly to the root of the unfruit- 
 ful tree. Do we say that no real Christian does 
 so? Real Christians — God forbid that I should 
 think them otherwise ! — say it — and if their words 
 be so adverse to their meaning, as I hope they are, 
 ia it not time they were better suited ?
 
 124: THE LISTENER. 
 
 We are not here speaking of what those who say 
 it know to be false — that is a crime that bears an- 
 other name, and though under one false colouring 
 and another, it veUs its blackness oftener than it 
 should, no one under its right name will venture to 
 defend it. We have spoken of this elsewhere. Our 
 subject is of that manner of evil speaking in which 
 we believe what we say to be true. People are apt 
 to think there is no harm in saying what we know 
 to be true ; but let them be aware that the things 
 we know are very, very few — what Ave think, be- 
 lieve, conjecture, or hear, we can by no means be 
 said to know. I may know that a person did such 
 an act, or said such a word — in saying that he did 
 so, therefore, I cannot risk a falsehood : but if I did 
 add one thing more, if I ascribe a motive, a cause, 
 an intention, a feeling, to that word or deed, I can- 
 not know that what I say is truth, for these are 
 things that can be certainly known but to God him- 
 self. And if I speak against another in their cha- 
 racter and disposition — I may have very good 
 grounds for my decision, and the best I can have ; 
 but it does not amount to knowledge. For instance 
 — I hear a person say one thing to-day and the con- 
 trary to-morrow, and I presume myself justified in 
 saying she is false and insincere. By no means — it 
 may arise from an instability of character, a rapid 
 transition of feeling, or uncertainty of judgment, 
 which, though a great weakness, is not the vice with 
 which I charged her. We know that the same dis-
 
 THE LISTENER. 125 
 
 ease will not show it.self by the same symptoms in 
 different constitutions, neither do resembling symp- 
 toms always imply a similar disease. So the act 
 that with us would be the result of one feeling, in 
 another mind may be the result of a very different 
 one. And, alas ! we do not even know our own 
 hearts : we are deceived in every movement, in every 
 motive and affection of our bosoms. — How then can 
 we persuade oiu'selves we know what is passing in 
 another ? 
 
 But suppose our evil speaking be truth, — certain, 
 indisputable truth. Are we justified ? Say first, 
 whether you have never done the thing you desire 
 to conceal — never said the thing you would blush 
 to hear repeated — never thought the thought you 
 would not for worlds that any one should read. K 
 never, then go and tell the worst you know, say the 
 worst you think, of all around you. There is One 
 in heaven who knows : He hath said, With what 
 measure ye mete it shall be measured to you again 
 — but never mind, zealous propagator of the truth — 
 go on to tear away the veil with which your neigh- 
 bour tries to hide his faults — the time is not quite 
 come, when, if some one veils not yours, the rocks 
 and mountains will not serve you for a covering, and 
 truth will be sufficient to prove you deserving of 
 everlasting misery. 
 
 Yet this is not all. God is taking account of 
 something mortals overlook. What was your motive 
 for that injurious truth you told this morning ? For
 
 126 THE LISTENER. 
 
 tliat remark you made to another's prejudice, too 
 ti'ue to be disputed ? You will say you had no bad 
 motive : but did you consider before you spoke, 
 •whether you had or not ? It will not do to run a 
 risk in this : while you are keeping the register of 
 others' faults with so much justice, there is One 
 more just than you, who registers your thoughts 
 and every secret motive of your heart. Jealousy is 
 sin — envy is sin — strife is sin — imkindness, retalia- 
 tion, anger, hatred, variance, aU are sins — nay, e\Tl 
 speaking itself is declared in holy writ to be so. 
 Will you risk the accumulation of sin upon your 
 soul, and swell the dark catalogue that is against 
 you, for the mere sake of setting the characters 
 of men in their proper light, and undeceiving every 
 body as to their neighbours' actions ? 
 
 That those who make light of sin in themselves 
 and sport of it in others, should do this, we need not 
 so much wonder : but to return again to those who 
 call themselves religious, distinctively from a care- 
 less and unbelieving world. You know, or pretend 
 to know, the extent of your nature's corruption — 
 you bewail before Heaven your inability to conquer 
 it — you declare there is absolutely no good in you, 
 and that the remembrance of your sins is an intoler- 
 able burden. How then can you ventm-e to appoint 
 yourselves the judges of your fellow-creatures, and 
 take delight in exposing and talking of their faults ? 
 Do you not know the difficulty of conquering one 
 native and deep-rooted sin ? Do you not know the
 
 THE LISTENER. 127 
 
 tears a Christian sheds in secret for the sins he can- 
 not conquer ? Do you not know that the path of life 
 is dangerous, and full of temptations we have not in 
 ourselves the power to resist ? And yet you go on 
 criticising, censuring, exposing one another ; Avhis- 
 pering from house to house of this person's incon- 
 sistencies, and that person's neglects, and one should 
 not do this, and another should not sav that — Oh ! 
 it is little, little indeed, with all your profession, you 
 know of your own heart, or it would surely find you 
 other work ! If you think any one is more unde- 
 serving in the sight of God than you are, you have 
 a step downward yet to make, ere you reach the 
 place of safety at your Sa\'iour's feet : and when you 
 come tliere, whatever God, who reads all hearts, 
 may think, you, who read only your own, will be- 
 lieve that it is worse than any other. And oh ! if 
 you did really know, so well as you profess to do, 
 the agony of conscious sin to one who hates it, you 
 would not by your hard speeches add one feather's 
 weight to the intolerable burden. Would you have 
 mocked at Peter when he denied his Lord ? "NMien 
 Paul besought relief for the weakness that exposed 
 him to Satan's influence, and was denied, would you 
 have reproached him with it ? Yes, you would — but 
 remember that your Saviour did not. 
 
 If such is the evil, where is the remedy ? "\Miat 
 the best principle cannot exterminate, may seem to 
 admit of none. Take up the thistle before it has 
 taken root too deeply. Where there is not a niali-
 
 128 THE LISTENER. 
 
 cious love of mischief in the heart, which I trust is 
 very seldom, we speak evil because we always have 
 done so, and because we have always heard it done. 
 Let the young be watchful against the habit, and 
 resist the example. To assist them in this, the first 
 thing is to induce a habit of thinking as well of 
 others as they can ; for those who think no evii will 
 say none. You hear something you are disposed to 
 blame — but you may have misconstrued the words ; 
 the speaker may have used stronger expressions 
 than he was aware of; he may have regretted them 
 as soon as spoken. Accustom yourself to such re- 
 flections as these. You see, or are told of, an action 
 you disapprove — perhaps there was some reason for 
 it no one knows ; some temptation that at least 
 extenuates it ; some mistake that led to it. Try to 
 believe so. You are shocked by defects and vices of 
 character in others — say to yourself, ere you con- 
 demn. Some neglect of education, some bad example, 
 some physical disorder, or mental imbecility, may 
 have caused all this — you will be in no hurry to 
 speak the worst while you are thus endeavouring to 
 think the best ; and it will besides keep you in bet- 
 ter humour with your fellow-creatures, and conse- 
 quently more amiable in your deportment towards 
 them. The next thing is to accustom yourself to 
 watch your own actions, and the secret movements 
 of your own heart, and to lay by the account of 
 them. Then, when you are disposed to censure, 
 there will come the thought, I once felt that evil
 
 THE LISTENER. 129 
 
 passion too ; I remember when I committed that 
 same fault ; I have not that wrong propensity, but 
 then I have this other, which is as bad. This habit 
 will make you humble ; and whatever makes you 
 humble, will make you Icxiient. Another preventive 
 is, to store your mind with other matters, and pro- 
 vide yourself with better things to talk about ; for it 
 is the want of mental occupation that makes us 
 so busy with other men's matters, and the Avant of 
 something to say that makes us speak so much evil 
 of each other. This is the reason women are more 
 disposed to it than men ; and would be a reason, if 
 there were no other, for the solid and extensive cul- 
 tivation of their minds beyond what their immediate 
 duties may seem to require ; and it is a reason why 
 religious young women must not neglect their ta- 
 lents and give up their literary pursuits. And, lastly, 
 — ^let those who would resist this habit, consider the 
 ditRculties, the dangers, the sorrows, that lie in the 
 path of all to their eternal home — the secret pangs, 
 the untold agonies, the hidden wrongs — thus the 
 heart will grow soft with pity towards our kind. 
 How can I tell what that person suffers ? That fault 
 will cost them dear enough without my aid. Thus 
 you will fear, by a hard word, to add to that which is 
 too much already, as we shrmk from putting the 
 finger on a sore. And, lastly, accustom yourselves 
 to entreat Heaven for your fellow-creatures, asking 
 pardon and forbearance of God towards what is 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 THE LISTENER. 
 
 wrong in them — then I am sure you will not be 
 eager to exi^ose, and hasty to condemn them. Strenu- 
 ously accustom yourself to all these things from your 
 childhood upward, and it may be that the disgrace- 
 ful Thistle will not grow.
 
 THE LISTENER. 131 
 
 No. xm. 
 
 PEGGY LUM. 
 
 There are some 
 
 Who look for nothing in the time to come, 
 Nor Rood nor evil, neither hope nor fear, 
 Nothing remains or cheerful or severe. 
 
 • ***••* 
 Leave her, and let us her distress explore ; 
 She heeds it not— she has been left before. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Mr young readers have often complained to me 
 that I toll no stories. They might as well complain 
 that the baker sells no sugar-plums, and the draper 
 deals not in trinkets — all very good things in them- 
 selves ; but of that of which there is enough — we have 
 somewhere made bold to say, too much — there needs 
 no supply of ours. Yet, lest my young friends should 
 believe I think it wrong to write a story, or that I 
 cannot wvitc one, I intend, for once, to conciliate 
 their favour, and compound a story, which, contrary 
 to the ordinary practice of story-tellers, I beg to as- 
 sure them, is not true. This is a bold assertion. Am 
 I going to lay aside my office, and, ceasing to listen 
 to the realities of life, take an imaginary flight among
 
 132 THE LISTENER. 
 
 things that neither are nor can be ? Most surely not. 
 The skilful lapidary finds his jewels in the mine, 
 shapes them and sets them, and the work is his ; but 
 still the stones are real, and on their reality depends 
 the value of his work. So have I sought in nature 
 the materials of my fiction ; it is made up of truth, 
 though in itself not true — I tell nothing that I have 
 not heard and seen, though not in the form in which 
 I give it. I listened for my materials before I wove 
 my tale. 
 
 One of the hottest days of an English July, about 
 the hour at which it is usual to set out for a summer- 
 evening's walk ; when the soil had been pulverised 
 by sixteen hours of sunshine, and the light breeze, 
 departing with the sun, had left the atmosphere 
 more suffocating than by day — excepting so far as a 
 sensation of dampness might persuade one it was cool 
 — I too went out to walk, because others did ; though 
 I could not but observe in the dusty hue and drag- 
 ging gait of all I met, an intimation that all would 
 rather be at home, if they knew what to do with 
 themselves there. The grass was damp, and the 
 paths wore dusty : and I was obliged at last to 
 betake myself to the sea-beach, which, as all men 
 know, is not tlie most easy walking in the world — so 
 that I was just beginning to consider how far it was 
 really agreeable to walk on a summer evening, when 
 my attention was withdrawn from myself by the 
 appearance of a filthy, squalid child at my side. It 
 is impossible to imagine an object more uninteresting
 
 THE LISTENER. 133 
 
 and loathsome. The vulgar ugliness of her features 
 seemed rather the result of misery, starvation, and 
 ill-humour than of natural deformity : her originally 
 fair skin was burnt and freckled into fiery redness, 
 and her once pale hair clotted into unequal shades of 
 darkness by filth and exposure ; her size bespoke 
 her about seven years old ; but her shrivelled form 
 and the worn expression of her countenance gave to 
 her person an unnatural appearance of age. I looked 
 at her a few moments ; she seemed to be doing 
 nothing, thinking nothing, and feeling nothing ; and 
 questioning within myself what miglit be the use, or 
 aim, or object of existence in such a brute-like form, 
 I addi'essed her with the usual question of what was 
 her name. She deigned me no reply, but sufficiently 
 intimated by her looks that she took it to be no busi- 
 ness of mine. I tried again, by asking where she 
 lived. At this she impertinently laughed, but still 
 returned no answer ; and carelessly throAving a stone 
 or two into the water, turned her back and walked 
 off". My curiosity was now excited, and I determined 
 to follow her. This was no easy matter to my 
 patience, for she clung round every post she came to, 
 paused to throw the gravel, or make faces, at every 
 dirty child she' met ; and put h'er fist through the 
 railing of every garden, to tear away the flowers, 
 which she immediately scattered. At last she stopped 
 at much such a dwelling as I might have expected — 
 a misei'able hovel close to the high-road, formed of 
 the shattered remnant of a boat. The dwelling con-
 
 134 THE LISTENER. 
 
 tained a single room, with a door standing open, a 
 low mud chimney, and a small window without glass, 
 of which tlie wooden shutter was already closed, or 
 probably had not that day been opened. 
 
 My guide entered ; and to her astonishment, and 
 apparently no great satisfaction, so did I. In one 
 corner, or rather one half of the hovel, was a sort 
 of bedstead, without bed or mattrass, on which lay 
 the figure of a woman, nothing beneath her but a 
 threadbare blanket, or above her but a sort of ragged 
 coverlid, of which it was impossible, through the dirt, 
 to discern the colour or texture. There was in her 
 features what had been, and that but recently, both 
 youth and beauty — yet now they were haggard, harsh, 
 and almost ghastly. She looked at me, but made 
 no motion of surprise or pleasure, nor gave the least 
 expression of civility. " You seem ill, good woman ?" 
 I said. " Yes," she replied, " and please God I shall 
 soon be worse." 
 
 I was much struck with her manner of speaking 
 these words, totally free from the coarse broad accent 
 of the country people in these parts, yet strongly 
 marked by a deathly hollowness of voice, and the 
 reckless daring of a hardened heart. " Is death, 
 then, desirable to you?" I said. "What cannot be 
 worse may be better, they say," she answered. 
 
 " But may not your case be worse," I answered, 
 " in the world of which you know not yet the " 
 
 She interrupted me with a long " Ay ! " that at 
 once announced the carelessness and the impatience
 
 THE LISTENER. 135 
 
 of one who listens to an old story of which the 
 interest is past. 
 
 I scarce knew how to proceed ; I took a seat that 
 had not been oftered me, and di-awing it close to her 
 bed, attempted to put as much kindness as I could 
 into my voice and manner while I questioned her of 
 her illness and condition. She showed no unwill- 
 ingness to conununicate, but stiU there was a hard- 
 ened despondency in all her answers, that seemed to 
 reject assistance or consolation ; and, to my assu- 
 rance that I would give her any thing she needed, 
 she only replied with indifference, " Ay, I dare say 
 you will ; I shall not want any thing long." 
 
 She replies to me, I thought, as to one who has 
 done her wrong — but that is impossible. Willing to 
 try another point, I reverted to the child, and asked 
 if it was her only one — " Ay, please God !" she an- 
 swered again. 
 
 " My friend," I said, " that word is often in your 
 mouth, but it does not seem to me that you hold it 
 in much reverence." 
 
 " As much as others, belike," the woman answered. 
 Again there was something in her tone, which im- 
 plied that, however bad she might be, she did not 
 consider me any better. 
 
 " Has that child of yours no employment ? Does 
 she not go to school?" 
 
 " She may do what she can when her mother is 
 gone," said the wi-etehed woman, with some emotion ;
 
 136 THE LISTENER. 
 
 " and I suppose tliey will teach her what they taught 
 me." 
 
 I was inexpressibly moved by this first symptom 
 of feeling ; I had observed, too, a delicacy of person 
 and a correctness of expression, that belied the stern 
 ruggedness of her voice and manner, and I was 
 determined to know more. "It does not seem to 
 me, good woman, that you have always been in this 
 situation; have you been always so badly off?" 
 
 " Never till I deserved it," she answered, while an 
 almost convulsive agony distorted every feature, and 
 her eyes grew liquid with tears, which no mention 
 of her sufferings or her wants had before extracted. 
 
 " I should like to know your story," I replied : — 
 *' There is One above who is the sinner's friend, and 
 who " • 
 
 " He is not mine ! " she eagerly subjoined, " nor 
 ever has been since " 
 
 " Since you neglected him and broke his laws ? 
 but perhaps now, if you " 
 
 " Ay, ay !" said the woman, with her former sullen 
 air, " you need not tell me about that — they taught 
 me all that ; but they did not mind it, and I did not 
 mind it — and," looking steadfastly in my face, " you 
 do not mind it, I dare say." 
 
 This Avoman, thought I, is neither ignorant, 
 thoughtless, nor unfeeling. Some deep-rooted me- 
 mory of wrong, some fatal impression from past 
 events, remains upon her mind, and makes her what
 
 THE LISTENER. 137 
 
 she is ; — and I determined to pursue my inquir\^ till 
 I traced her story and her sufferings to their source. 
 I visited her often, and gained her confidence, and 
 by degrees extracted from her the following melan- 
 choly tale, which I give as in her own simple words, 
 tliough not all at once, and, in exact order, received 
 from her : — 
 
 " My name was Peggy Limi. My father kept a 
 poulterer's shop at the corner of the High Street, 
 and he had no chUd but me. The farthest I can 
 remember is, that he taught me on the Sunday even- 
 ing the Lord's Prayer and the Belief, which he-told 
 me was my religion ; and for what he called my 
 learning — for having but one child, and being well 
 to do in the world, he was determined I should have 
 both — he sent me to a day-school in the next street, 
 for which he paid sixpence a-week, being twopence 
 more than the schools to which most of my acquaint- 
 ance went ; and this, of course, made me a greater 
 person than they. But this was not my only distinc- 
 tion ; I had a clean coloured frock twice a-week, wore 
 white stockings, and had my shoes blacked every 
 mornina: ; for mv father said his child should be 
 always decent, though she wore no finery. There 
 
 was not in the town of H so happy a child as 
 
 Peggy Lum, nor one so envied. My sense of supe- 
 riority gave me a feeling of high responsibility for 
 my conduct. I would not, for the world, have been 
 heard to use an e\dl word, or have been seen playing 
 in the streets, neither should it be ever said that I
 
 138 THE LISTENER. 
 
 tore my books or puckered my work ; these were 
 accidents that befell all beside, but never could be 
 charged to Peggy Lum, the boast of the mistress, 
 and the pride of the school. 
 
 " \Yhen I was twelve years old, my mother sug- 
 gested that it was time I learned to be useful, and I 
 was accordingly kept at home, to clean the house 
 and pick the poultry : but that I might not lose my 
 learning and my religion, I was allowed to attend a 
 Sunday school, superintended by some excellent 
 ladies in the parish. Here Peggy Lum was equally 
 distinguished above her fellows. She never came too 
 late, she never wore flowers in her bonnet, whispered 
 at church, or forgot the text. Every lady took notice 
 of my good manners, said kind things to me, and 
 what was of more consequence, took extraordinary 
 pains in instructing me. I could read my Bible well, 
 but I had hitherto never understood its meaning, 
 nor indeed had ever supposed it had a meaning. 
 Those kind ladies explained it to me all, and espe- 
 cially the commandments, which I had been taught 
 to repeat by heart ; and some things they told me, I 
 
 remembered, alas ! when but I shall come to it. 
 
 And so I grew up, the neatest, quietest, and civilest 
 girl, as they said, of all the school ; and when at 
 fifteen my parents said it was time I should go out 
 to ser\iee, there was quite a dispute among the ladies 
 who should have me. I was disposed of at last to 
 a family of respectability in the town, of which some 
 of the ladies had interested themselves about the.
 
 THE LISTENER. 139 
 
 school ; and I was not a little satisfied with the per- 
 suasion that I should continue to be bettered by 
 their precepts and example. It was my place to 
 attend on the ladies, and sometimes help to wait at 
 table, and answer the bell ; and most happy still was 
 Peggy Lum in the approbation and kind treatment 
 she met with ; and every night when I went to bed 
 — for I had been taught now from w^hom all good 
 things come — I gave thanks to God for the fair por- 
 tion he had allotted me on earth. 
 
 *' While I was in this situation, there came one 
 day a single rap at the door, which I opened ; a 
 woman presented herself, and with a mysterious air, 
 and sort of undertone, drew from beneath her apron 
 a bundle, which she gave me, and bade me take 
 it to the ladies, but not let any body else see it. I 
 hesitated, for I remembered that when I was at the 
 Sunday school, the ladies taught me whatever needed 
 concealment was likely to be wrong. The woman, 
 seeing my hesitation, whispered, with a significant 
 look, ' Some silks, ma'am, some silks — you'll please 
 to show them to the ladies.' Not having any reason 
 to give why I should not, I did as I was bidden, and 
 conveyed the parcel up stairs, rather anticipating a 
 reproof, though I knew not why. By no means. 
 The ladies spread the contents of the bundle on the 
 table, and eagerly descanted on their merits ; and 
 very soon the woman was desired to add her presence 
 to the council. I now understood the matter — to 
 every fault found to the texture or the price, the
 
 140 THE LISTENER. 
 
 vender answered that they were French ; though 
 from the frequency of the question, it was evident 
 the ladies did not themselves know whether they 
 were or not. It just came once into my mind, that 
 these ladies used to tell us it did not signify whether 
 our gowns were coarse or fine, so they were neat 
 and becoming our station : yet now it seemed of great 
 importance to them whether the silk were French or 
 EngUsh, though they could not tell which it was 
 ■when they saw it — but then I recollected that to be 
 isure they were ladies, and I was a servant, and that 
 might make a great diiferenee. At last some pur- 
 chases were made, and the woman once more placed 
 the bundle under her apron. The ladies asked if 
 she was not afraid to carry it, and what she would 
 do if she met any one. ' You'U be pleased, ma'am/ 
 she said, * to let this young woman put me out at 
 the back-door, and just look that no one is about, and 
 tell the other servants that I came about some old 
 clothes from your ladyships, if they should see my 
 bundle, just.' To my great surprise the ladies assented. 
 Never before had I heard them assent to a falsehood, 
 or connive at a deception — but then they knew best, 
 and it was no business of mine. Happily no one 
 seeing her, I escaped the falsehood I was desired to 
 tell. 
 
 " I waited that day at table — there was some 
 company, and the subject of the morning pxu'chases 
 was brought up. A gentleman asked the ladies if 
 they felt no scruple upon the subject of smuggling.
 
 THE LISTENER. 141 
 
 They replied, that they did not see any liarm in it. 
 ' And pray, ma'am,' said the gentleman, ' do you see 
 any harm in stealing ?' I thought of the eighth com- 
 mandment. The lady smiled assent. ' And may I 
 ask you what is stealing?' I thought I could have 
 answered that, for they had told me often enough 
 in explanation, that it was taking that which belonged 
 to another ; and now they replied something to the 
 same purpose. * And may I further ask, is the duty 
 you evade, or the revenue you lessen, by the pur- 
 chase of smuggled goods, your own or another's?' 
 The ladies replied, that defrauding the government 
 was not the same as defrauding an individual. The 
 gentleman asked in what part of the law of God such 
 a distinction was made or intimated. The ladies 
 coidd not point out such a passage, and I could not 
 myself think of one ; but I supposed there might be, 
 since I was sure they knew the Scripture better than 
 I. Some one said she did not see why a portion of 
 the profit of manufactured goods should belong to 
 the government. ' You know, madam, probably, 
 why this house and grounds belong to you.' — ' Be- 
 cause they belonged to my father, and therefore are 
 mine by natural right.' — ' I beg your pardon — by 
 natural right every thing belonged to him who took 
 it first — and there are places, and have been times, 
 when your father's property would not be yours.' — 
 ' But now it is mine by law.' — ' Exactly so — and he • 
 would commit theft who should deprive you of it. 
 By law the profits of the revenue are another's, and
 
 142 THE LISTENER, 
 
 not yours ; and pardon me, you commit theft if you 
 appropriate it to yourself, or in any way deprive the 
 rightful claimant.' — ' But these laws are oppressive 
 and injurious, and ought to be abrogated.' — ' That 
 admits of diiference of opinion — but at present it is 
 law ; and if every one may break the law that does 
 not please him, there is not a malefactor in the 
 kingdom but may say the law that condemns him is 
 a bad one.' I did not understand any part of the 
 reasoning — but I concluded that, as my ladies were 
 so very good, they most likely were right, and that 
 there could be no harm in smuggling. One of them 
 said, that to be sure it might not be quite right, and 
 that in the purchase of spirits, tea, &c., where it was 
 only to save the duty, she should hesitate to smuggle 
 — but in articles that could not lawfully be purcha- 
 sed at all, she was obliged to do it. ' Certainly,' 
 replied the gentleman, ' if it is more necessary to you 
 to wear French silk than to do right.' I opened 
 my ears wide at this ; for I remembered how many 
 times I had been told, it never could be necessary to 
 do wrong ; that to do right was the most important 
 of all things — and by the very lady, too, who now 
 said she must do what she allowed was not quite 
 right, because she wanted a certain sort of dress. 
 But it was not for me to be wiser than my betters. 
 The dinner was ended, and I left the room ; and 
 excepting when I repeated the eighth command- 
 ment, or saw French silk now and then by chance, 
 I do not remember that I thought any more about
 
 THE LISTENER. 143 
 
 what I had heard, till the sad days that I am going 
 to tell of. 
 
 " Mean time my years went on. The ladies liked 
 me, and made me presents, and increased my wages : 
 and in all the house it was who but Peggy Lum. 
 And now I began to save a little money, besides 
 buying myself now and then a good book, such as my 
 mistress recommended me, over and above a prayer- 
 book with gilt edges, and a large-print Bible. And 
 when my mother fell sick and died, I was able to 
 buy for her many little comforts she had not got, 
 besides sitting often by her bed, and explaining the 
 Bible to her as it had been explained to me — and 
 many and many were the times she said it was a 
 comfort to her death-bed that her Peggy had turned 
 out so well — and sure it was a comfort to me to hear 
 her say it — and many times I gave thanks to God 
 for all his mercies ; for I knew it was He who had 
 made me what I was ; and with all my heart I praised 
 him that I was Peggy Lum and nobody else ; — little 
 did I then think what I should come to ! 
 
 " By this time I was tAventy years of age, and as 
 comely a young woman, so they said, as any in the 
 parish. I had a great many suitors — but I always 
 consulted my ladies about them, and they generally 
 persuaded me not to marry, because, as they said, I 
 was better off. I thought so for a while ; but at last 
 I began to think the time was getting on, and I had 
 better settle myself; so I was married, one Mid- 
 summer day, to a young man who had been a gar-
 
 144 THE LISTENER. 
 
 dener in a gentleman's family, and hav-ing saved a 
 little money, was going to take some ground, and 
 raise fruit and vegetables for the market. To be 
 sure he had not quite so much learning as I had; 
 and having never been to a Sunday school, he did 
 not so well understand his Bible and Catechism; 
 but he was honest, sober, and industrious, and loved 
 his church, and bore a ^ery good character ; and my 
 mistresses said if I wished to marry, I could not do 
 better — and he was besides a very good-looking 
 young man : so we were married, and all the ladies 
 went to church with us, and we had great feastings, 
 and crowds of lookers on, and all the parish knew it 
 was Peggy Lum's wedding. 
 
 " And now I was surely happier than I had ever 
 been before ; and I wondered how God should never 
 be tired of blessing me. ,1 had a little cottage in the 
 garden which was all my own. It is true my kitchen 
 was not so good as that I had left at my mistresses', 
 nor my fire so bright, nor my bed so soft, nor my 
 table so plentifully spread — ^but then it was my own. 
 And it is true I worked harder, for I had more to do 
 than to walk up and dovm stall's and wait upon the 
 ladies — but then I worked for myself and those I 
 loved, and not for liire : and who does not know the 
 difference ? And who ever looked back from the little 
 that is her own to the much that was not hers ? The 
 rich leavings of my mistresses' table were never so 
 sweet to my taste as the pork I had salted for my- 
 self, and the cabbage that grew in my own husband's
 
 THE LISTENER. 145 
 
 garden. I had children — Ah ! and brave children 
 were they too, as ever mother's eyes have looked 
 upon — as straight as beautiful ; their white hair 
 curled upon their heads ; their eyes " 
 
 Here the wretched woman's voice began to falter, 
 the tears chased each other rapidly down her ghastly 
 cheeks, her eyes wandered towards the corner where 
 her unsightly offspring was skulking, as if to make 
 a comparison between what she remembered and 
 what she saw — but it was all too much : an agony 
 of unutterable feeling convulsed her frame, and for 
 that time closed her narrative. 
 
 As the unfortunate Peggy Lum was enabled from 
 time to time to renew her story, the following was 
 its melancholy purport : — 
 
 "My husband cultivated most industriously his 
 little garden, and for a time it seemed to answer to 
 his toil. The pease and beans he raised, I gathered 
 and carried to market — I weeded his beds, and I 
 watered his strawberries ; and when he grumbled at 
 the prospect of a bad crop, I told him the times and 
 the seasons were with the Lord, and that we should 
 be content — for so I had been taught while I was 
 young. When Saturday night came, we reckoned 
 up our gains, and saw what we had taken above what 
 our rent and our expenses came to ; and it was 
 always enough, bating now and then a little, to live 
 on for the next week. And light Avere our hearts, 
 and glad were our bosoms, on the Sabbath day, that 
 followed such a reckoning ; what remained to us 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 THE LISTENER. 
 
 was our own — it was all we wanted for that week ; 
 and before the next the cherries would be ripe, or 
 the potatoes would be fit for digging, or something 
 would be sure to come in to supply our daily neces- 
 sities. And so we Avent on, and so we prospered, 
 for a year or two. But Grod was tired of us, or we 
 were tired of him ; or he knew, as well he might, 
 that we only served him while he blessed us, and 
 should disobey him as soon as things went wrong. 
 Some way or other our fortune took a turn. My 
 husband had a long illness, and was obliged to hire 
 a man to keep his garden — and then, when the doc- 
 tor's bill came in, we did not exactly know how to 
 pay it, and sold oft' all the potatoes we were used to 
 keep for winter, when they would fetch better prices 
 — and when winter came we had not the jiotatoes to 
 take to market, and so on Saturday night there were 
 no profits, and we were obliged to live on credit all 
 the week. And when summer came again, there 
 was an old score to pay oft' — and it was a bad year 
 for gooseberries, and my children had the measles — 
 and the next- winter was worse than the last : the 
 rent was behind hand — and to be sure it did grieve 
 my foolish heart when Easter Sunday came, and my 
 children could not have their new bonnets, as they 
 were used to do, and their mother before them. But 
 oh ! I was happy then — happy when worse befell — 
 when the rent could not be paid, and the garden 
 was to be given up, and the furniture was to be sold : 
 and my own little cottage, and the roses I had
 
 THE LISTENER. 147 
 
 planted, and the honeysuckles I had trained, and all 
 my fine things, were to pass over to another. Oh ! I 
 was ha]>py even then, to what I was in the times 
 that came after — for then it was no fault of mine. 
 
 <« We got into a hut by the roadside ; my husband 
 went out to day-work, and I earned now and then a 
 shilling at charring and one way or another ; and 
 when we might have wanted bread, there came often 
 to my door a lady or so, that had known me in my 
 better days, and give me a shilling for old friends' 
 sake, biddhig me trust to Providence. Thus even 
 here we did not much amiss, if we had but been 
 contented. But it happened one day — oh ! luckless 
 woman that should live to see that day ! — we had 
 been more short of money than usual — to spare my 
 husband's meal at night, I had not eaten any thing 
 myself that day — the childi'en's frocks were getting 
 very ragged, and I had not the means to buy them 
 new ones — I was just folding them up, after putting 
 the brats to bed, and my wicked heart was getting 
 ready to murmur against God, when a handsome 
 carriage stopped in the road before my door ; two 
 ladies, richly dressed, alighted from it, and, desiring 
 the coachman to tlrive about, advanced to the door 
 of my poor dwelling. I could not directly guess 
 what they wanted, for they were strangers, and they 
 looked about them more as if they came to do some 
 harm than any good : so I curtsied, and waited till 
 one of them, still looking behind her, asked if I did 
 not sell gloves. I told her no, for that to be sure
 
 148 THE LISTENER. 
 
 was a plain case. She still hesitated, as if she did 
 not believe me, and said she had been directed to 
 this cottage. I then recollected there was a cottage 
 further np the row, where some people lived who 
 were known to be smugglers ; and though I had 
 never had any acquaintance with them, I supposed 
 they might sell gloves, and answered the lady ac- 
 cordingly, pointing out the house ; but surely, as I 
 yet held in my hands my children's ragged frocks, 
 I did wish I had something to sell that they would 
 like to buy. The ladies went away — and, alas ! my 
 foolish woman's heart went after them, and in my 
 wicked curiosity I resolved to see what they were 
 going about ; so I followed under pretence of show- 
 ing the way, and loitered about the casement to 
 listen. Dozens by dozens the gloves were produced, 
 and this pair and that pair were chosen, till there 
 was quite a pile of them ; and then out came the 
 silks, and the shawls, and the stockings, and after 
 all out came the money ; and many a golden piece 
 glittered on the table, and many a bank-note was 
 unfolded. And whilst my eyes rested upon them 
 wishfully — ' One of those single bits of gold,' I 
 thought, ' would serve my hungry babes with food 
 for many and many a day, and replace the ragged 
 frocks besides.' The ladies went away, and so did 
 I, — they to their carriage, and I to my hovel — but 
 if their hearts were at rest, mine was not ; envy and 
 discontent were awakened in my bosom ; my children 
 were asleep, and my husband was not come home ;
 
 THE LISTENER. 149 
 
 I set about to get his scanty supper, and for the 
 first time in my life found no heart for the task — for 
 the first time since I came into it I left the floor of 
 my house unswept, and my children's tea-cups un- 
 washed ; and sat down to ruminate upon what had 
 passed. The silks and the gloves, and the gold and 
 the notes, were running in my head. ' It is no 
 wonder,' I said, ' that Dame Willum's children are 
 better dressed than mine, since money comes in so 
 fast. Yet Dame Willum never toils as I do ; and 
 her husband is not sober and industrious as mine is ; 
 and if the world says true, neither the one nor the 
 other is any better than they should be.' I knew 
 that Dame Willum's husband was a noted smuggler, 
 and a very bad man ; and therefore I need not have 
 envied them their riches — but evil was in my heart, 
 and the tempter was surely at my elbow ; I never 
 thought of this, but began to consider of the advan- 
 tage of being a smuggler, and having plenty of money 
 to receive. Conscience was not altogether silent, 
 for I had always considered smugglers a bad set of 
 people ; but then if there was no harm in smuggling, 
 they need not be more Avicked than others. And 
 now, though it was many years agone, it came into 
 my head, as naturally enough it might, what I had 
 once heard and seen in my mistresses' house — in those 
 happy days, every moment and every circumstance 
 of which was written in my grateful recollection. 
 My ladies had said there was no harm in smuggling 
 — my ladies had bought smuggled goods — what was
 
 150 THE LISTENER. 
 
 I, that I should esteem myself wiser than they ? 
 Had they not taught me to fear God and under- 
 stand his commandments, and would they be doing 
 wrong ? 
 
 " I had just settled this point to my satisfaction, 
 or rather to my inclination, when my husband came 
 in. He looked a little surprised at the disorder of 
 the house, and my sitting idle — but he was a quiet 
 man, so he said nothing, and sat down to his supper. 
 Ha\ing waited a little while in patience, he said, 
 * Peggy, where's the Bible ? ' — for ever since we 
 were married, and that was many a year now, I had 
 gone on as my ladies first persuaded me to begin, 
 with reading a chapter in the Bible to him every 
 night while he ate his supper. I took the book 
 down — ^but alas I though I was not conscious of it, 
 the Bible and I were no longer of a mind. What 
 wonder, then, I felt but ill-disposed to read it I — I 
 turned over the leaves — ^I could not find my place — 
 I lost it again as soon as I found it — at last I got 
 tlirough a few verses, but it would not do : my 
 thoughts were elsewhere ; and, closing the book — 
 
 " ' Jem,' I said, ' Dame Willum's cliildren have 
 food while mine are starving.' Jem looked amazed, 
 and well he might — for never in all my troubles was 
 he used to hear the language of complaint from me. 
 ' Our children, Peggy, have eaten the bread of 
 honesty ; and though it has been sometimes but a 
 hard morsel, they have thrived upon it, and no man 
 can say they have robbed him to come at it.'
 
 THE LISTENER. 151 
 
 " ' There are wiser in the world than we, Jem, 
 who do not take smuggling to be so much a sin.' 
 
 " ' Belike there may,' said Jem, who was not much 
 a man for arguing, ' but I have thanked God often 
 that I am no smuggler : and I do not suppose any 
 smuggler ever tlianked God that he was one.' 
 
 " ' But our children are getting older, Jem, and 
 they should ha\e some schooling — and if the free 
 
 trade is an honest one ' 
 
 " ' I pretend to no learning, Peggy — but a trade 
 that brings men to the prison and the gallows is not 
 apt to be an honest one.' 
 
 " ' But I know those that think the law has no 
 
 right to take men up for such things, and ' 
 
 " ' 'Tis like enough it hasn't — but I do not see 
 what good that would be to me, if I were in prison, 
 and could not get out.' 
 
 " ' One might as well be in prison,' said I, ' as 
 living in this hut with our poor children ragged and 
 starved about us, and we without the means to feed 
 and clothe them.' 
 
 • " And so we left talking for that time, and went 
 to bed. They who remember the first step into 
 some mlful sin, may know how I went to sleep that 
 night — and they who know what it is to have a 
 wrong purpose in the bosom, with a determination 
 to pursue it, may know how I felt when I awaked. 
 In my dreams I saw a strange confusion of things : 
 sometimes the golden pieces glittering on my table 
 — sometunes the vessel tossed upon the waters, and
 
 152 THE LISTENER. 
 
 my husband struggling with the waves — Gloves, 
 silks, prisons, chains, coaches, king's officers, and 
 fine-dressed ladies — all jumbled themselves together 
 in my fancy. Never, never till then had I known 
 such slumbers or such a wakening. And well they 
 might be such — for my days of honesty and inno- 
 cence were done ! " 
 
 Wlien the wretched woman reached this part of 
 her narrative, her whole voice and manner changed* 
 In telling the story of her better days, she seemed 
 to have recalled the spirit of them. Her voice was 
 gentle and subdued, her manner simple and affect- 
 ing ; and the tears that fell from time to time might 
 well have passed for those of chastened and peniten- 
 tial sorrow. It was but a passing impression, aris- 
 ing from the recollection of early happiness. Now 
 her face resumed its sternness, her voice its bold 
 and reckless daring — the tear no longer fell ; but 
 in its place there was an agonised expression in her 
 eye, too vivid almost to be looked on without a 
 shudder. 
 
 With a view to still her increasing vehemence, 
 " Peggy," I said, " your sin was doubtless great, but 
 it was not wilful — you did not then know the wrongs 
 or foresee the consequence of your advice." 
 
 " Ma'am," said the woman eagerly, " I did know, 
 I did foresee. But for me, he had been now an ho- 
 nest man. He knew I had more learning than he, 
 and always believed what I said — he knew how re- 
 ligiously I had been educated, and that I had known
 
 THE LISTENER. 153 
 
 Grod and the Bil)le before he thought of either, and 
 he did not think I should tell him wrong. It was I 
 who persuaded him — I sent him into the company 
 that corrupted him — I sent him to pass his nights 
 on the wild ocean — I sent him to his death — and 
 perhaps — but there at least I shall go too, and share 
 the mischief I have done him." I entreated the 
 woman to proceed calmly with her story ; for I saw 
 it needed a stronger power than mine to whisper 
 peace to such a bosom. She proceeded — 
 
 " I did not accomplish my purpose all at once, 
 but from time to time I renewed the subject. When- 
 ever v/e were short of food, I said I knew where it 
 was to be had ! Whenever I saw Dame Willum's 
 brats, I said they were better off than mine, though 
 I knew the contrary. Sometimes, indeed, when the 
 wind blew loud all night, my heart misgave me — 
 and sometimes, when I was reading the Bible, my 
 conscience smote me — but I would not feel, I would 
 not hear, and at last I accomplished my purpose. 
 Jem was a strong and a brave man ; some way or 
 other my foolish talking was heard among the neigh- 
 bours, and those engaged in the trade came and 
 persuaded and tempted him. In short — for why 
 need I prolong my miserable tale ? — Jem became a 
 smuggler, and from that hour the blessing of Hea- 
 ven forsook our dwelling — the eye of God was 
 averted from us, sin took its course, and this is what 
 came of it. But you will hear. 
 
 " Things looked well at first : Jem was paid seven
 
 154 THE LISTENER. 
 
 or eight shillings a-night — my children were dressed, 
 my children were fed — we got a better house — but 
 what was I with all ? — a miserable, miserable woman ! 
 In the long dark nights, while the wind was blow- 
 ing and the waves were raging, did I sleep soundly 
 on my comfortable bed, bought with the price of his 
 perils ? When the Sabbath day came, and the bells 
 rung, and I dressed my children in their nice neat 
 clothes, was my heart light as I went forth alone 
 where he was used to go with me ? No — from the 
 first I was a miserable woman, though no one knew 
 it but myself ; and it rapidly grew worse. Jem, un- 
 used to the fatigue and exposure of such a service, 
 was forced to take spirits to carry him through it : 
 necessity soon grew into choice ; obliged to drink 
 when he was out, he chose to dinnk at home ; the 
 •coarse and blasphemous language he heard among his 
 desperate companions he repeated before his wife 
 and childi-en ; he laughed at his Bible now, and 
 when I remonstrated with liim, he told me, if I had 
 believed it myself, I should not have wished him to 
 become a smuggler. Oh ! if this had not been so — 
 if he had died as I knew him once, as I once saw 
 him on a bed of sickness — oh, I could have borne it 
 then — but to die so ! 
 
 " It was then my last child was born ; she that is 
 yonder — look at her, for she was conceived in ini- 
 quity indeed — ^she was ugly as her father's and her 
 mother's sin, and she has been the torment of our 
 lives — ^her evil disposition has defeated aU our efforts
 
 THE LISTENER. 155 
 
 to control it — she will loarn nothing, do nothing, 
 and does not seem to have wit enough to know good 
 from bad ; though she has enough, God knows ! to 
 get into all the mischief she can find. But the sin 
 is on our heads — she was fed on the bread of ini- 
 quity, she heard notliing but oaths and curses from 
 her father and his bad companions — from her mo- 
 ther but fretfidness and reproaches. I had children 
 — but they are gone — my blessings are taken from 
 me, and she is left to be my curse ! 
 
 " Some years went on in this way : at times we 
 had plenty of money ; but as my husband drank and 
 gamed, we were at other times much distressed. 
 One day when he came home rather more sober 
 than usual — ' Peggy,' he said, ' the blood of a fel- 
 low-creature is on mv hand ! ' I shuddered, and so 
 I thouglit did he — for we had known, we had some- 
 time felt, the commands of Grod ; we had believed 
 them once, and once had feared to disobey them ; 
 and, though we had contrived to persuade ourselves 
 that smuggling did not break the eighth command- 
 ment, we could not well persuade ourselves that 
 murder did not break the sixth. My husband had 
 killed a man in a fray ; and though he was never 
 discovered, he was ever after that as one desperate 
 and careless of what might follow. 
 
 " On one occasion my children were sick ; we had 
 spent all our money, and I was advised to go to some 
 charitable lady in the town, and ask for nourish- 
 ment for them. I went, and' was conducted to the
 
 156 THE LISTENER. 
 
 lady : but as soon as she heard my name, she said 
 my husband was a bad character, my house was a 
 notorious place of drinking and wickedness, and she 
 could not by any means encourage me. I looked at 
 her, for I thought I had seen her once before — ^but 
 whether I had or not, I whispered, as I walked 
 away uncomforted, ' If it had not been for you, or 
 such as you, we had never been what we are : ' and 
 I went home with my bosom hardened in sin and 
 aggravated in wretchedness, by the repulse of those 
 whom I considered as the cause of both. For think 
 not that my first sin had been the only one — no, it 
 is a road on which she who starts is driven forward 
 as with stings and scourges. By degrees I had 
 ceased to go to church or to read at home, because 
 it reminded me of the days that were gone ; I could 
 not bear the recollection ; and I could not bear to 
 see the minister, who used to talk kindly with me, 
 go by me now without notice. I also ceased to teach 
 my children good ; for I feared lest they should 
 compare it with the ill they saw, and I should but 
 be teaching them to hate and despise their parents. 
 Yet did my heart yearn over them as the destined 
 prey of the Evil One, given by their own parents 
 to destruction. In one of my better moments, as I 
 looked upon that graceless girl, my heart was moved 
 towards her with pity and with shame, for I had 
 taught her nothing : and I resolved to make one 
 effort to save her from destruction, by asking for 
 her from others what I could no longer render her
 
 THE LISTENER. 157 
 
 myself. I knew the clays on which a committee of 
 ladies were to meet for benevolent purposes, espe- 
 cially for the supporting of a school for the indigent, 
 and I knew that in this school the children were 
 carefully and religiously taught. I took my neglect- 
 ed offspring in my hand, and presented myself before 
 them to solicit admission for her into the school ; it 
 was the first right thing I had done for many a day, 
 and there was a peace in my bosom it had become 
 but little used to. When I had made my request, 
 I was asked my name, and the occupation of my 
 husband. O that the time should have come when 
 such questions would bring shame to the cheek of 
 Peggy Lum ! I equivocated a Kttle on the latter 
 question, but the ladies understood my language, 
 and told me with some harsh expressions, that my 
 child could not be admitted, as they had many appli- 
 cations, and always gave the preference to those 
 whose parents followed an honest calling. My bosom 
 was ready to burst with grief and indignation — yes, 
 indignation — for, as I looked round the circle, I saw 
 the contraband articles about their persons ! I 
 knew well enough the gloves on the hands of one 
 and the handkerchief round the neck of the othei- — 
 and my cliild was rejected, cast off, left to ignorance 
 and vice, because her father pursued for subsistence 
 a trade that they encouraged for the ornament of 
 their persons ! With some show of impertinence, 
 which still more confirmed their rejection of me, I 
 was leaving the house, when a lady of a very kind
 
 158 THE LISTENER. 
 
 aspect whispered, me, that she would call and talk 
 to me about putting the child to school somcAvhere. 
 But the last spark of good was extinguished in my 
 bosom — the last good purpose I ever formed was 
 repulsed in a way that completed the hardening of 
 my heart — 'No,' I said, as I walked along, scarce 
 knowing where I went, ' she shall neither go to their 
 schools, nor learn their learning. If she sin, as she 
 will do, it shall be in ignorance and stupidity : they 
 shall not teach her the will of Grod, only to make 
 her more guilty when they afterwards teach her to 
 disobey him. They taught me first the meaning of 
 moral and religious honesty ; then they told me by 
 words and by example, that there was no harm in a 
 secret and unlawful trade — and now that I come to 
 them with the wretchedness in my heart, and the 
 ruin on my head, which were brought on me by that 
 trade, they reject my supplication, and put scorn 
 upon my guiltless child, because I have pursued it. 
 i;[o — not a cliild of mine shall go : if she must follow 
 in her mother's course, she shall go there without 
 her feelings : ' and when the kind lady did, in fact, 
 come and offer to put the child to school at her own 
 expense, I obstinately, and insolently, rejected the 
 proposal ; and thus made myself guilty of my child's 
 as well as of my husband's ruin. 
 
 " But the measure was full and the time was come, 
 ani my tale will soon be told. My eldest boy was 
 now a lad of sixteen ; and never since he had come 
 into the world had he made his mother's heart to
 
 THE LISTENER. 159 
 
 ache. He was the birth of better days, for lie was 
 the first-born child I had. The good impressions 
 of his early years had lasted him through worse ones 
 — he had been to school, and since that he had been 
 to sea in a collier ; and in spite of all the ill he heard 
 when he came home, he was ever a good and steady 
 lad. It was some time now that he had been out 
 of employ, and had got a sort of hankering to go 
 out with his father ; only, as he said, for a bit of 
 sport, for he was a brave boy, and loved danger and 
 the seas ; but he loved his mother better, and he 
 had ever till then yielded to her entreaties not to go. 
 One night — yes, that night, that very night — there 
 was rough work to be done, and they wanted hands 
 — there was danger, and they offered high pay. My 
 boy's spirit was roused, his father persuaded liim, 
 and when I would have retained him even with 
 tears, my husband said that since I did not care 
 about his being drowned or murdered, he did not 
 see why I should make so much ado about the boy. 
 They were the last words he ever spoke to me. 
 They were not true — for in all his wickedness Jem 
 had been kind and aftectionate to me ; and it was 
 not for me to love him less for sins that I myself had 
 di'iven him to. They were not true words — but, 
 Oh ! I remembered them when — Remembered ! I 
 remember them now — I hear them in my sleep, I 
 hear them in my di-eams, they are whispered ab^ut 
 my bed, and about my pillow. Grant, Heaven, they 
 come not after me to the grave !
 
 160 THE LISTENER. 
 
 " They went, and surely something in my heart 
 misgave me of what was coming : for I felt I could 
 not go to bed that night. It was already dark when 
 they went away ; and many a time I opened the case- 
 ment to look out upon the night. The wind howled 
 frightfully. I heard the waves thundering upon the 
 rocks, as if they would have rent the firm earth in 
 pieces ; and so dark was it, that when, in my rest- 
 lessness, I went out to try it, I could not find my 
 way across the road. Not a star was there in all 
 the heavens, nor a bit of moon to light them on their 
 perilous way — 'twas ever such nights as these they 
 chose to do their boldest deeds. Hour after hour I 
 listened, though I knew not for what, for they were 
 miles away. I shuddered at the silence — I started 
 even at the noise I made myself, as from time to 
 time I threw on a log to keep the fire burning, that 
 they might warm and dry them when they came. I 
 saw my neglected Bible on the shelf, and remem- 
 bered the time when it would have consoled me — 
 but not now : I remembered when in times of fear 
 and danger to those I loved, I should have betaken 
 myself to prayer — but not now. I could but sit and 
 watch the dial-plate, and long, and long for the hours 
 of darkness to be gone. And when they were gone, 
 and the daylight opened, I liked it no better. I looked 
 out upon the damp, cold landscape, and thought it 
 was like my desolated bosom ; the very light was 
 hateful to me ; for surely the truth was in my heartj 
 though yet I knew it not. The morning grew apace ;
 
 THE LISTENER. 161 
 
 the people in the surrounding cottages came forth 
 to their honest labours. I saw one and another 
 making ready the breakfast for her husband, and 
 giving a parting word to her boys — but where were 
 mine? Nine o'clock struck, ten, eleven, and still 
 they came not. This was no uncommon thing, but 
 there was a presentiment of evil in my bosom. The 
 clock was just upon the point of twelve, when I heard 
 a noise of voices — I went out, and saw a crowd about 
 Dame Willum's door. I knew her husband had been 
 out with the party, and guessed the rest : ' Where 
 is Jem?' I said to the first who would hear me. 
 * He will be here presently,' said the man in a sullen 
 tone. I had no more to ask — every body was talking, 
 and every body was eager to tell the worst they 
 could make of the fearful story. All murdered, all 
 drowned, all jirisoners ! And soon there was not 
 even need to listen, for my eyes beheld the worst — 
 the dead body of my husband, borne upon the shoid- 
 ders of ruffianly-looking men, whose downcast looks 
 bespoke that even they felt pity for his fate. And 
 where was my boy ? Him the cold waters held, and 
 would not give me back so much as his lifeless body ! 
 The smugglers had been attacked in endeavouring 
 to remove their cargo ; they resisted ; some were 
 slain on the spot, and the rest were drowned in 
 attempting to escape. Who will tell out the story ? 
 Who will tell the wife's, the mother's agony, when 
 slie received of her husband no more but the dis- 
 figured corpse — of her son, not even so much as that ! 
 VOL. I. L
 
 162 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Tell who may, I cannot. But you see me, what I 
 am — I have told you what I was. Want and disease, 
 and remorse and agony, have brought me to the 
 grave. What is beyond, you may know ; I do not — 
 I believed once, now I dare not believe." 
 
 The story is finished — need I write the moral ? 
 If my readers believe I have drawn an exaggerated 
 picture, let them inquire and know. They will not, 
 perhaps, find Peggy Lum upon her death-bed, nor 
 meet her squalid offspring in their evening walk — 
 but they will find more misery resulting from this 
 traffic than language of mine can picture. They may 
 see, as we have done, the suspected fall under our 
 windows. They may see, as we have done, three or 
 four at a time, the murdered bodies borne into the 
 churchyard — and they may hear, as we do daily, the 
 thoughtless multitude, one moment repeating the 
 melancholy story, the next moment creeping about 
 the lanes and alleys, in search of the venders of for- 
 bidden goods. It is for such that I have told the 
 story. The miserable victims of this traffic will not 
 read our pages, nor is it for them that I have writ- 
 ten. They are incapable of appreciating the moral 
 wrong of the traflSc itself; the only question to them 
 is the gain and loss, the risk and the inducement — 
 and in this, as in all other sorts of gambling, we know 
 that men will put all they have on the stake, if the 
 prize proposed be large enough. To these poor 
 creatures the inducement is their daily sustenance, the 
 support of their wives and children : that they rmn
 
 THE LISTENER. 163 
 
 them eventually is beyond their calculation ; for we 
 know, that in exact proportion as the mind is uncul- 
 tivated, its feelings and cares are limited to the pre- 
 sent time. Much, therefore, is to be said in excuse 
 for them. But wliat is to be said for us ? It is the 
 purchaser that makes the trade. Can we, without 
 compunction, see the lives of our fellow-creatures 
 put to venture, their families plunged into misery 
 unspeakable, their morals corrupted, their souls, it 
 may be, ruined eternally — and all for what ? To 
 save a few shillings, which we would freely give to 
 any one who needed it, or to deck our persons with 
 some prohibited article of dress ? I fully believe, 
 there is not a lady in Britain who would not take 
 the costly shawl from her shoulders, and present it 
 to the person whom she could thereby save from 
 such misery as we have described, though the conse- 
 quence were that she should never wear another — 
 and yet we expose to such misery hundreds and 
 thousands of our fellow-creatures, and when it is 
 named to us, think it quite enough to say, " French 
 goods are prohibited, and we must have them, be- 
 cause " — most sufficient reason — " because we like 
 them best ! "
 
 164 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. xiy. 
 
 SOCIAL KINDNESS. 
 
 Vivre en soi ce n'est rien ; il faut vivre en autrui 
 
 A qui puis je etre utile, agreable aujourd'hui ? 
 
 Voila chaque matin ce qu'il faut se dire ; 
 
 Et le soir, quand des cieux la clarte se retire, 
 
 Heureux a qui son coeur tout bas a repondu, 
 
 Ce jour qui va finir, je ne I'ai pas perdu ; 
 
 Grace a mes soins, j'ai vu, sur une face humaine, 
 
 La trace d'un plaisir ou I'Dubli d'une peine ! 
 
 Que la societe porterait de doux fruits, 
 
 8i par de telles pensees nous etions tous conduits ! 
 
 There was somewhere — not in England, I should 
 suppose — a very extensive prison-house, in which 
 immense numbers of persons were confined under 
 suspicion, for they had not yet been tried, of mani- 
 fold misdemeanours, some in the overt act, and 
 others in hidden disaffection towards a Government 
 to which they all owed allegiance. From the babbling 
 infant, who had come there for his father's crimes, 
 before himself could have committed any, to the hoary 
 head of age, bowing already to the grave that was 
 waiting to receive him — from the coarse, unthinking 
 peasant, who had followed where others led, to the 
 lofty and commanding spirit that must answer for
 
 THE LISTENER, 165 
 
 many a crime beside his own — every age was here, 
 and sex and nation — every complexion and condition 
 of mankind were assembled in this vast prison-house, 
 to wait till it should please the sovereign — for in that 
 country there was no Habeas Corpus Act — to come 
 from his far distant court, and judge the prisoners 
 for the crimes of which they stood accused. 
 
 Around this strange abode, there was a wall too 
 high for any foot to scale, too thick for any eye to 
 penetrate, in order to discover what might be beyond 
 it. Within the limit, the imprisoned seemed to walk 
 at large — there was space for all to live and move 
 at ease, but not without perpetually crossing each 
 other's way, and coming in near and frequent con- 
 tact ; and if any would have fled from his fellows, 
 he could not, for the wall was round him and about 
 him, and he might not pass it ; there were paths many, 
 and ways many, but the impervious barrier was the 
 issue of them all, and "no further," was the fatal 
 check upon their else unrestricted motions. Sus- 
 pected of unequal crimes, but as yet untried and 
 unconvicted, they were not distinguished from each 
 other by any anticipatory punishments, seeming to 
 suffer promiscuously the hardships inseparable from 
 their state of durance and disgrace. And not few, 
 indeed, were these. Famine, and want, and pain, 
 and misery were there. Some eyes looked upwards 
 in untold despair, as if still to demand of Heaven 
 what to Heaven itself had become impossible to 
 bestow — and some were on the ground in deep
 
 166 THE LISTENER. 
 
 despondency, as if they loathed to meet the sunbeam 
 that had shone on scenes now lost to them for ever. 
 Their very pleasures, when they seemed to flourish 
 most, were but as that baleful tree, very fair to look 
 upon, that drops pestilence and death on all who 
 venture to repose beneath its branches. For while 
 the parent sat at ease, fondly administrating to the 
 needs and pleasures of a beautiful family, one by one 
 he saw them sink beneath the hardships of their 
 condition, till there were none remaining. And the 
 bosom that had brought with it all that was needful 
 to its happiness, in sweet possession of which what- 
 ever was suflered was scarcely felt, and whatever 
 was wanting was not missed, was doomed to see the 
 pestilential vapour of the prison arise, and chill to 
 death the frame of its beloved. Industry toiled hard 
 and sowed its seed, and forgot in labour, as others 
 in pleasure, the dangers of his state ; and when he 
 should have reaped the fruit, the winds of heaven, 
 from which his prison-house was aU unsheltered, had 
 blighted it, and he was left to want. Some, who 
 once had friends, and families, and homes, sat here 
 apart from all, and laid claim to notliing, and found 
 regard of none — and some, whom aU caressed and 
 all bowed down to, and who seemed to abound in 
 every tiling, fed secretly on the ashes of affliction, 
 and fasted from all but tears, consumed by memory 
 of something past, or di'ead of some half-seen future. 
 The lofty and capacious inteUeet was there, working 
 its own misery with its own greatness, to winch
 
 THE LISTENER. 1G7 
 
 there was nothing to respond, and whicli nothing in 
 that small space could satisfy. And feebleness, and 
 ignorance, and imbecility were there also, suft'ering 
 contempt, neglect, and scorn, for deficiencies not of 
 their own choosing. And though there were some 
 on whose cheek the bloom was fresh, and in whose 
 eye the beam of joy was bright, they were regarded 
 by the more experienced, as but the less conscious 
 \-ictims of as sure a fate ; for it was known they 
 coidd not evade, though they might forget, the con- 
 sequences of their suspected character. And to all, 
 and to each, besides the unequal suiferings of their 
 actual state, there remained the approaching judg- 
 ment to which they were reserved, coming thev knew 
 not when, threatening they knew not what ; more 
 awful for its uncertainty, more appalling for the 
 obscurity that hung upon the issue. 
 
 Does not the question forcibly suggest itself. How 
 would these prisoners conduct themselves towards 
 each other ? Involved in one common calamity, 
 standing in the same fearful predicament, compelled, 
 willing or unwilling, to remain together, to take of 
 the same scanty comforts, and abide the same but 
 too sufficient ills — each one liable to whatever the 
 other was enduring, and no one secure from succeed- 
 ing to his neighbour's wo — how does it seem they 
 would deport themselves to each other in this strange 
 contlition ; Avhich had brought them together with- 
 out their leave, and forced them to abide each other's 
 company, without any choice of theirs ? Kcason, and
 
 168 THE LISTENER. 
 
 common sense, and feeling, nay, and self-interest it- 
 self, are agreed upon the answer — kindness, courtesy, 
 and pity, would be the tone of such society. They 
 would not all love each other — dissimilar habits, 
 uncongenial tempers, varieties of intellect and con- 
 dition, would make that impossible : they would not 
 all esteem each other — for defect of moral worth in 
 some, in others native imbecility or deformity of 
 character, would render them no objects of esteem. 
 But there would surely prevail in this society a tone 
 of benevolence and courtesy, the result of a partici- 
 pated destiny. The untried criminal would not begin 
 beforehand the punishment of his fellow criminals, 
 by treating them according to the measure of their 
 supposed, though yet undecided guilt. However 
 much unlike, no one could stand off from another as 
 a being with whom he had no feelings or interests in 
 common. The common misery, the common danger, 
 would create a fellowship between the most opposite 
 characters, that would claim a word, a look at least, 
 of kindness, as they went by each other, or sat down 
 together in the narrow limits of their prison-house. 
 It would seem that one could scarcely have a concern 
 in which the others felt no interest, a feeling that 
 the others would not wish to spare, a desire the others 
 would not wish to gratify — from sympathy if not for 
 love, from pity if not esteem. And least of all would 
 those who had most hope of pardon and favour from 
 the sovereign, when he came, look coldly on those 
 with whom it might fare worse — a sense of their own
 
 THE LISTENER. 1G9 
 
 danger would teach them pity, and conscious guilt 
 would make them merciful. Here, in short, the 
 wisest would see in the most simple, the noblest in 
 the basest, a being whom, if nature had placed afar, 
 suft'ering and danger had brought near of kin. 
 
 Some one has wisely said — our readers may have 
 observed before now that we always think that saying 
 wise which agrees with our own opinions — and beau- 
 tifully as wisely said, " Courtesy is, strictly speaking, 
 a Christian grace. It is a plant of heavenly origin. 
 This present evil world, like the ground which the 
 Lord hath cursed, is utterly incapable of yielding 
 any thing so good and lovely. Courtesy cannot grow 
 in selfish nature's soil. It is never found but in the 
 garden of God." I had just been re.ading this very 
 pretty sentence, as quoted for my observation in the 
 letter of a friend, when passing into society, I hap- 
 pened to hear it boldly asserted that it is not desirable 
 to make ourselves agreeable to those we do not 
 like, and warmly contested that universal courtesy 
 is almost a sin. " So, then," I said within myself, 
 " here are opinions in most determined opposition — 
 the plant that one would cherish as the very growth 
 of Heaven, the other plucks up and casts away as a 
 noxious and pernicious weed." I had dwelt with 
 pleasure on the former sentiment as true, and just, 
 and beautiful — but what then becomes of the other ? 
 They cannot both be just or both be true. Yet 
 it seemed to me of some importance, that they who 
 are beginning the business of life, should perceive
 
 170 THE LISTENER. 
 
 between the flower and the weed ; and setting myself 
 to consider of the matter, it appeared to me that this 
 Avorld of ours is no other than the prison-house de- 
 scribed, and our condition in it that which we have 
 depicted. How then does it seem that we should 
 behave ? 
 
 It has pleased God, for reasons wise since they 
 are his, to form the inhabitants of earth in moulds 
 so different, that each one cannot assimilate with 
 another — like ill-accorded instruments, weU-tuned 
 perhaps, and perfect in themselves, but which yet 
 can make no harmony together, because the pitch of 
 one is higher than the other. It has pleased Him, 
 too, to endow our minds with feehngs, known and 
 understood by all, though difficult to define, that draw 
 us towards some persons in preference to others, 
 and while we go by the mass with indifference, bind 
 us Avith indissoluble affection to some selected few ; 
 for no reason that can be given, but a natural and 
 spontaneous preference ; or perhaps some afiinity of 
 taste, princijjles, and pursuits. These selected few, 
 for however many, they are few in the comparison, 
 are what we usually call our friends ; and to these 
 our deportment may be left to other influence and 
 guided by other rules than those of general courtesy. 
 But these apart, the larger mass of those with whom 
 we are brought in contact, are persons for whom, to 
 use the common expression, we do not care — we 
 have no choice or preference for them. It is to these 
 that a habit of universal courtesv is or is not to be
 
 THE LISTENER. 171 
 
 cultivated — that we are or are not to take pains 
 to render ourselves as agreeable and acceptable as 
 circumstances and higher duty will permit. 
 
 We know there is a sinful conformity to the world 
 that is forbidden ; and whatever that may be defined 
 to be, we beg not to be understood to desire that 
 the line be broken ; for God must not be offended 
 that man be pleased, and sin must not be committed 
 from any motive of expediency whate\^er. But civi- 
 lity, attention, regard to the tastes, and respect for 
 the feelings of others, are not sins — on the contrary, 
 they are the plant that has been asserted to be of 
 Christian growth, a flower of the garden of God. 
 We are aware, also, that it will be contested there 
 is a degree of insincerity and deception in assuming 
 an appearance of attention and complacency towards 
 those for whom we have no regard, nor any kindly 
 feelings. Be it admitted, however, that we ought 
 to have kindly feelings towards every one. Criminals 
 chained to the same galley, slaves fettered and toiling 
 in the same mine, are not more closely conjoined in 
 one common fate, have not more claim upon each 
 other's sympathy, tlian men inhabiting together this 
 prison-house of earth. We ought to have a feeling 
 of benevolent interest for every one of mortal birth 
 — our aversions, our contempt, our disunion, our 
 animosity, all these things are defects, blemishes, 
 symptoms of mental corruption and disease — and if 
 they cannot be eradicated, we are obliged to any 
 garb of decency that can contribute to conceal them.
 
 172 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Our Christian perfection would be to have no un- 
 kindly feelings towards any one — -and the next best 
 thing to this is to be conscious of them and ashamed 
 of them, and endeavour to conceal them as we would 
 a loathsome and unsightly wound: the effort is a 
 self-sacrifice, and will go far to subdue the feeling. 
 It may be asserted again, that a universal desire to 
 please and to oblige, is dangerous to ourselves, as it 
 may be the ofispring of vanity, too eager for the 
 approbation of men, and ever seeking its own grati- 
 fication. It may be so : but in this case it is the 
 motive, not the conduct, that needs to be amended. 
 To pay a courteous attention to those who do not 
 particularly please us — to give satisfaction to those 
 who can give us none — is, as we have observed, a 
 sacrifice of our selfishness that may proceed from the 
 highest tone of Christian principle. 
 
 Are we, then, to be as courteous, and to attempt 
 to be as agreeable, to those whom we do not admire, 
 or perhaps do not approve, as those whose qualities 
 and principles claim our esteem and approbation? 
 We need not choose them for our companions, or 
 take them to the confidence of our bosoms — we need 
 not seek them or desire them — but our house is 
 narrow ; the path we go on is strait ; the way is 
 crowded, and we must be much in contact ; the duties 
 and intercourse of life must bring us into connexion 
 with those whom we did not and could not choose. 
 And what are we, that we should feel contempt or 
 disregard for any one ? If others have their pecu-
 
 THE LISTENER. 173 
 
 liarltios, have we not ours ? If they have theh" de- 
 fects, have we not ours ? nay, and our vices, too, for 
 w^hich we are all hastening forward to an equal 
 judgment ? And in this narrow house of our sojourn- 
 ing, surely every one has a claim to what every one 
 can do to make sw^eet the bitterness of life? For, 
 oh ! there is enough for all to bear — the dwellers in 
 that prison-house were not so happy that there was 
 no need of each other's courtesy to soften their con- 
 dition ; there was not so much scarcity of suftering, 
 that the conduct of one should prejudge the other's 
 crimes, and aggravate the punishment prepared for 
 him. And who are those we think unworthy of our 
 attention and civility, unworthy the care to please ? 
 beings, perhaps more worthy than ourselves, though 
 less externally endowed : they, perhaps, who, had 
 we been in need, would have cherished us in afflic- 
 tion, would have consoled us, though, needing them 
 not, we have never proved it — some, it may be, who, 
 though we perceive it not, have hearts so deeply 
 tried in sorrow, that, could we know all, our bosoms 
 would yearn with tender pity over what we igno- 
 rantly wound by neglect and incivility — and some, 
 it is more than probable, whatever be the cloud of 
 ignorance or sin that now hangs over them, with 
 whom we are destined to pass a long eternity in the 
 holy fellowship of heaven. 
 
 Upon Christian principles, then, we are prepared 
 to say, that it is our duty to be courteous ; and, as 
 far as may be, agreeable, to all with whom Providence
 
 174 THE LISTEXER. 
 
 bring us in connexion, whether we meet them for 
 a day or an hour, or the whole compass of our lives. 
 We are not to be idle to please the idle, or ignorant 
 to please the ignorant, or vicious to please the vicious 
 — and if we were, we should not succeed in pleasing 
 them — but we are to laugh with those that laugh, 
 to weep with those that weep — to contribute all we 
 can, in small things as in great, to ameliorate the 
 dark condition of our race, and scatter flowers on a 
 thorny path. If we are in company with those whose 
 tastes and habits are opposed to ours, we are to put 
 some restraint upon our own, that theirs may not be 
 offended : if with those whose manners are disgusting, 
 or tempers uncongenial to us, we are bound to cast 
 a veil over the disgust they undesignedly excite. We 
 are bound to withhold a remark that will five pain, 
 or an opinion that will offend, unless some essential 
 purpose is to be answered by their expression. To 
 say, this is deception or insincerity, is no other than 
 to say, it is deception to restrain any e\dl passion, or 
 suppress any angry thought or selfish feeling — nor 
 is there any thing in manners and tempers we hold 
 more selfish, unlovely, and unchristian, than that sort 
 of self-indulgence which wounds every body's feelings, 
 imder pretext of candour and sincerity. I ad\'ise the 
 lovers of so much honesty, to make clean the mansion, 
 and put forth no few of its inhabitants, before they 
 venture to set mde the gates, that all may be witness 
 of what is passing within. 
 
 It appears to me, young people cannot go forth
 
 THE LISTENER. 175 
 
 into tlic Avoi'lil under a more false impression, than 
 this persuasion, — that tliey owe no courtesy to any 
 but those whom circumstances or preference happen 
 to make their friends. Tliey owe it to every indi\'i- 
 dual without exception who has not forfeited it by 
 offence against them — for every indi-sidual is their 
 fellow, and their kindred, and their companion, in a 
 destiny of which the beginning, and the purport, and 
 the issue, are the same ; and, therefore, each one is 
 a claimant on their sympathy and benevolence. To 
 say that we would do them any kindness in their 
 need, or confer any substantial benefit in our power, 
 but refuse to conciliate in our ordinary intercourse, 
 is to offer that which we have not, in excuse for 
 withhokling tliat which we have — our benevolence 
 may never have an occasion of exercise in substantial 
 benefits — in complacency, kindness, and courtesy, 
 and an accommodating spirit, we may always, and to 
 every one, evince it. 
 
 We know that the devoted Christian has some- 
 thing more to say respecting the discountenance that 
 should be given to folly and irreligion, the distinction 
 to be made between those who serve God and those 
 who serve him not. This distinction must exist in 
 the feelings of all who sincerely love their Lord : 
 but I cannot see in it an excuse for the cold, repul- 
 sive, harsh, unsocial, unconciliating manner, some 
 pious people assiuue towards those whom they con- 
 sider less religious than themselves. We are the 
 fellow-criminals, not the judge : whatever be our
 
 176 THE LISTENER. 
 
 penitence and hope of pardon, we are here the at- 
 tainted rebels of our sovereign, not the administra- 
 tors of his justice ; and whatever be the present 
 promise of his mercy towards us more than them, 
 liis pity takes not its limits from our judgment, and 
 it may be they ^vill enter mto the kingdom of heaven 
 before us. 
 
 But if still it does not appear that we ought to 
 cultivate habits of kindness, attention, and civility, 
 to all around us — behold, there was One who came 
 into that crowded prison-house that did not belong 
 to it — ^its attainted inliabitants were not to his mind 
 — there was no spirit there congenial to his nature, 
 or fitted to hold communion with him — their ways 
 were not as his ways, nor their feelings as his feelings 
 — day by day their discordant natures jarred on 
 his holy bosom, and their impure pursuits revolted 
 his celestial innocence. Yet He walked courteously 
 in the midst of all, and stood not aloof from any. 
 He wept over their ills, indeed, and he reproved their 
 wrongs ; but he kept none at a distance as unworthy 
 his regard ; he dwelt with them as a brother and a 
 friend ; took an interest in their lawful occupations, 
 conformed to their habits, and adapted his benefits 
 and his advice to their peculiar character and need 
 of each. Is the subject greater than his King ? Is 
 the servant wiser than his Lord ?
 
 THE LISTENKK. 177 
 
 No. XV. 
 POLITENESS. 
 
 Politeness is the moral grace of life, if I may venture so to term it : 
 the grace of the mind. What the world accounts graces are little 
 more than the graces of the body. 
 
 Dr Brown. 
 
 WvLKlNG one morning by myself — an unfavourable 
 circumstance for a Listener — and in a lonely })lace, 
 ■where, though I could not please myself as Rousseau 
 did, with belie^■ing the foot of man had never trodden, 
 I certainly could discern no traces of his despoiling 
 hand — a fit of enthusiasm, such as poets, I suppose, 
 are subject to, seized upon my brain in favour of 
 nature's unassisted works ; and iii most sublime soli- 
 loquy I began to decry the assassinations committed 
 by man's sacrilegious hand ui)on her charms. I 
 com})ared the briery path I was creeping through 
 with difficulty, to the broad, beaten turn])ike : the 
 elegance and sim})licity of the wild-flowers, half 
 hiding, half showing themselves, upon their beds of 
 green, to the trained, and trimmed, and methodically 
 l)lanted flowers of the garden ; trees whence no pruner 
 had ever lopped a branch — grass whence the mower 
 VOL. I. M
 
 178 THE LISTENER. 
 
 had not filled his scythe, nor the reaper his bosom 
 ■ — recesses, where for years the redbreast had re- 
 turned to build his nest, and found it as he left it. 
 " What a pity it is," I exclaimed, " that man should 
 intermeddle with what Grod has made, and mar the 
 beauties he can never mend ! When all that avarice 
 and vanity suggest has been tried, to torture our 
 parks and gardens into form, are they to be compared 
 to the wild, woody glade, that knows no training but 
 from nature's hand, yearly returning to re-dress her 
 work ? " So I thought, and so have poets said and 
 sung for ages past : and so sure was I growing that 
 every thing should be as nature made it, that it is 
 possible I might have gone on to say, as some have 
 said, that rather than clear a wood for building 
 houses and making turnpikes, it would be advisable 
 to live like our forefithers, in the hollows of trees, 
 and reach our habitation over sting-nettles — had I 
 not, in the midst of my soliloquy, egressed from this 
 same wood, and within ken of man's lamented de- 
 predations, found myself upon the beach. It chanced 
 that there was walking there a man who seemed 
 intent on finding something among the pebbles. 
 Often he stooped down to pick them up, and after a 
 little examination, threw them from him — once only 
 I perceived, that having looked at one with atten- 
 tion, he retained it in his hands. " Why," said I, 
 " do you prefer that stone to all the rest ? " — " Be- 
 cause," he rephed, "it is of value, and they are 
 worth nothing." — " And yet," I answered, " I see
 
 THE LISTENER. 179 
 
 no beauty in that, more than in the others — it is a 
 rough, brown stone." — " It is so now, and there is 
 no beauty in it ; but there is value : when I have 
 cut and polished it, and set it in a golden rim, its 
 beauty will be acknowledged, and rival purchasers 
 will contend for the possession. Come to my labo- 
 ratory, and I will show you the richest jewels of the 
 Eastern mine, and you will say they seem but in- 
 elegant and worthless stones : see them again upon 
 the broAv of royalty, or on the neck of beauty, and 
 you will gaze upon them as nature's most exquisite 
 productions." This was true, but then my solilo- 
 quy was absolutely wasted — for here were nature's 
 most valuable, most inimitable, and probably most 
 tedious productions, not only improved by art, but 
 owing to it all their perceptible, though not their 
 real value. The gem was a gem while it lay neglect- 
 ed in the sand : but most would have passed it by 
 unheeded ; or, fintling, have rejected it as of little 
 value : and even when the worth was ascertained, 
 we doubt much if any lady would be ambitious to 
 string the unpolished jewels for her bosom, or bind 
 them in her hair. 
 
 There are things besides stones, that, valuable in 
 themselves, need the factitious aid of ornament to 
 make them lovely. All the polish in the world, it is 
 true, Avoidd not make of the worthless stone a dia- 
 mond ; and whoever knew the value would take the 
 gem without it, and reject the other in its richest 
 brilliancy: but the rich jewel must be set and po-
 
 180 THE LISTENER. 
 
 lished, before its beauty is perceived ; or with the 
 unskilful, the glittering paste may be preferred 
 before it. Is not this a truth too much forgotten 
 by some who' think it enough to be good, without 
 remembering to be agreeable ? With some parents, 
 who, while they store the minds of their children 
 with knowledge, and lead them forward in the paths 
 of truth, fearful, perhaps, of fostering vanity, or over- 
 looking the importance of recommending by exte- 
 rior beauty the interior worth, totally neglect their 
 manners, habits, and appearance ? Is it not. so with 
 some young persons, who, earnestly desiring to please 
 God, and loving their fellow-creatures for his sake, 
 do yet misjudgingly despise, -or, carelessly neglect, 
 those trifles, that, ti'ifles as th&y are, make all the 
 difference between an agreeable and a disagreeable 
 woman : and though they ijftect not the moral or 
 religious worth, will make that worth the more or 
 the less acceptable and lovely ? Such persons are 
 surely doing wrong, and if professing to be religious, 
 doubly wrong — for the blame will be cast upon their 
 religion, not upon themselves ; they render that un- 
 lovely and unattractive which is in itself most beau- 
 tiful ; they revolt, where they ought to win. There 
 is no riatural connexion, no possible affinity, between 
 reliofion and awkwardness, coarseness and incivilitv, 
 
 t 
 
 an unpolished manner or an ungraceful mind. This 
 seems so impossible, that we should not think to 
 speak of it, did we not see every-day instances of a 
 mistaken, we could almost say, a proud neglect of
 
 THE LISTENER. 181 
 
 these attentions, in persons wlioso minds ait; truly 
 occupied with great matters ; and did we not every 
 day hear, without being able to contradict it, that 
 good people are disagreeable. To elder persons and 
 to parents, much might be said — but I listen for the 
 young, and will end my apostrophe with the tale that 
 gave rise to it. 
 
 I have hoard, or read, of somebody, who, on visit- 
 ing the magniticent fabrics of Italy, which they had 
 heard were of marble, was very much disappointed 
 to find them not ]K)lished from top to bottom, smooth, 
 and shinyig like a marble chimney-piece — for any 
 thing they saw, the buildings might as well have been 
 of stone. Much such a dunce, I fear, did I prove 
 myself, when I accepted an invitation from a family of 
 Avhom I had heard so much good report, that I. had 
 long been anxious to be admitted'.to their society. 
 The excellence of their education, the cultivation ' 
 bestowed on their minds, and the high religious prin- 
 ciples that- regulated their conduct, were things of 
 so much notoriety in the neighbourhood, I could not 
 but form the most pleasing anticipation of {pleasure 
 in my intercourse with theiu^ and the higliest possible 
 estimate of their worth. If ,^1 was disappointed, the 
 fault undoubtedly was mine ; for their worth was 
 equal to the i^epresentation made of it: they were 
 all I have said, and all I had heard : what right liad 
 I to expect more ? I had heard these young ladies 
 had both talent" and > principle, and I went prepared 
 to admire and love them. As I stayed some time in
 
 182 THE LISTENER. 
 
 the house, I had opportunities of obsendng them 
 under difterent circumstances, at home and abroad, 
 in company and alone : what I have to remark, there- 
 fore, must not be understood to have passed in one 
 dav, or in quite such rapid succession as I tell it ; 
 neither did each thing happen once only — I describe 
 their habitual deportment. 
 
 When I was first conducted into the house, two 
 young ladies were sitting in the drawing-room, one 
 engaged with her book, the other with her needle : 
 whether each one had a task to perform, and feared 
 the doom's-day clock might strike before it was com- 
 pleted, I cannot say ; but neither ceased their occu- 
 pation when I entered, though, as a guest and a 
 stranger, it might have been expected I should be 
 in some manner received by them in their parents' 
 absence. They answered when I spoke to them, it 
 is true ; but they never made any attempt to address 
 me. IVIiss Julia kept her elbow on the table, and 
 her head on her hand, in such a position as almost 
 to turn her back towards the sofa on which I was 
 sitting : and even when she did speak, held her eyes 
 as intently fixed on her book, as if some magic power 
 held them in perpetual durance. Miss Emma, whose 
 work was of a description I thought might as well 
 have been done in her chamber, or at least removed 
 on the entrance of a guest, was, I perceived, under 
 the influence of some vow not to remove her nose 
 above two inches from her thimble, though there 
 was scarcely a passage between them for the few
 
 THE LISTENER. 183 
 
 words my importunity forced from her. The most 
 natural inference from such a reception would have 
 been, that my visit was unwelcome ; but I had rea- 
 son to know the contrary ; and I had frequent occa- 
 sion afterwards to observe that all persons, whether 
 friends or strangers, had to encounter, on their ap- 
 proach, the persevering industry of these ladies. In- 
 deed, whoever desired the Miss B.'s civility, must 
 wait for it ; for when, a few days after, I introduced 
 to them in our walk some young persons with whom 
 I knew they desired intimacy, they gave an inclina- 
 tion of the head with a look that might v6ry weU be 
 mistaken for a frown, turned their backs immediately, 
 and went on with their own conversation. Be it 
 not, however, supposed that the Miss B.'s could not 
 communicate, or would not — when it was perfectly 
 convenient to themselves. Julia was indeed of a 
 temper silent and reserved, though wanting neither 
 feeling nor affection ; Emma was lively and animated 
 in the extreme. It was easy to perceive that the 
 same effects in each had resulted from diflerent 
 causes : in Julia, from an indolent indifference to 
 things she considered not essential — in Emma, from 
 a contempt of what she believed beneath her. 
 
 There was company that evening, and having 
 found the young ladies so extremely agreeable alone, 
 I was curious to see what they might be in society. 
 They did not, however, think it necessary to be 
 ready for some time after they were expected in the 
 room. At length Miss Julia made her appearance
 
 184 THE LISTENER. 
 
 through the doorway — one might almost say through 
 the door — for she opened it but barely wide enough 
 to force her small person through the interstice. 
 Whether there was any one present she was glad to 
 see, remained a riddle ; so eager was she to get pos- 
 session of the nearest corner of the nearest chair she 
 could find, seeming by no means aware that she 
 might sit as safely in the middle of it ; and havnng 
 reached the port, she took care to leave it no more 
 that night. Emma's approach was by no means so 
 peaceful : with the assistance of a gust of wind, she 
 contrived to startle every body from their seats by 
 the banging of the door, stumbled over two stools 
 and a work-table before she reached the upper end 
 of the room, and went down on the sofa with a bang, 
 that, had her specific gravity been greater, might 
 have endangered the fragile ornaments of the chim- 
 ney. And this evening, though I could not hear the 
 subject of her discourse, or guess the cause of her 
 mirth, I had the first proof that Emma could both 
 laugh and talk ; for she continued during the whole 
 evening in half whis])ering discourse, accompanied by 
 frequent titter, with a young person of her own age ; 
 their hands fast locked in each other, to intimate, I 
 suppose, the inseparability of their affections. And 
 wo to the unlucky wight who attempted to be thirds 
 in the discourse ! I addressed them sometimes, and 
 so did others — but an immediate cessation of their 
 discourse, a monosyllable reply to our address, and a 
 look exchanged between them, sufficiently intimated
 
 THE LISTENER. 185 
 
 that wo might spare ourselves the troiihle. Cer- 
 tainly, had T been asked that niglit if the Miss B.'s 
 were agreeable girls, my veracity or my friendship 
 must have conceded in the reply. 
 
 The time did come, nevertheless, when I was 
 allowed to hear these young ladies converse : hut 
 though to all appearance they spoke the vulgar 
 tongue, the subject of their discourse was not much 
 more intelligible than if it had been the vernacular 
 language of Kamschatka or Peru. Neither persons 
 nor things had the names by which I had been ac- 
 customed to hear them called : and then there was 
 so profuse an admixture of "bywords," "family 
 sayings," and " standing jokes," one needed to be 
 provided with a glossary as long as the list of 
 French idioms with which a modern traveller sets 
 out on his first visit to Paris. That all this was 
 very amusing, and very innocently so, to themselves, 
 I make no doubt — but I had been accustomed to 
 suppose that when we speak at table, or in company 
 with others, good-breeding requires we should con- 
 verse in some known tongue, that all may, if they 
 please, take part in the conversation. So sure was 
 I, however, of the talents and good sense of the 
 ladies, I did not doubt their conversation would be 
 very edifying, if ever I could gain a share of it, and 
 I resolved to abide in patience some opportunities 
 of addressing them in my own way. In pursuance 
 of this resolve, I watched every occasion to draw 
 them into conversation. Walking with ISIiss Julia,
 
 186 THE LISTENER. 
 
 I gathered a flower and made some remarks upon 
 its properties ; she knew nothing about flowers, and 
 thought it a useless pursuit. I ventured to observe 
 that since the Almighty had condescended to create 
 them, it might possibly not be beneath his creatures 
 to take notice of them. Thinking these subjects 
 might be too light for the lady's wisdom, I next at- 
 tempted something deeper — but her modesty here 
 came in aid of her taciturnity ; and she said the 
 subject was too deep for her understanding : and so 
 the conversation ended. Sitting with Miss Emma, I 
 asked if she had finished any drawings lately. She 
 answered that she had done several, but did not know 
 where any of them were ; a plain intimation that she 
 drew for her own pleasure, not for mine. When as- 
 sembled in the family circle, my attempts were equally 
 fruitless : the young ladies never happened to hear 
 what was passing in their presence. Julia seldom 
 answered till she had been addressed three times ; 
 and Emma generally chimed in to the middle of 
 somebody's speech, "with remarks quite foreign to the 
 subject — setting all right in the end by confessing 
 they were thinking of something else — a compliment 
 of which they were very prodigal in all companies. 
 As these ladies were Christians, I would not sup- 
 pose them to be more than usually selfish — nor in 
 their dispositions were they ; but in defiance of 
 ■what is usually supposed to be a requisite of good 
 breeding, they were invariably fond of talking of 
 their own affairs. It has been said that, to be
 
 THE LISTENER. 187 
 
 agreeable in conversation, we should never speak of 
 ourselves ; the JVIiss B.'s had no such maxim ; how- 
 ever abstract might be the subject where it began, 
 it always ended in, " I saw," " / said," " 1 did — my 
 friends — my house — my studies — my family — my 
 prospects." I had not long been acquainted with 
 them, before I perceived that particular attention had 
 been paid to the pronunciation of tlieir words, and 
 as their education had been something classical, it 
 cannot be disputed that they were most technicall 
 correct. There are those who think it more elegant, 
 because more polite, to talk the language of the so- 
 ciety in which we live, and allow words to keep the 
 sound custom has assigned them — however this be, 
 they had an invariable habit of repeating immedi- 
 ately, by accident of course, every word they supposed 
 to be mispronounced by another : I never found an 
 opportunity of telling them that I knew those who 
 would spoil any speech they happen to be making, 
 rather than repeat, in a difierent manner, a word they 
 suppose to be mispronounced by another. I might 
 not have observed upon this extraordinary accuracy, 
 had it not been to contrast it with an inaccuracy of 
 a very remarkable kind — for though so particular 
 about the sound of words, these ladies evinced a mar- 
 vellous disregard of their meaning. At the breakfast 
 table we had tea excruciatingly hot, poured out of 
 a lovely teapot, and accompanied by bread and butter 
 of infinite excellence. In our walks — when the vile 
 weather did not prevent walking — we saw the sweetest
 
 188 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ships tliat ever sailed the waters, the most exquisite 
 cows that ever ate grass; and returning agonised 
 with cold, we not seldom found a heavenly fire, by 
 which we sat down enraptured, comfortably bewail- 
 ing the cruel shortness of the days, and the eternal 
 length of the nights ; particularly when we had an 
 immeasurable quantity of chestnuts to roast, of which 
 the ladies declared themselves to be devotedly fond. 
 
 My ears were not the only senses doomed to be 
 agonised, to use the ladies' own word, by their 
 incongruities. As there was no appearance of ex- 
 traordinary economy in Mrs B.'s establishment, and 
 I had no reason to suppose a want of means, I could 
 not but be surprised at the ordinary adjustment of 
 the young ladies' habiliments. The evenings I saw 
 them in company, they were indeed expensively 
 dressed — but, on all common occasions, it was diflficult 
 to say whether the sempstress or the washerwoman 
 was most wanted: added to which, their clothes, 
 being always too big or too little, were evidently 
 made for somebody else ; the outer and the inner gar- 
 ments could seldom agree to keep the same boundary 
 — the buttons would not button, and the ties would 
 not tie — if other people wore things one way, the 
 Miss B.'s wore them in the opposite — not, as I found 
 on inquiry, from affected singularity, but because 
 they did not observe but what other people's were 
 the same. After keeping us waiting half an hour 
 for their presence at the dinner table, they made their 
 appearance in their morning dress, not at all the
 
 THE LISTENER. 189 
 
 cleaner for anotlier day's service, excusing themselves 
 that they had not had time to dress. Observing 
 Miss Emma's locks one morning in all the sim])licitv 
 of native straightness, I ventured to ask if she had 
 been bathing. By no means ; but she had been read- 
 ing so late the night before, she had not time to curl 
 her hair. 
 
 One thing must be acknowledged — if the Miss 
 B.'s never thouglit it necessary to please in manner, 
 person, or conversation, there was at least so much 
 of fairness in their dealing, that they never thought 
 it necessary to be pleased themselves. I had been 
 in the habit of supposing that civiUty requires us to 
 seem pleased with whatever is done to please us — 
 and that without dissimulation ; for if the thing itself 
 is not acceptable, the motive of kindness that dictates 
 it should be so. Nothing you could show them met 
 their expectations — nothing you could give them was 
 what they wanted — wherever you went with them, 
 they wished themselves at home. If you talked to 
 them they yawned — ^if you played to them, they 
 chattered — if you read to them, they went to sleep. 
 They w^ere sufficiently attentive, at all times, to their 
 own accommodation ; some might tliink they were 
 totally occupied with themselves, to the entire ex- 
 clusion of every thing else. If their companions 
 woukl walk, they were tired — if they would sit, they 
 feared to take cold — the grass was Avet, and they 
 could not damp their feet — the bushes had thorns, 
 and thev should tear their clothes — the stiles were
 
 190 THE LISTENER. 
 
 high, and tliey could not get over — the hills were 
 steep, and they could not get up, — all great incon- 
 veniences, as every body knows — ^but as they were 
 strong and healthy, I was inclined to wish they 
 would sometimes wet their feet, rend their clothes, 
 and take cold into the bargain, rather than be always 
 consulting their body's welfare, to the impeding of 
 every body's purpose, and the interruption of every 
 body's pleasure. — But I fear my readers will be tired 
 of my friends — in truth, and so was I.
 
 THE LISTENER. 191 
 
 Ko. XVI. 
 THE TWO INVITATIONS. 
 
 Nothing can less contribute to vigour of action than protracted, 
 anxious fluctuations, intermingled with resolutions decided and re- 
 voked : whUe yet nothing causes a greater expense of feeling. The 
 heart is fretted and exhausted by being subjected to an alternation of 
 contrary excitements, with tie mortifying consciousness of their 
 contributing to no end. 
 
 Foster. 
 
 Some of my readers, I understand, wonder I contrive 
 to hear so many things they never happen to have 
 hoard themselves — nay, some even go so far as to 
 doubt if I really do hear all I tell. I would advise 
 them, that hearing depends greatly upon listening; 
 for many things pass under our eyes that we do not 
 see, and under our ears that we do not hear, for 
 want of attention and observation ; and, what is far 
 more extraordinary, these very things that we hear 
 not and see not, are the things we are ourselves doing, 
 or saying, or thinking, or feeling. If I could prevail 
 on some of my incredulous friends to listen to them- 
 selves, to what is whispered in their bosoms, as well 
 as to what finds louder utterance, for one whole year, 
 I should be much surprised, if, at the end of it, they
 
 192 THE LISTENER. 
 
 could not tell me some veiy marvellous stories ; and 
 some, perhaps, that, had I told them, they might not 
 have taken to be truth. This preamble I should not 
 have made, as having little to do with the subject 
 of the paper, had I not been apprehensive that some 
 of m^ readers will doubt whether I ever heard what 
 I am going to relate. 
 
 The three daughters of Lady S. had received 
 something more than a fashionable education ; though 
 it must be allowed, a fashionable education in the 
 days of George IV. is nearer to being a good one, 
 than at any time we know of in the annals of the 
 world. I do not mean to speak particularly of her 
 Ladyship's character, because my criticisms presume 
 not to reach my elders ; except so far as her charac- 
 ter may disclose itself in the concerns of her fami- 
 ly, and the conversations I was so fortunate as to 
 hear. The outward seeming and circumstances of 
 her condition I may mention, as being that with 
 which the world is, doubtless, well acquainted already. 
 A widow, Avhile ha* children were yet babies, with 
 more rank than she had fortune to support, this ex- 
 cellent mother had supplied, by most assiduous care, 
 and many ingenious contrivances, the deficiency of 
 income, as it might have aft'ected her daughters' edu- 
 cation. Withdrawn from a world taat had lost its 
 attraction for lur, since the bosom's friend was gone 
 who had been to her all its zest and interest, she 
 had time to form and execute her plans of education, 
 without interruption from other claims : and, whether
 
 THE LISTENER. 193 
 
 her plans were good or bad, or both, of which I mean 
 to give no opinion, they were maturely considered, 
 and very consistently executed. She knew her 
 daughters were to move in a genteel, possibly an 
 elevated station in life ; and she resolved to omit 
 nothing that could prepare them for it, and fit them 
 to be admired and beloved. She knew they were to 
 pass out of this sublunary sphere of action, into one 
 in which neither the love nor the admiration they 
 had gained in it Avould avail them any thing ; and 
 she resolved to prepare them for this too. The pro- 
 portionate degree of importance she attached to 
 these separate objects, or whether either had undue 
 preponderance in her measures, remains a secret to 
 me, and may as well remain so to the world ; since 
 He who judges from principles rather tlian from 
 actions, who, while he looks closely to the motives 
 of a conduct seemingly fair, judges leniently of the 
 mistakes that supervene upon the best intentions, 
 has alone to do with this decision. 
 
 The Miss S.'s had been taught, as all other ladies 
 are, to do every thing ; and they had been also taught, 
 as all other ladies are not, to understand, reflect, 
 and judge. Unlike those parents, who, by too much 
 constraint, make their children passive machines up 
 to a certain age, and then expect they should know 
 how to move alone. Lady S. had rather guided than 
 constrained their minds — she had accustomed them 
 to deliberate, to reason, and to choose. Whether at 
 their age she did right to let them take their choice 
 
 VOL. I. N .
 
 194 THE LISTENER. 
 
 when she herself thought it a wrong one, is not my 
 business to determine — I have only to disclose the 
 fact that it was so. If, in relating what I overhear, 
 I should alter things to my own taste, my readers 
 would have cause to complain of my want of vera- 
 city ; therefore, whatever may be thought of this, I 
 am not responsible ; and can only say, so runs my 
 story. Nothing had been omitted to give grace and 
 beauty to the minds and persons of these young peo- 
 ple — they had been taught to walk and to dance, and 
 to lie down and to sit up, and to dress and to undress ; 
 but not more assiduously had they been tutored in 
 all these things on a Saturday, than they had been 
 taught to read and pray on a Sunday. I do not 
 mean ostentatiously — far from it; they had been 
 accustomed to spend the Sabbath properly ; they had 
 learned all the catechisms that ever were published, 
 and read all the tracts that ever were written ; and, 
 better than this, they had been made intimately ac- 
 quainted with the sacred language of Scripture, and 
 pains had been taken to make them understand and 
 feel their interest in it. And here, alas ! so captious 
 are our critics, I must again pause to make excuse 
 for my story. I am aware that some will say the 
 dancing and dressing should have been omitted — 
 and others will say the catechisms and tracts should 
 have been omitted — for who ever met with a lady 
 that thought another lady's child had been properly 
 brought up ? I never did. But if any one says 
 the statement is not consistent, I beg their pardon.
 
 THE LISTENER. 195 
 
 Every one who knows Lady S. knows it to be exactly 
 correct ; and those who are not of her Ladyship's 
 acquaintance, may find many among their friends, 
 titled and untitled, who are pursuing very much the 
 same plan. 
 
 Lady S.'s system of education had, in one respect, 
 differed from that of some fashionable mothers, who 
 tlunk the best preparation for succeeding in the 
 world, is to be kept in total ignorance of it till a 
 certain age ; when the new claimant on its smiles, 
 who has had intercourse only with her governess, her 
 waiting-maid, and possibly, but not certainly, with 
 her parents, comes forth, as at a signal, into the mid- 
 day of its splendours, its allurements, its joys, its 
 difficulties, and its crimes, to understand them if she 
 can, and abide them if she may. What would be- 
 come of the mazed and dazzled vision, that had for 
 eighteen years been closed in impenetrable darkness, 
 as a preparation for opening at once on the full blaze 
 of a meridian sun? Lady S. had accustomed her 
 girls to her own society and that of her friends, and 
 without exactly taking them into public, had accus- 
 tomed them to frequent and free communication with 
 beings, among whom they were to find their future 
 happiness, and perform their future duties. How 
 the three daughters happened to come to maturity 
 at the same time, is, I confess, a difiiculty. I do not 
 say they were all of the same age ; yet they could not 
 be very far apart. If I were more used to telling 
 stories, I should not be puzzled by these small ditfi-
 
 196 THE LISTENER. 
 
 culties, perhaps. A good novel-writer can have the 
 moon at the full many times in a month ; and what 
 might seem equally difficult to a plain astronomer, 
 can make a full moon rise in the middle of the night. 
 Wliy, then, may I not make the three daughters of 
 Lady S. come out at the same time ? It remains 
 only to be further understood, that I, listening, heard 
 the succeeding conversation. 
 
 "My girls," said Lady S. to her daughters, as 
 they sat round the tea-table one Sunday evening, 
 " you have reached the age at which I have always 
 promised you an introduction to the world, for which 
 you have been so many years preparing yourselves. 
 I have given you every advantage befitting your 
 rank, that may enable you to enjoy its pleasures ; and 
 such principles as, I trust, may help you to avoid its 
 dangers. I have prepared you for the world, because 
 you must sojourn in it a little time ; you must act 
 in it the part assigned to you ; society will lay its 
 claim to you ; and if I had neglected in your educa- 
 tion any of its requirements, the world would have 
 said, and you might sometime liave said yourselves, 
 that your mother had failed of her duty towards you, 
 and suffered her own sorrows to blight the budding 
 of your joys. But I have told you, too, that this 
 world is not your abiding-place, nor its maxims your 
 safest guide, nor its pleasures your best enjoyment. 
 The higher importance of eternal things, the greater 
 claim of Him who made you, on your affections, the 
 better happiness his love prepares^ for you, are themes
 
 THE LISTENER. 197 
 
 you have not now to hear of first. Knowledge of 
 either world, as far as it can be communicated to 
 you by another, you cannot want : the time is come 
 when you are to take upon yourselves the character 
 of women and of Christians on your own behalf, and 
 personally to answer to God and man the claims that 
 each may have on you, for which hitherto I have 
 been in some measure your sponsor. I need scarcely 
 remind you that you have, a fortnight since, after the 
 manner of our church, renewed in confirmation your 
 baptismal vows — you cannot be forgetful what they 
 were ; and that you promised by them, not only to 
 believe the word of God, but to obey it ; not only to 
 devote yourselves to his service, but to renounce 
 every thing that may stand in opposition to it, or 
 interfere with it ; whether it be the sinful suggestions 
 of your own heart, prompted by the evil spirit to do 
 his own dark works, or the allurements of the world, 
 whose pomp, and fashion, and too vehement desires, 
 you pledged yourselves neither to follow nor to be 
 led by. I trust you are ready to fulfil your vows, 
 and keep your faith with Heaven." 
 
 " I hope so, mamma," said Emma ; " it was a so- 
 lemn service ; and when I had gone through it, I 
 felt I had pledged myself to do I scarce know what, 
 and certainly have but little power to perform, ex- 
 cept as strength from above is promised to the wish 
 and the endeavour." 
 
 " On the other hand, the world you have promised 
 not to follow, awaits you and invites you : you have
 
 198 THE LISTENER. 
 
 blessings to seek from it, and duties to perform in 
 it — you can neither do without the one, nor are 
 at liberty to evade the other : — these opposing du- 
 ties " 
 
 " But why, dear mother," said Maria, " should they 
 stand opposed ? God made the world, and placed 
 us in it ; surely, then, we may partake of it without 
 offence to Him ? I do not see any difficulties in 
 dividing our attention between our religious duties, 
 and the concerns of life, and giving to each "-^-^-^ 
 
 " Its due proportion, you would say," interrupted 
 Lady S., '^ and, it is true, you must ; but not to each 
 an equal share ; and as they will too often clash, there 
 must be in every such instance a preference to one 
 above the other — my children surely know to which 
 the preference is due." 
 
 " Of course, mamma," said Fanny ; '^ every body 
 knows that God is to be preferred before the world, 
 and we shall never think of doing otherwise. But 
 I do long to go out, and taste the delights of so- 
 ciety : it is so natural at our age to like pleasure, 
 that it cannot possibly be wrong. When one is older, 
 it may be different. AYlien are we to begin to go 
 out, mamma ? " 
 
 " That is exactly what I was preparing to tell 
 you — I have two invitations for you this week." 
 
 " Two in one week ! O, that is delightful ! " cried 
 Fanny. 
 
 " I should have preferred that it had happened 
 otherwise ; for, as we are circumstanced, considerable
 
 THE LISTENER. 199 
 
 preparation will be necessary for your appearance in 
 public on such occasions, especially as it is the first 
 time," said Lady S. 
 
 " But then, dear mamma, it is the more fortunate, 
 because one preparation will do for both," answered 
 Maria. 
 
 " Not exactly so, I fear : it rather appears to me 
 that it wall be desirable to put off one or the other — 
 but I intend to leave this to your choice. You are 
 invited to a ball on Friday, at Mrs Askall's, where 
 all that is most distinguished in the country will be 
 assembled together. Though there will be but few 
 girls there whose rank is higher than your own, 
 there will be none, perhaps, whose fortune is less ; 
 therefore, to make an appearance equal to others, 
 you must depend on your own industry and contri- 
 vance." 
 
 " O yes," cried Fanny, " we can make our own 
 dresses and all that — there will be plenty of time 
 before Friday — I should not mind sitting up all 
 night if — But what a pity we did not begin before ! 
 When did you get the in\atations ? " 
 
 " On Saturday — but I had reasons for not com- 
 municating it till this evening. Could it be avoided, 
 I had ratlier not see your time so spent ; but you know 
 I cannot afford to purchase dresses for you, such as 
 you will like to appear in, where all will be so gay 
 and brilliant." 
 
 " Certainly," said Maria, " I should like to look 
 like other people. I shall lie awake to-night think-
 
 200 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ing how we can contrive tlie prettiest dresses at the 
 smallest cost. It will not signify about the time 
 they take ; for once we can put off our other employ- 
 ments just for a single week. One, two, three, four, 
 days, besides great part of Friday — for it will do 
 if they are done by the time we want to dress ; 
 
 but " 
 
 " But, mamma, you have forgotten the other in- 
 vitation," said Emma. 
 
 " The other, my love, was received this morning ; 
 you heard it as well as myself, and cannot, I am 
 sure, have forgotten it. You know that it is not 
 usual for young persons in the Established Church 
 to take the Sacrament till they have been confirmed ; 
 but after that ceremony has been attended to, I 
 should be sorry that there were reason longer to 
 delay it, as I believe I have mentioned to you be- 
 fore : and the invitation was given this morning to 
 all that are religiously and devoutly disposed." 
 
 " Well, but, mamma, what has that to do with 
 Mrs Askall's ball ? " said Fanny. 
 
 " No more, my dear, than that I do not see how 
 you can attend to both." 
 
 " I cannot see that at all — the Sacrament is on 
 
 Sunday, not on Friday, and " • 
 
 " Stay, my child ; recollect tlie nature of the in- 
 vitation before you decide on this matter. The 
 feast you are invited to is at the table of the Lord. 
 It is a joyful feast, indeed, for it is the commemo- 
 ration of his love, and to us the sweet pledge and
 
 THE LISTENER. 201 
 
 foretaste of eternal bliss : but it is also a serious 
 one, setting forth, in lively emblems, a tale of agony 
 and death that must ever fill our eyes "with tears, 
 and tinge our cheeks with shame. It is with good 
 reason, therefore, that we are exhorted, ere we pre- 
 sent ourselves at the feast, to consider the dignity 
 of the ceremony, and examine deeply the state of 
 our own hearts, that we may make such appearance 
 there as may become the occasion. K you think 
 a whole week's preparation scarcely enough to do 
 honour to the invitation of an earthly friend, can 
 you present yourselves before your heavenly bene- 
 factor, the Maker of heaven and earth, without any 
 previous means bestowed, or time expended, to make 
 ready for his presence ? The dress is different, 
 indeed, as is the occasion ; one is the outside trick- 
 ery, of no importance in itself, for with it you are 
 no other than without it, attended to in conformity 
 to the convenances of society, by custom only ren- 
 dered suitable or unsuitable to the occasion. The 
 other — how shall I speak meetly of its importance ? 
 You cannot, indeed, make yourselves fit to appear — 
 no pains of yoiu's can veil your unworthiness or less- 
 en it ; nor any preparation be, as some mistake it, 
 a ticket of admittance that gives you a right to 
 come and claim the benefits of this holy feast. You 
 come by invitation free and unmerited ; but there 
 is a requisition plain and positive from Him wlio 
 sends it, as to the manner of your appearing. The 
 form of invitation used by our church is the Ian-
 
 202 THE LISTENER. 
 
 guage of Scripture, and those who do not use the 
 same words, give it the same meaning. We are 
 bidden to examine not only the state of our hearts, at 
 the present moment, but the records of our past lives ; 
 that where we have been wrong, we may confess the 
 wrong, lament it deeply, and determine to amend it, 
 as far as may be, for the future : and it is not only the 
 act, but the thought, and word, and deed, we are to 
 examine. Nay, there may be something even to be 
 done as well as determined — for we are expressly 
 forbidden to approach with malice or envy in our 
 hearts, or unforgiven wrong rankling in our bosoms, 
 or injury on our heads, for which we are inclined 
 to make no reparation. Scripture is very express 
 in this — for even when we arrive at the altar, if we 
 recollect any thing of wrong between us and our 
 fellow-creatures, we are bidden to go away, and 
 make no oftering till we are in better mind. The 
 reason of all this is very plain. We come to the 
 feast as sinners, unworthy to gather up a crumb 
 that falls from it, and seeking for our unworthiness 
 an unconditional pardon. HI would it become us to 
 bring in our bosoms, envy, and jealousy, and resent- 
 ment ; the birth of pride, the workings of a mind 
 that holds itself at higher price than others have 
 had respect to. Ill, very ill, would it beseem us, to 
 bring with us a reckoning of the unpaid dues we 
 are determined on exacting from each other. We 
 come to a banquet of love — love immutable, immea- 
 surable, such as heaven wonders at, and earth can
 
 THE LISTENER. 203 
 
 never comprehend. Ill-dressed guests, indeed, we 
 must appear, if love be not the absorbing feeling of 
 our souls, to the suspension, at least, of every other 
 sentiment. And then we come for a purpose — we 
 come for remission and a cure, as well as to make ac- 
 knowledgment of deepest gratitude to Him, through 
 whose death and passion we can alone receive them. 
 How can this be, if we have taken no account be- 
 forehand of our debts or their amount ; or if we 
 have known nothing of the symptoms of the disease 
 we come to be relieved of, nor have given ourselves 
 the trouble to inquire Iioav far we really need or 
 desire any of these things ? Our enjoyment at the 
 feast will be proportioned to our sense of the benefit 
 -: — our sense of the benefit will be proportioned to 
 our sense of need — and our gratitude to both — and 
 what can we know of this without examination of 
 our hearts and lives ? This preparation is called 
 by our Church the marriage garment, and with 
 reason, for the resemblance holds: the garment 
 was not a cause of the invitation, nor an induce- 
 ment to receive the guest, nor to a title to sit down 
 at another's table, nor a payment made for the en- 
 tertainment there — yet was it that, Avithout which, 
 none could be welcomed at a inarriage-feast. And 
 now, my children, you musf decide for yourselves, 
 whether you can, without preparation, accept this 
 invitation for the first time in your lives." 
 
 " I think we cannot," replied Fanny ; " and as 
 we shall certainly not have time to think of it pro-
 
 20i 
 
 THE LISTENER. 
 
 perly, it will be better to put it off: for the ball you 
 know cannot be put off, and Mrs Askall gives but 
 one in the year — it is a long promise that we should 
 be there, and she is of so much consequence in the 
 neighbourhood, it would not do to offend her ; be- 
 sides, we shall have so much pleasure; every body 
 will be there, and it will be such an odd reason to 
 give ! The Sacrament will be repeated in a month 
 or two, and then, perhaps, we shall have nothing 
 to prevent our receiving it seriously, and as we 
 ought." 
 
 " You are left to your own choice, Fanny ; but be 
 mindful of your profession and your vow. You are 
 preferring what you esteem pleasure to what you 
 know to be a duty — you are setting the opinions of 
 men before the express command of God — you are 
 offering to your heavenly Father an excuse that will 
 not be accepted by an earthly friend. I fear that 
 preference you were so sure just now would incline 
 to the right side, has already fallen on the wrong. 
 But what says my Maria ? " 
 
 " I am thinking very seriously what is to be done," 
 answered Maria ; " I should be very sorry to ne- 
 glect the Sacrament, which I anticipated with desire, 
 besides the sense of duty. But, indeed, mamma, I 
 do not see why it cannot be managed. We shall be 
 busy, to be sure, till Friday — but while our fingers 
 are employed for one purpose, our thoughts may be 
 upon the other : and then, you know, there will be 
 a day on Saturday that we can quite give owe minds
 
 THE LISTENER. 205 
 
 to serious thought. I should not like to give up 
 either, if you leave it to my clioioe." 
 
 " You may try it, ]\Iaria — for I believe you suffi- 
 ciently conscientious, wlien the Sunday comes, to 
 give up your purpose, if you find your mind unfit. 
 And, Emma ? " 
 
 " I cannot go to the ball, mamma — it is not pos- 
 sible." 
 
 " And why not, Emma ? " 
 
 "Because, while you were speaking to me, my 
 mind took a hasty glance upon itself; and I saw 
 within it so much to think of, so much to reflect 
 upon ; and I felt so much need of the medicine, and 
 so long a debt to reckon up, and so great a desire to 
 receive the offered pledge of my Eedeemer's love ; 
 and, after sixteen years of kindness and favour 
 lavished on me, to make my first public acknow- 
 ledgment at his table — I cannot, mamma, do any 
 thing that will prevent this invitation, or unfit me 
 from accepting it." 
 
 " You have your choice, my chikben," answered Lady 
 S., " with liberty to change it, if you see occasion." 
 
 We left our story on the Sunday evening : I 
 would persuade myself it is not there we should 
 resume it. I would rather believe, and so I am sure 
 would my readers, that I was mistaken, when, after 
 a sermon had been read, and family prayers had 
 been offered, and the ladies had withdrawn to their 
 chambers, I heard through the walls that parted us, 
 certain words wliich might be construed into a com-
 
 206 THE LISTENER. 
 
 mencement of the week's preparation — such, for in- 
 stance, as blond, and chenille, and gimp, and piping 
 — all very innocent things in themselves ; and if my 
 imagination connected them with any thing not quite 
 appropriate to the time and circumstance, my read- 
 ers will say the fault is mine ; that I have no right 
 to suppose, still less to relate, any thing more than 
 I did really hear. I would not, on any account, be 
 thought censorious ; therefore, I will leave it as a 
 thing of course, that while the evening sermon was 
 read, the invitations came not into the minds of the 
 young ladies, and that Avhile prayers were offered, 
 no thought of dresses occurred : and that before they 
 went to sleep they did not speak, and after they 
 went to sleep they did not dream, of any thing con- 
 nected with the subject. In which very probable 
 case, the Miss S.'s stand acquitted of having com- 
 menced their preparations before Monday morning. 
 I am quite certain they rose that morning at day- 
 break : and as getting up early, whether to do any 
 thing or nothing, is an established proof of indus- 
 try and activity, I beg I may not be understood to 
 object to that circumstance. 
 
 As my curiosity had been considerably excited by 
 the conversation of the evening, I felt some regret 
 that I could hear nothing during these early hours, 
 but the opening and shutting of drawers, the over- 
 turning of bandboxes, and certain other indistinct 
 sounds to which I could not attach any meaning. 
 The breakfast-table relieved my mind of this regret.
 
 THE LISTENER. 207 
 
 " !Mamina," said Fanny, the moment she appear- 
 ed, " Ave have been so busy trying on all the gowns 
 we have, to find which pattern wnll fit us best ; and 
 then we could not determine upon the colour — we 
 have been trying all colours to see which becomes 
 us, and, I think, I look best in ])lue, and Maria is 
 positive she looks best in pink, and so we almost 
 quarrelled about it ; for you know we must be dress- 
 ed alike. At last, when we found it was impossible 
 to agree, and we were only wasting time, we deter- 
 mined to refer it to you, to choose for us." 
 
 This at least proved a wise measure, and before 
 the whole hour of breakfast had elapsed, the decision 
 was made — as the young ladies were decidedly ami- 
 able, of course the lady of the rejected colour showed 
 no signs of vexation. And now the plot thickened 
 fast — for the mercer came, and his bale of goods 
 came, and the yardwand came — and there was mea- 
 suring of breadths, and measuring of lengths, and 
 many very intricate calcidations besides, to make the 
 least possible quantity do the greatest possible ser- 
 vice. In the issue, it appeared to me that the mate- 
 rials selected were simple, tasteful, and very little 
 expensive. 
 
 It would be quite superfluous to describe the 
 whole process of dressmaking — every lady, who has 
 made her entree into the gay world, without a long 
 purse at her command, knows what ensues upon 
 wanting a ball-dress in a hurry, and can picture to 
 herself the state of the apartment, during the first
 
 208 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Stage of the proceeding — the various articles of ap- 
 parel consigned to the backs of chairs — the piano 
 converted into a measuring-board — the attendance of 
 all the females in the house, except the cook, with 
 thimbles on their middle finger — the trying on, and 
 cutting out, and fitting in. It was impossible not to 
 admire the skill and ingenuity of the young ladies. 
 I should have felt much interest in the scene, and 
 made many a wise reflection on the beauty of domes- 
 tic usefulness, and feminine industry; and, for any 
 thing I know, might have written an essay on the 
 advantages of ladies being early taught to help 
 themselves in these indispensables of life, could I 
 have forgotten as early as they had done, the con- 
 versation of the preceding evening : but lest it should 
 ever seem that I neglect to commend what is in itself 
 commendable, I beg my friends to remember that I 
 was marking the progress of this week, with refer- 
 ence to its destined termination, and with the two 
 mviTATioxs ever on my mind. 
 
 Dresses, as ISIiss Maria had previously observed, 
 are made with hands — ^but excepting the housemaid, 
 who did, or meant to do, only what she was bidden, 
 and always had that to undo, because, as she said, 
 she was thinking of something else, more probably 
 because she was not thinking at all, the thoughts and 
 tongues of the industrious group were fully employed 
 during this first day. And much I heard of the com- 
 parative merits of full fronts and plain fronts, and 
 hif'-h backs and low backs, and circles and squares,
 
 THE LISTENER. 209 
 
 and Vandykes and scollops, and straiglitways, and 
 crossways, and longways. It came once in my head 
 to wonder if, in the days of Grecian elegance and 
 classic taste, there were so many ways of making a 
 go^vTi. Time, with its usual malevolence, sped the 
 quicker for the need there was of it — night came, 
 and the ladies stole some hour or two upon its wintry 
 length, and rose but the earlier to renew their 
 labours ; and like to the first day was the second. 
 
 " I am very glad," said Maria, as they sat some- 
 thing more quietly at the work-table on the evening 
 of Tuesday — " I am very glad the bustle of choosing 
 and planning our dresses is over : now, though 
 we must work hard to get the trimming done, we 
 have nothing more to contrive, and therefore need 
 not talk or think about our work ; I really shall 
 be glad to give my mind to better thoughts." 
 
 " I do not know what you can do, Maria," replied 
 Fanny ; " but I never can attend to two things at 
 once. Any very serious subject would be so totally 
 out of harmony Avith my present thoughts and de- 
 sires, which are all engrossed with the care of my 
 personal appearance, and the anticipation of plea- 
 sure, it would seem almost a profanation to introduce 
 any such. Solomon says, there is a time for all 
 things — ^but he does not say we can do all things at 
 the same time — therefore, till this week is over, I 
 can give my mind to nothing but this ball." 
 
 " If we were doing wrong," replied IMaria, " I 
 should think with you ; but we are employed as pro- 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 210 THE LISTENER* 
 
 priety and circumstances require, and certainly in a 
 very innocent occupation. The last two days it has 
 been indeed impossible to attend to any thing else ; 
 but to-morrow I shall try to complete my task with- 
 out so much talking and thinking about it — and 
 perhaps I can get Emma to read to me." 
 
 Emma had firmly held her purpose ; but let it not 
 be supposed that she had withdrawn hel'self to a 
 cloister, or a hermit's cell, or even to her own cham- 
 ber, during all this time. Sincerity is seldom osten- 
 tatious, and firmness is seldom boastful. Emma 
 seemed to be going on with her ordinary occupa- 
 tions ; she gave her opinion simply when asked it, 
 and cheerfully offered occasional assistance to her 
 sisters ; but her mind was evidently otherwise en- 
 gaged ; she shared not the interest of the scene. 
 It cannot be denied that she was less gay than they, 
 and felt a frequent wish that she could share their 
 pleasurable excitement, without the sacrifice of what 
 she esteemed her duty. 
 
 " It is surely absurd in you," said Fanny to her, 
 one day, " to give up this ball, on purpose to make 
 yourself singular. It will have a very odd appear- 
 ance in the eyes of the world, I cannot think it 
 right in one so young to make such a public display 
 of religion, by acting differently from the rest of her 
 family. Singularity always wears the appearance of 
 pride : to say nothing of the pleasure you needlessly 
 throw away." 
 
 "It cannot be making any display at all," an-
 
 THE LISTENER. 211 
 
 swerecl Emma ; " for, as I am the youngest, it will 
 naturally be supposed I do not yet go out ; and in 
 respect to singularity, mamma gave us our separate 
 choice, and, I think, was by no means dissatisfied 
 with mine. Then for the pleasure, dear Fanny, I 
 confess I should like it, if I could share it : but 
 never in my life could I find pleasure in any thing 
 while my heart was heavy, and my conscience ill at 
 ease. If I felt as you do, I w^ould go ; but feeUng 
 as I do, I should be miserable when I got there. 
 You may be right in your determination, pursuing 
 innocently a natural and unforbidden pleasui-e, while 
 I am but indulging a needless scruple. I do not 
 pretend to decide upon that point, or to be wiser 
 than vou. But of this I am certain — if wrona: in 
 my judgment, I am right in my conduct. I cannot 
 be doing wrong in foregoing a pleasure that seems 
 to me to interfere with my religious duties, and un- 
 fit me for the sacred ceremony in which I desire to 
 participate. If my maturer judgment should disco- 
 ver it to have been a needless sacrifice, the memory 
 of it will at least not lie heavy on my bosom, when 
 it will probably hax'e weight enough without it. I 
 may sometimes smile at it as a childish weakness, 
 but I shall never have to blush at it as a sin. The 
 veriest fool that follows the will of God, as far as 
 his weakness can discover it, will gather the reward 
 of wisdom ; while the wiser one, w ho pursues his 
 o^vn, will reap but the meed of folly." 
 
 Maria had hitherto said very little upon the sub-
 
 212 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ject, yet there was an air that seemed to say, I am 
 wiser than either of you. The temptation of giving 
 words to her wisdom now became too great to be 
 withstood. " Nobody," she said, " can think it right 
 to pursue their own will in opposition to the will of 
 God ; but it is the part of discretion and good sense 
 to distinguish between a right principle and a need- 
 less singularity. We have been very religiously 
 brought up, and accustomed to attend to all our 
 duties : I therefore do not see why we should be so 
 very ill-prepared for receiving the Sacrament, even 
 if we have not time to think of it particularly this 
 week ; but, for my part, I shall find time. There 
 is no harm in dancing, and there is no harm in 
 dressing, and there is no harm in mixing with other 
 people for a few hours' recreation : if we make a sin 
 of what in itself is not so, the fault must be our own. 
 I can be just as religious in a ball-room as in my 
 own chamber, if I please. God has nowhere bidden 
 us to withdraw from the ordinary occupations of life, 
 and become nuns and hermits, that we may be more 
 meet to serve him. We should rather learn to resist 
 temptation in the world, than fly from it. I do not 
 mean to suppose those who act thus conscientiously 
 are absolutely wrong ; but it is to be regretted that 
 good people have not better judgment, but must be 
 running into extremes. I should not exactly say 
 that Emma does wrong; but I think it would be 
 more proof of sense to do as other people do, at least 
 tUl she is older."
 
 THE LISTENER, 213 
 
 " Indeed," answered Emma, " I had rather act 
 than talk about it ; and I would rather prove my 
 want of sense by acting against the opinions of the 
 world, than my want of principle by acting against 
 my own conscience. I am not sure enough to like 
 to argue : but I am sure enough to know what to 
 do. There is a world, that, in my baptism, I have 
 promised neither to follow nor be led by. Now, I 
 do not know what that can be, unless it be the 
 doing what others do, when in my conscience I feel 
 and believe I should do otherwise." 
 
 " Well, well," said Maria, " I do not wish to per- 
 suade you. If we all do what we think right, we 
 shall all do well, because nothing more is required 
 of us. K I thought as you do, I would act as you 
 do ; for I am as much determined as yourself to go 
 to the Sacrament on Sunday ; and I dare say, when 
 Sunday comes, I, who have been innocently enjoying 
 myself, shall be just as fit as you, who have con- 
 demned yourself to a week of thoughtfulness and 
 self-denial. We shall see. — Will you read to me 
 something serious, while I work the silver into this 
 bit of gauze ?^ It does not need any thought, and I 
 am quite at liberty to listen." 
 
 " That I will do with pleasure," said Emma ; and 
 the conversation was for that time superseded by the 
 reading of Hawes's Communicant's Companion. I 
 cannot be very exact in the chronology, but I think 
 this conversation passed some time in the Wednes- 
 day evening. Mean while the preparation advanced
 
 21 4 THE LISTENER. 
 
 rapidly. Fanny's spirits grew liglite r as the day 
 approached — all her walk became dance, and all her 
 speech became song, so light seemed her heart and 
 so gay. It appeared to me that Maria's was not so. 
 She frequently kept silence wliile Emma read, and 
 seemed to listen attentively ; but it had rather the 
 appearance of depressing than of soothing her spirits. 
 She grew pettish, found fault with her thread, broke 
 her needle, wished she could afford to buy her dresses, 
 complained of the misery of being born without for^ 
 tune, said the ribbons did not match, and the gloves 
 did not fit. One moment Fanny's high spirits fa- 
 tigued her — it was quite silly in her to be so elated 
 about a foolish ball ; the next moment Emma's gloomy 
 silence depressed her — why did she spoil every body's 
 pleasure? there was no amusement in going and 
 leaving her at home. 
 
 "To-morrow night at this tune!" cried Fanny, 
 as she danced gaily round the room. " I wonder 
 whom I shall dance with first. I won't dance at all 
 unless I get a good partner — it makes one look so 
 foolish. I should like to know how the Miss Dashoffs 
 will be dressed — they are such pert,, silly girls ; it 
 would be provoking to appear in worse style than 
 they do." 
 
 " O, as to that," answered Maria, " I am not 
 at all anxious. I should be very sorry to be jealous 
 of any body. I am sure I do not go to the ball to 
 show myself, but merely for the pleasure of dancing. 
 Indeed I shall be quite glad when it is over, that I
 
 THE LISTENER. 215 
 
 may return to more rational pursuits. One must do 
 as other people do, but really it is a great sacrifice of 
 time. I would much rather stay at home." 
 
 " Then why, dear Maria, do you not stay at home ? 
 I am quite sure mamma would be content to hear 
 such a determination, and would not press your going 
 even now," said Emma, 
 
 " Or rather," exclaimed Fanny, " Avhy do you try 
 to sit on two stools at once, to the manifest danger 
 of going to the ground between them ? Wliether 
 it will be more rational to go or to stay at home, I 
 really have not time to consider ; but I am sure it 
 must be right to do one or the other ; and you do 
 not seem in the humour for either. I think it is quite 
 wicked to be reading and talking of sacred things, 
 as you and Emma have been doing all this day, in 
 the midst of such occupations. It has served no 
 purpose but to put you out of humour with yourself, 
 and make you disagreeable to every body. It would 
 be much better to give yourself up to pleasure this 
 week, and put off those subjects till a more pi'oper 
 season. There's a time for all things. Come, let 
 me just put these wreaths round your hair, to see 
 which looks best. 0, how sweetly ! — I wish to- 
 morrow was come." 
 
 Maria rose, and went to the glass. " Well, but, 
 Fanny, I cannot wear this ; It does not become me. 
 I wish you would let me " 
 
 " Well, but, Maria, that does not signify, as you 
 do not go to show yourself, you know ; and "
 
 216 THE LISTENER. 
 
 I am sorry, that having forgotten to observe the 
 timepiece, I cannot inform my readers how long it 
 took the ladies to settle the difference of opinion re- 
 specting these same ornaments — -but I dare say the 
 vender knows how long he stood in the cold haU, 
 waiting the restoration of his goods. 
 
 The date of the fii-st invitation had now arrived. 
 Wlien the dressing began, I am at some loss to 
 decide — I might allege arguments to prove it com- 
 menced over night — or probably there might be a 
 sort of rehearsal — it is impossih»le to know exactly 
 what one only hears through a wall. It does not 
 signify, for certainly the ladies were not dressed in 
 the morning. The time came, however, that they 
 were dressed, and, as I believed, extremely well ; 
 and if the flush of pleasure on the cheek, and the 
 sparkling of expectation in the eye, be proofs of 
 happiness, I never looked upon a happier pair. 
 
 " Does my Emma repent her choice ?" said Lady 
 S. to the youngest girl, as she sat in her plain morn- 
 ing dress before the fire, between her gay and happy 
 sisters ; one hand drooping, the half-closed book up- 
 on her knee, the other hand pressed upon her lips, 
 in the attitude of one who is not quite so happy as 
 she meant to be. 
 
 " I am not sure, mamma, whether I do or not — I 
 shall be glad when you come back." 
 
 " Well, never mind, dear," said the good-natured 
 Fanny, " you will be wiser another time. I -svish 
 the carriage would come. The Miss Dashoffs will
 
 THE LISTEJTER. 217 
 
 go in their o^vn carriage, of course — I suppose almost 
 every one will have their own carriage but ourselves. 
 That is not particularly pleasant, I must confess— ^- 
 but it will be dark, and perhaps no one will observe 
 what we come in," 
 
 " And it does not signify if they do" replied 
 Maria ; " I should be ashamed to feel any of that 
 sort of pride. We are of higher birth than they are, 
 though not so rich." 
 
 " And, pray, dear Maria," said Lady S., " what 
 may be the difference between the pride that is mor- 
 tified at being poorer, and the pride that js gratified 
 at being greater than others?" 
 
 " Pride is a sin, I know/' answered Maria, " how- 
 ever excited, and by whatever fed^ — and yet it does 
 not exactly seem to me the same thing. If I should 
 blush at 1)eing seen in a hack carriage, whore other 
 girls are in their own, it must be an emotion of 
 mortified pride, and therefore is sinful emotion — 
 whereas, if I should feel pleasure in hearing you 
 announced as My Lady, while their mothers are in- 
 troduced as plain Mistress, it would be "■ 
 
 " An emotion of gratified pride ; and, therefore, 
 as sinful as the other, because the offspring of the 
 self-same passion." 
 
 " But, mamma, it is impossible to keep off all 
 such thoughts from our minds, when we come in 
 competition with other people, on occasions in which 
 every one is valued according to their exterior ad- 
 vantages."
 
 218 THE LISTENER. 
 
 " And therefore it is, that such occasions are un- 
 favourable to that subjugation of sinful passion which 
 is the Christian's aim. But I hear the carriage." 
 
 A look of thoughtfulness passed over Maria's brow, 
 as if she recollected something — but the desired mo- 
 ment had arrived, and they all stepped into the hired 
 carriage. I thought Fanny looked at it with more 
 than common observance, but this might be fancy. 
 
 I now find myself under very considerable diffi- 
 culty. Most story-tellers know what passes in their 
 absence, and can relate, without either seeing or hear- 
 ing, even to the most secret thoughts and feelings of 
 their characters ; I am prohibited from telling any 
 thing but what I hear. What is to be done ? The 
 carriage drove oiF — and I remained at home — how, 
 then, could I hear what followed ? 
 
 The hired carriage had driven off, the large hall 
 door had been closed by the housemaid, for the foot- 
 man of course was gone — the same inelegant substi- 
 tute brought up two solitary -looking tea-cups, in 
 company with the undress tea-pot, and a kettle of 
 water, that, in the universal hubbub, had neglected 
 to boil itself; and in silent thoughtfulness, ]VIiss 
 Emma and myself sat-doAvn to what is commonly 
 called an uncomfortable tea. What she was thinking 
 of I cannot determine — my thoughts had gone to 
 Mrs Askall's by a nearer road, and saw the car- 
 riage stop at the door ; after much contention of 
 wheels, horses, and coachmen, whose sense of pro- 
 prietorship made them dispute precedence with the
 
 THE LISTENER, 219 
 
 hack. I saw the ladies ascend the stairs into the 
 large uncarpetcd room, of which the present coldness 
 was only made tolerable by anticipation of future 
 warmth. I saw — what they who are familiar with 
 it need not to be told ; and they who are not, will 
 not perceive the merit of my description. 
 
 Mean time the tea hour had passed, and we pre- 
 pared to amuse ourselves ; I took my drawing, and 
 Emma proposed to read to me. The book proved 
 interesting, and gave rise to much animated conver- 
 sation, in which the carriages, and their contents, 
 and the ball-room into which they had been emptied, 
 were alike forgotten. Emma grew gay and playful, 
 the hours passed quickly, and when she took leave 
 of me for the night, there was upon her countenance 
 a look of such serene enjoyment, as bespake a spirit 
 satisfied, and a mind at peace. 
 
 I had a task to perform, and therefore sat out 
 the lingering hours of night, till, far upon the ad- 
 vance of morning, the revellers returned. The first 
 question, of course, was respecting the pleasantness 
 of the fete ; to which exclamations of delight were 
 the quick response ! more there was not need to ask ; 
 all were in too much hurry to give the answers, to 
 pay any regard to the questions. As they all talked 
 at once, it would be impossible to repeat the con- 
 versation ; but on most points of discussion I per- 
 ceived considerable difference of opinion. !Maria, 
 who had by far the most attractive person, thought 
 the gentlemen extremely polite and attentive —
 
 220 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Fanny denounced them all as bears and boobies. 
 Fanny wondered the Miss Dashoffs should be so 
 much admired, when they were decidedly plain — 
 Maria was satisfied that they were not admired, but 
 courted only because they were rich; Maria thought 
 it quite impertinent in the Miss Somebodies to be 
 more plainly dressed than others, when they were 
 known to be rich — Fanny thought it equally imper- 
 tinent in the Miss Nobodies to be better dressed than 
 others, when they were known to be poor. Fanny 
 complained of the rudeness of some one in attempt- 
 ing to stand above her in the dance — Maria com- 
 plained that some one else had complained of her 
 rudeness in attempting to stand above them, and 
 both were resolved to retaliate another time. Fanny 
 was vexed because she did not dance with the per- 
 sons she wished to dance with — and Maria was 
 vexed, because, when she had danced with the per- 
 sons she wished to dance with, they thought proper 
 to dance with somebody else that she desired they 
 should not dance with. 
 
 On the whole, as far as by listening I could learn, 
 every body had done something they had better not 
 have done, or worn something they would have been 
 better without, or said something not quite within 
 the pale of good-breeding and good-sense. But 
 these were specks upon the evening's brightness — 
 the gratifications were exquisite, and the pleasures 
 out of number. Fanny never was so happy in her 
 life, as when Mr C. left Miss Dashotif to sit with
 
 THE LISTENER. 221 
 
 her ; tliongh, but to tease Miss D., she would rather 
 have been rid of him. Maria was enchanted to hear 
 Lady W. say the Miss S.'s were the best dressed 
 girls in the room, and wonder whom they employed. 
 Both ladies were delighted they had chosen to wear 
 pink, when they saw the vulgar Miss Thompsons 
 were in blue. In short, time would fail to tell out 
 the list of pleasures ; and declaring they never were 
 so happy or so tired in their lives, to which last 
 assertion their pallid cheeks and rayloss eyes suffi- 
 ciently subscribed, the young ladies retired to their 
 room. I listened, for now the deeper secrets of the 
 fete were to be disclosed — it was here that, re- 
 straint thrown off, the compliments were all repeated, 
 the excited passions all exposed, the jealousies and 
 mortifications confessed, the triumphs acted over 
 again, and the satire repeated with redoubled zest ; 
 but far be it from me to betray the truths disclosed, 
 and the secrets laid open, in the careless confidence 
 of private converse and sisterly trust. If any one of 
 my readers has been a partner in any conversation 
 carried on under similar circumstances, she has but 
 to recall it, to be perfectly in the secret of this. 
 
 The breakfast stood long in patient order on the 
 table the ensuing morning. The sun was mid-way 
 in his short wintry course before the slumberers 
 awakened, or, I should rather say, arose — for wake 
 they surely did not. These young people had not 
 yet been long enough practised in the hard service 
 of dissipation, to feel no morning consequence of
 
 222 THE LISTENER. 
 
 the night's exertion ; and they came forth at length 
 with looks as well as words of weariness, languor, 
 and exhaustion ; experiencing, though they probably 
 neither understood the feeling, nor made the reflec- 
 tion, that, as there are more ways than one of being 
 intoxicated, so there are others besides the wine- 
 drinker who are doomed to experience all the 
 misery of getting sober. During the remainder of 
 the morning, of which the remainder was not much, 
 they dozed upon the chair, or lounged upon the 
 sofa, the discussion of the night being occasionally 
 renewed ; but neither the pleasures, nor the pains, 
 nor the flattery, nor the neglects, were so fully ap- 
 preciated as they had been — distance and the mists 
 of lassitude had something lessened the distinctness 
 of these receding objects. After dinner, Fanny gave 
 herself up freely to the weariness she felt — Maria 
 kept up an ineffectual struggle to read a book that 
 seemed equally determined not to be read, if I might 
 judge from the propensity it showed to close itself 
 in her hands. Whether thinking, dreaming, or read- 
 ing, however, the mind's occupation was one and 
 the same, as was clearly proved by the occasional 
 remarks that came from the lips of each, evincing 
 that the intermediate aberrations of the mind had 
 extended no farther than from coaches to complexions, 
 from bracelets to quadrille tunes. 
 
 In the evening Lady S. requested some conver- 
 sation with her daughters respecting their intentions 
 for the morrow ; observing that as, in conformity
 
 THE LtSTENER. 223 
 
 with her intention declared on the preceding Sabbath, 
 she had neither spoken to them on the subject, nor 
 interfered with their wishes during tlie week, so it 
 now became necessary to renew the question ; the 
 second invitation yet remaining to be attended to, 
 and the hour being near at hand : she desired to 
 know which of lier daughters intended to accompany 
 her to the altar on the following morning. 
 
 The young people had too much right feeling to 
 make any attempt to avert the subject, or show un- 
 willingness towards it : but there was something in 
 theii* looks and manner that plainly said the subject 
 was ill-timed — that would have asked, if it might 
 be, a more convenient season. But this could not 
 be — Lady S. was patiently looking towards Fanny, 
 as the eldest, for reply. Fanny rubbed her eyes, 
 and stretched her limbs, and seemed to be looking 
 about for the senses that were not immediately forth- 
 coming : at length she said — 
 
 " I have never had but one intention, mamma ; it 
 is that I declared at first, and I have seen little cause 
 to change it. I knew that whatever occupies my 
 mind strongly, engrosses it fully. I knew very well, 
 that besides being so much occupied with the actual 
 employments of the week, my spirits would be too 
 much elated for any thing like serious retiection — 
 in short, that the thing would be too much in my 
 head to admit of graver matters ; and I knew equally 
 well, that when the ball was over, I should be tired 
 and asleep as I am now ; and that the same images
 
 224 THE LISTENER. 
 
 would remain on my imagination, though receding 
 now, as they were before advancing. And, if I thought 
 this at first, I am now but the more convinced of it 
 —I have not had a thought of any thing but pleasure 
 the whole week ; except to feel impatient at Maria's 
 interruption of our occupations with subjects, that, 
 at another time, I should have liked as well as her- 
 self. And now that all is over, there needs no ex- 
 amination to teach me that I am not prepared for 
 receiving the Sacrament. I have not felt a feeling, 
 nor thought a thought, nor spoken a word to-day, 
 but those of vanity, i-ivalship, and folly. I am not 
 so insensible of the sacredness of heavenly things, as 
 to intrude myself on a rite so holy in such a dress as 
 this : and besides that I do not feel ready, I have no 
 inclination to it — it is not in unison with my present 
 feeling — I am not in the humour — -I never can pre- 
 sume to offer to God heartless and unwilling service. 
 But you know, mamma, I never meant to go to the 
 Sacrament to-morrow. I shall wait another oppor- 
 tunity." 
 
 " Do you know that you shall have one, Fanny ? " 
 
 " Yes — that is — no, mamma, I do not exactly 
 
 know it. But I may fairly presume so — I have no 
 
 reason to think otherwise — in all probability — I am 
 
 young and well." 
 
 " I will not make trite remarks upon the uncer- 
 tainty of life, and the deceptiveness of health, Fanny : 
 we all know it, and we none of us believe it ; and 
 when any one dies before they expect — and who,
 
 THE LISTENER. 225 
 
 With some few exceptions, does not die before they 
 expect ? — there is as much surprise as if it had never 
 happened before. But, my child, allowing it pro- 
 bable, woidd you stake your eternal welfare on a 
 probability ? " 
 
 " Nay, but, mamma, you have always taught me 
 that my salvation does not, cannot depend upon an 
 outward ceremony ; my taking the Sacrament can 
 no more make me fit to die, than my not taking it 
 can exclude me from the realms of bliss." 
 
 " That is true, my love — and you are neither the 
 more nor the less prepared to die, for having par- 
 taken of the Lord's Supper. It is not, as some sup- 
 pose, the make-weight of our insufficient merit, nor 
 the sponge that wipes out the record of our sins. 
 But what then is it ? If not the preparation for the 
 feasts of heaven, it is the emblem, the earnest, the 
 beginning of them ; you come to the one to profess 
 yourself an asi)irant to the other ; the same claim 
 that is pleaded here, must be pleaded there ; the same 
 emblem of the marriage garment has been used for 
 both, and the thing which it pictures is in both the 
 same. If you are not fitted for the one, you are not 
 fitted for the other — ^if you have i)ut it out of your 
 power conscientiously to present yourself at the 
 Lord's table upon earth, could you ex[)ect admittance 
 to his presence above ? — if this his invitation be re- 
 fused, how could you receive the messenger that 
 should bid you to his marriage feast in heaven ? — 
 ' I pray thee have me excused ; I have been engaged 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 226 THE LISTENER. 
 
 in other matters/ Tlie plea has served you now ; 
 you are excused : you were free to choose whether 
 you would accept his gracious bidding ; you have 
 chosen, and i*- seems that all is well. You have de- 
 liberately unfitted yourself for serious thought, and, 
 by your own confession, made yourself at once in- 
 capable and indisposed to the commemoration of his 
 love, and the participation of his blessings : and, in 
 this state of conscious unfitness, you mean to go to 
 rest to-night ; and you will lie down to sleep in peace 
 and confidence, as if nothing were the matter. But, 
 my child, there is a feast in heaven prepared for them 
 that love Him — what if the messenger be sped 
 to-night to say that all is ready, and your hour of 
 admission or rejection is at hand — that the decisive 
 moment is arrived for you, which must determine 
 your doom through all eternity ! ' I have been en- 
 gaged in other matters' — will the plea serve you 
 then ? Yes, then, as now, you will be excused, in- 
 deed — ^but the door will be closed and made fast for 
 ever, and she who was not ready must remain with- 
 out. Is it not so, Fanny ? " 
 
 " Undoubtedly, mamma, it is ; and I should hold 
 myself unfit indeed to die to-night : I can scarcely 
 suppose myself prepared to appear before the throne 
 of God in heaven, when I cannot venture to pre- 
 sent myself at his table upon earth." 
 
 *' Then did I say amiss, Fanny, when I said, you 
 were willing to stake your eternal welfare on a. pro- 
 bability — a probabilit}', as far as you can see, or
 
 THE LISTENER, 227 
 
 tnow, or calculate ? With God there are no proba- 
 bilities, because there are no uncertainties : but in 
 human language, and in earthly seeming, you say it 
 is not probable you shall die to-night ; and with this 
 you can content youi-self — and on this you can go 
 happily to rest — and with this you will wake cheer- 
 fully to-morrow, and the next day and the next you 
 will remain the same perhaps — deferring, postponing, 
 putting aside the invitations, the commands of Him 
 to whom you have professed to devote yourselves, 
 for the sake of those tilings you promised in your 
 baptism to renounce. Wliether you go to the Sa- 
 crament to-morrow or not, is, indeed, of no conse- 
 quence to your salvation. It is not because you do 
 not receive it, that you are unprepared to die — it is 
 because you are unprepared to receive it, unfit to 
 receive it, indisposed to receive it. Consider se- 
 riously how long it is wise to remain so, in a state 
 of being where the youngest and the strongest is as 
 the brief herbage of the field, that grows up to-day, 
 and to-morrow is cut do\Tn and withered. — And what 
 does Maria intend ? " 
 
 Maria hesitated — ^lier tone of confidence was some- 
 thing lowered, and her wisdom seemed not quite so 
 eager to express itself as it had been : yet still she 
 kept her purpose, and said she saw no reason for 
 declining to accompany Lady S. to the Sacrament 
 on the morrow, if she herself saw none. 
 
 " Wliat I see is a small matter, dcai- INIaria — but 
 do you feel none ? "
 
 228 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Maria again hesitated and stammered, but still 
 said, " No." 
 
 Lady S. seemed surprised, and for a moment em- 
 barrassed, as if not knowing how to reply to an 
 answer she had not expected : she then said, " Have 
 you examined your own heart, Maria, after the 
 manner enjoined you, to see if there be reason or 
 not?" 
 
 " I cannot pretend," answered Maria, " that I 
 have made any special examination, or any particu- 
 lar preparation for this holy ceremony — I meant it, 
 but I have not had time : I was not aw^are that I 
 should be too mvich elated yesterday, and too much 
 exhausted to-day, to apply my mind to any thing ; 
 but, after all, there is something very pharisaical in 
 the idea of preparing ourselves, as if the formality 
 of a week's preparation, as it is called, a few prayers 
 and a little reading, could be of any value in the 
 sight of God, or by any means recommend us to his 
 favour. We ought always to be prepared ; and 
 
 therefore I conclude I am so without" 
 
 *' You have come to the conclusion by a short 
 road, Maria ; but our church, which only echoes the 
 language of Scrijiture, has ventured to make a doubt 
 of this, and sends neither invitation, nor permission, 
 nor a welcome to any one who, without examina- 
 tion, takes this for granted. But, since you are so 
 confident of your own state, I must suppose you 
 have some grounds for being so. To use the lan- 
 guage of our catechism (not because I would rest
 
 THE LISTENER, 229 
 
 on tlie autiiority of man, but bocausc I know none 
 better or more simply scriptural,) I would ask you 
 first, whetlicr you do truly repent you of your former 
 sins ? " 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 "But have you inquired of yourself what they 
 are?" 
 
 " Not" particularly. I know I must have sinned 
 frequently, and of course am sorry to have done so." 
 " To be sorry is to feel pain — to repent is to be 
 grieved, ashamed, distressed. Can you have felt 
 this without knowing for what ? And anotlier part 
 of repentance is, that you determine to lead a new 
 life. Have you made any such determination?" 
 " I do not know, mamma, in what I am to amend." 
 " And how can you know, my child, if you have 
 not inquired ? And if you can perceive nothing in 
 which you can amend, how can you repent of any 
 thing? It is sufficiently plain that these are but 
 empty words to you. Yet these things you will pro- 
 fess when you approach the table ! The next requi- 
 sition is that you have a lively faith in God's mercy 
 through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of his 
 death. A lively faith, to take no more than the 
 common meaning of the word, must be an active, 
 animated, conscious thing, something that gives signs 
 of life. It cannot be a vague belief laid up in the 
 bosom so closely, that even to yourself it makes no 
 difference of sensation whether it be there or not. 
 A thankful remembrance of Christ's death cannot, in
 
 230 THE LISTENER. 
 
 common sense, be a total forgetfulness of it. Xow, 
 my dear girl, cast back your thoughts upon the 
 transactions of the last week, up to this very hour, 
 and say, have yon believed, have you remembered, 
 have you been grateful ? " 
 
 " Mamma, I am sure I believe these things to be 
 true, for it never came into my mind to doubt them. 
 I hope I am grateful, as I surely must be, for such 
 great mercies : and as to remembering, my mind, as 
 I confessed before, has been too full of other matters 
 to think much upon the subject this week ; but I 
 suppose " — — 
 
 " My dear !Maria, you speak as if you did not 
 know the meaning of words. You suppose you have 
 a grateful remembrance of things of which you never 
 think — you are sure you believe what it never came 
 into your head to doubt, and, of course, not to ex- 
 amine. And these things you so certainly believe, 
 and are so certainly grateful for, are nothing less 
 than the eternal interests of your immortal spirit, the 
 mercy that has pardoned, the sacrifice that has re- 
 deemed, the love that has suffered for you : and 
 other matters can so engross your mind as to ex- 
 clude the thought of them entirely. And what 
 matters? The vainest and emptiest pursuits of a 
 vain and empty world — the merest trifles of a life 
 whose most important concerns are themselves but 
 trifles, in comparison with these things so easily 
 displaced. This, Maria, is neither to believe, nor 
 remember, nor be grateful. It is to forget at once
 
 THE LISTENER. 231 
 
 the mercies of God, and your own need of tlicni ; to 
 put Him most ungratefully out of mind, and virtu- 
 ally to disbelieve the consequences of doing so. And 
 then the renuuning clause, ' And be in charity Mith 
 all men/ I explained to you last Sunday what this 
 means. Is there no auger in your heart for others' 
 wrong — no pride seeking to gratify itself at others' 
 expense — nor envy of one who has the advantage, 
 nor contempt for one whom you surpass — no rival- 
 ship, contention, nor ill-nature ? Are love and charity 
 the feelings of your heart towards all : and are they 
 the feelings you have endeavoured to deserve of all ? 
 Have you been as careful to avoid every thing that 
 might excite unholy passions in the bosom of others 
 towards you, as in your own towards them ? Have 
 you tried to excite envy, jealousy, and pride, or to 
 prevent it ? Excited, was it pain or pleasure to 
 you to see others so suffer and so sin ? Examine 
 your feelings for the last few days, nay, your words 
 only during the last twenty-four hours, by the beau- 
 tiful description of charity in the 13th of Corinthi- 
 ans, and say, if it be true that you are in love and 
 charity with all men." 
 
 " By such an interpretation I certainly am not ; 
 but I wish no harm to any one." 
 
 " It is God's interpretation, not mine ; and it ap- 
 pears that of all you take for granted, nothing is the 
 fact." 
 
 " You advise me, then, not to go to the Sacra- 
 ment to-morrow ? "
 
 232 THE LISTENER, 
 
 " Tliat I would still leave to yourself. I would 
 not lead you supevstitiously to suppose, that, by going 
 in this state to the Sacrament, you place yourself in 
 a worse condition than you are in if you stay away. 
 For whether when bidden you refuse to come, or 
 whether coming you refuse to wear the dress ap- 
 pointed for the guests, the act of disobedience is 
 pretty much the same. But, as the case appears 
 with you at this time, I would rather see you, self- 
 convicted and ashamed, retiring from the table as an 
 unmeet guest, than, in bold self-confidence, coming 
 forward to offer to God the little remnant of your 
 heart that the world has not engrossed, the refuse 
 of time and spirits you have been able to snatch 
 from the exhaustion of pleasure, professing things 
 you do not mean, and asking blessings you cannot 
 in conscience expect to receive. He to whom it was 
 said, ' Friend, how camest thou in hither ? ' had no 
 better portion in the feast than they who sent excuses. 
 I need scarcely ask my Emma's determination." 
 
 "Indeed, mamma," answered Emma, "you have 
 much need to ask, or rather to tell me : for I am 
 much in doubt. I have given a large portion of time 
 this week to the examination of my own heart, and 
 I find little in it that encourages me to go. I have 
 been listening attentively to all you have said to my 
 sisters, and have heard much that condemns me also 
 to absence from this holy ceremony. With all my 
 endeavours to keep in mind my Saviour's mercies, I 
 am perpetually forgetting them ; with all the warmth
 
 THE LISTENER. 233 
 
 of gratitude I at some times fancy that I feel, I am 
 oftener disobedient, cold, neglectful ; and though I 
 should say I believe in Christ, when it appears how 
 little consistent with that belief my actions are, it 
 makes me doubtful if I do so or not. If sorrow for 
 sin be repentance, I have repented ; but if, as you 
 say, amendment be a part, I am not sure ; for, per- 
 haps, I shall not amend ; and with respect to the 
 state of my passions, as it regards my fellow-crea- 
 tures, all I have learned by the close examination of 
 every word and feeling is, that my heart is full of 
 selfishness and insubordination. I am certainly as 
 little worthy to intrude myself as my sisters." 
 
 " My dear Emma, it was not to the worthy the 
 invitation was sent, but to the sincere and contrite. 
 You are right when you say you are no more worthy 
 than your sisters to appear ; but there is this difter- 
 ence, — When two things were held out to you, you 
 gave the preference to the invitation of your Lord ; 
 when you saw what occupations were likely to inter- 
 fere with your devotions, you put them aside : when 
 you perceived of what unhallowed passions your mind 
 was susceptible, you avoided the occasions of excit- 
 ing them : so far you proved an honest desire to 
 partake worthily of the benefits of this holy com- 
 munion. The result of all your examination, and 
 all your preparation, is, that you find yourself abso- 
 lutely unworthy as to the past, and absolutely helpless 
 as to the future. Such the result should be, and 
 such it must be. But has this discovery made you
 
 234 THE LISTENER. 
 
 feel less clisi^osed or less desirous to go to the Sacra- 
 ment ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, mamma, it makes me more 
 so; for the deeper grows the consciousness of my 
 ill-deserts, the more precious becomes every emblem 
 of redeeming mercy, the more welcome every record 
 and remembrance of Jesus' love. If I before thought 
 it desirable for me to be a partaker of the body and 
 blood of Christ, and of the benefits received by them, 
 I now know it to be necessary ; for I cannot do 
 without it. Ill-dressed, unclothed, unfitted as I am, 
 I should like to go and try if the Master of the feast 
 will admit me, and help me to provide myself a 
 better garment ; for I believe that none but He can 
 weave it." 
 
 " Then, my dearest Emma, though I do not tell 
 you you are better than your sisters, or that your 
 conduct this week is sufficient to prove the reality of 
 your faith, or the sincerity of your professions — for 
 that is known only to Him who reads the heart — I 
 do not hesitate to advise you to do as you desire ; in 
 humble confidence, that He who has invited you to 
 his feast, wiU graciously receive you, and enable you 
 to be what he requires." 
 
 The Sabbath morning dawned with more than 
 usual brightness. The three sisters went together 
 to their parish church ; fancy might say the step of 
 one was lighter than the rest : certain it is, that one 
 only accepted the Invitation.
 
 TUE LISTENKR. 235 
 
 No. XVII. 
 LENT. 
 
 Ce n'est rien, que le jeiine des viandes grossieres qui nourrissent le 
 corps, si on ne jeiine aussi de tout ce que sert d'aliment a Tamour 
 propre. 
 
 Fenelok. 
 
 The eye that has long been accustomed to look upon 
 the scene around us, has become familiar with its 
 minutest peculiarities, reconciled to its deformities, 
 and sated "with its charms, can form but a very im- 
 perfect idea of the eft'ect of that same scene on one 
 who has never looked on it before. It is thus in 
 every thing — we lose the general effect, in too close 
 intimacy with the minute particulars. The painter 
 feels this, when he has sat hour by hour over the 
 laboured canvass, retouching every feature, measur- 
 ing every line, till the eftect as a whole is so entirely 
 lost to him, he is obliged to remove it for a time 
 out of his sight, or have recourse to the judgment 
 of another. The poet feels it, when, having selected 
 word by word the materials of his composition, and 
 fitted them to the measure of his verse, he knows 
 that to his ear they harmonise, to his perceptions
 
 236 THE listener; 
 
 they express the idea and excite the feeling he 
 intends ; but can very inadequately judge of the im- 
 pression they will make on the mind of a reader 
 who, for the first time, comes to their perusal. 
 
 And such is the difficulty I often feel, when I go 
 about to Usten for others to what I can only hear for 
 myself ; especially when it passes over my mind, that 
 I am listening for those to whom nothing can appear 
 under the same aspect in which it appears to me. 
 Features of society that I have looked upon, till 
 they seem to me too little prominent to excite atten- 
 tion, a young person, to whom the world is new, will 
 likely fix upon as objects of inquiry and surprise : 
 while those that, in minuter intimacy, I have dis- 
 covered to be curious and important, they, in their 
 hasty and unpractised glance, will either not per- 
 ceive, or feel but little interest in. And thus, while 
 I am carefully, and, as I think, very interestingly, 
 telling stories and multiplying words about things 
 that, for what they know, may have happened in the 
 moon, they are wishing, wondering, and not altoge- 
 ther pleased, that I never hapjien to see, or see under 
 so different a shape, the objects that most puzzle 
 and surprise them. It was under the burden of this 
 very disturbing apprehension, I bethought myself for 
 once to have recourse to memory for my tale, and 
 relate what happened when I was as much a nov-ice 
 as my readers, and liable to as much mistake as they 
 possibly can be, respecting the things I saw. But 
 then my readers must needs be forewarned, that my
 
 THE LISTENER. 237 
 
 observations in this pa])er are not required to be 
 correct ; wliat I thought wrong was, in all probabi- 
 lity, very right- — what I thought inconsistent, might 
 be most beautifully systematic, if I had but had the 
 sense to perceive the due connexion of things. And 
 as all wonder is the offspring of ignorance — igno- 
 rance of what things are, if not of what they ought 
 to be — any surprise that I may express, is to be, of 
 course, attributed to my own inexperience at the 
 time. 
 
 It happened once — that is the genuine way of 
 beginning an account of things that never ha])pcned, 
 but my readers may depend upon it this did hap- 
 pen some time, though T find it inconvenient to say 
 when. It was when the habits and practices of the 
 world were known to me only through the news- 
 papers that reported thom, or tlie moral essays that 
 abused them, or the novels that misrepresented them 
 — the world in which I had grown up being no wider 
 than* the walls of the paternal dwelling, and no more 
 poj)ulous than the family that dwelt in it. What 
 ideas or expectations I had formed through the me- 
 dium of these informers of the busy scene of life in 
 which I have since so largely wandered, is not of 
 importance to be told — my readers may be satisfied 
 to know they were in every way mistaken. Some 
 time about the middle of March I was invited to 
 spend a few Aveeks in London, where, with all my 
 ignorance and alb my prejudices full upon me, I 
 found myself arrived at the given period. I was a
 
 238 THE LISTENER. 
 
 Listener then as well as now : then for myself, as 
 now for others : and, among an infinite variety of 
 things, the following circumstances are in memory's 
 record as something that I heard. 
 
 " It is rather a dull time to bring a stranger to 
 London," said Mrs Thorough good ; " because in Lent 
 we see less company, and our public amusements are 
 for the most part suspended. But after Easter we 
 shall be particularly gay, and able to show you every 
 thing." 
 
 " I should like to know, mamma," answered young 
 Selina T., " why we may not as well live in Lent as 
 we live all the rest of the year ; for I suppose we do 
 not live irreligiously at any time ? " 
 
 " I am surprised to hear you speak thus, Selina," 
 said her mother ; " I thought you had been taught 
 to read your Bible, and attend your religious duties 
 strictly ; I did not expect from you so ignorant a 
 
 remark — I thought you knew " 1 was considering 
 
 of the probability that Mrs T. had neglected to teach 
 her daughter what she was surprised to find she did 
 not know, when the lively Selina rejoined — 
 
 " O yes ! dear mamma, I do know that in Lent 
 we have no balls or plays, never ask more than 
 twelve to dinner at once, eat salt -fish and pancakes, 
 and go to church on the week-days. But I wanted 
 to know the reason of it all ; I am sure there is 
 nothing about it in the Bible, and I could not find 
 it this morning in the Prayer-book." 
 
 " Again, my dear, I must say you are very igno-
 
 THK LISTENER. 239 
 
 tant, if you do not know that the forty days pro- 
 ceding Easter arc kept in commemoration of our 
 Saviour's fast of forty days in tlie lonely wilderness, 
 where, for our sakes, and for our example, he hun- 
 gered and thirsted, and " 
 
 " O, dearest mamma ! I know all that, of course, 
 — but I want to be told what that has to do with 
 balls and dinner parties, and pancakes, and plays ? " 
 answered Selina, impatiently. 
 
 " I should think that too obvious to need expla- 
 nation, my love," said Mrs T. — I thought so too ; 
 and, seeing her hesitate, I had almost a mind to 
 propound the matter myself, so simple and so cer- 
 tain seemed to me the mode of explanation, and so 
 clear to myself was my own understanding of it. I 
 soon had reason to rejoice that I refrained my lips, 
 when I perceived not only the difficulty of the ex- 
 position, but my own mistakes upon the subject. 
 
 Mrs T. took off her thimble, primmed her plea- 
 sant face into the length of gravity, bade her daugh- 
 ter to be serious, and she would explain to her what 
 she ought to have known long ago. I thought she 
 ought — little suspecting that I did not know my- 
 self. 
 
 There were not wanting symptoms in the old 
 lady's manner which might have excited suspicion 
 that she did not know — but that was impossible; 
 the appearance must, of course, have proceeded from 
 my want of knowledge of the world. Still there 
 was a long pause : the old lady drew towards her
 
 240 THE LISTENER, 
 
 the large Bible and the little Prayer-book that lar 
 on the table, and put them carefully one upon the 
 other, the latter at the top, ready for action. K so 
 much preparation should seem extraordinary, be it 
 remembered that Mrs T. had grown up at a period, 
 when, however much ladies might think upon reli- 
 gion, they were very little accustomed to talk about 
 it ; and few persons in the parish, except the parson, 
 were expected to have an opinion upon the subject, 
 much less to explain it, ^Irs T/s exordium proved 
 nothing the worse for the delay. She began by 
 commenting, with feeling and simphcity, on the 
 narration of our Saviour's sufferings, the object of 
 his mission upon earth, the awful consummation of 
 his errand that is at this season celebrated, and all 
 the heart-aifecting circumstances with which the 
 season stands associated in the mind of a believer. 
 
 " And does not my Selina see," she added, " why 
 such a period should be marked, and kept by those 
 so deeply interested in its events?" 
 
 "Assuredly, mamma, I see it should be kept. 
 We commemorate the deeds of earthly greatness — 
 we celebrate the era of our country's freedom — we 
 remember the Ijirth-time and the death of those we 
 love — if good or ill betide us, we grave, as it were, 
 the date upon our hearts, to be no more erased, and 
 thought recurs to it as duly as the day returns. It 
 would seem strange, indeed, if of all important eras, 
 the most miportant was alone forgotten — if of all 
 great events, the greatest remained without appro-
 
 THE LISTENER. 241 
 
 ppiate celebration. Assuredly, mamma, it should be 
 kept — but how ? " 
 
 " By means appropriate to itself. Now, what does 
 it seem to you that they would be?" 
 
 Selina hesitated ; yet her countenance betrayed 
 an emotion that said she knew^ ; nature and feeling 
 were in this instance better j»romptei's than the 
 wisdom of the schools. She had not reflected on it 
 before, but she felt what she had not learned, and 
 replied — 
 
 " In common sense, mamma, it surely should be 
 this. Jesus suffered for our sins, died for our sins, 
 rose again to free us from our sins. We Avere the 
 cause of his suffering, and, therefore, should be sad 
 at the remembrance — we were the gainers by it, 
 and, therefore, should be glad and grateful. But 
 as sin was the mischief, and pardon of sin the gain, 
 it is natural that our joy, and our sorrow too, should 
 express itself by abstaining from whatever is sinful, 
 or can by any means be offensive to Him whose 
 passion we at this time celebrate; and I would add, 
 that we should keep it as a season of humiliation 
 for our past sin, and of prayer and preparation for 
 future amendment." 
 
 "You could not have spoken better, my child. 
 And besides this purpose of prej)aration for Easter, 
 it is required of us to follow the footsteps of our 
 Lord ; and, as he fasted forty days in the wUderuess, 
 ,80 we have an equal period of self-denial appointed 
 us in imitation of his. Do you not, theu, see the 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 THE LISTENER. 
 
 wisdom of our church in setting apart the forty days 
 preceding Easter for this good purpose?" 
 
 " Yes — but I do not exactly see how the purpose 
 is answered by it — unless the ball and the theatre 
 be the sins from which we are to abstain ; and 
 dining with twelve people instead of twenty be the 
 self-denial, and " — Solina's vivacity was fast getting 
 the better of her previous earnestness ; but, recollect- 
 ing herself, she gravely added, " But that, mamma, 
 is confessing that these are sinful practices, which 
 you know they are not." 
 
 " The innocent amusements of the world cannot 
 be so : but" — Mrs T. hesitated — moved the Prayer- 
 book off the Bible — turned it the other side upwards, 
 and seemed at a loss for words — I thought I could 
 have helped her, but I did not. " In the first place, 
 these engagements occupy our time, and conse- 
 quently leave us less for devotional duties : then 
 they occupy our mind, and consequently interfere 
 with the serious thought that becomes the season ; 
 and then it cannot be denied, that, though innocent 
 amusements on the whole, there is an awful incon- 
 sistency in the gaiety and forgetfulness of such 
 pursuits, when brought in near contact with the 
 events at this season recalled and pictured out 
 afresh to our imagination. You cannot, in the ex- 
 citation of the theatre, think of your Saviour's dying 
 groan — you cannot, in the hubbub of a crowded 
 room, be in the steps of Him, who, as He sat at meat 
 with those He loved, was ever teaching them his
 
 THE LISTENER. 243 
 
 Father's law, or speaking Avitli them of liis ap- 
 proaching expiation. Therefore it is not hard to 
 understand, that, at a season when you desire to 
 remember these things and to feel them, you must 
 in some measure cliange your occupations." 
 
 I was considering how far the above ingredients 
 might, if properly compounded, make a sin, when 
 Selina ended at once my doubts and the conversa- 
 tion, of which she was manifestly tired, by the fol- 
 lowing exclamation : — 
 
 " O, yes ! mamma — I am perfectly satisfied of 
 what you mean, and beg your pardon for teasing 
 you witli such foolish questions — I see exactly, that 
 things which are perfectly proper during the three 
 hundred and twenty-five days in which we forget 
 our Saviour's sufferings, woidd be very inconsistent 
 during the forty days in which we desire to remem- 
 ber them ; and since Jesus for our sakes at this 
 time debarred himself of nature's first necessities, 
 and endured a sufterance from which nature shrinks, 
 we should, in imitation of Him, refrain from what 
 we most delight in, and submit to what is most dis- 
 agreeable to us — that is, we should give no balls, 
 eat salt-fish and pancakes, and go to church." 
 
 Mrs T. smiled at her daughter's mirth, and pos- 
 sibly felt her satire, but contented herself with saying 
 she was too giddy, 
 
 I was a thinker then as well as a listener, though 
 not much of a talker, as may have been perceived. 
 Reflecting, after I retired, upon this conversation, I
 
 244 THE LISTENER. 
 
 felt angry with Selina's ridicule of her mother's 
 sensible remarks. The truth of what had been said 
 respecting Easter, the propriety of keeping it, and 
 the manner of keeping it, had dee23ly impressed my 
 mind. I felt ashamed that I had never before so 
 seriously considered it ; and a feeling of pious joy 
 animated my bosom, that, for the first time in my 
 life, I had come into a family where I should see 
 it observed so consistently and so devoutly. How 
 could Selina, I thought, who had been brought up 
 in the constant observance of so excellent a principle, 
 have remained till tliis time without a perception of 
 its suitability? 
 
 I arose the next morning in a mood of more se- 
 riousness than I remember to have ever felt before, 
 prepared, as I thought, and willing, to make any 
 sacrifice required of me by religion and the church 
 at such a season. 
 
 After the usual breakfast the carriage came to 
 take us to morning prayers, and we rolled off" to a 
 fashionable chapel at the west end of the town. A 
 few carriages brought a few people on the same 
 errand — the chapel was so warm, and the seats were 
 so well lined, and the hassocks were so near the 
 elevation of the knees, and the reader made such 
 admirable haste, that, contrary to my previous pre- 
 judice, I found there was very little trouble in a 
 week-day service, and so we rolled back again, and 
 went about our usual occupations. 
 
 *' Selina, dear, you must not be idle," said !Mrs
 
 TIIE LISTENER, 245 
 
 T. ; " you know what a deal you have to do, and this 
 is the last leisure week ; there is scarcely a day ia 
 which we are not engaged after Easter, and our 
 mornings will be occupied in showing our friend 
 about London, If you do not make use of this 
 idle time to prepare your things, you will be sadly 
 bustled." 
 
 " O, dear me ! I am bustled enough as it is," said 
 Selina. " I have saved such a quantity of things 
 to do this week, that I never shall get through them. 
 It is a comfort, at least, that there arc a few weeks 
 in the year in which one has time to one's self. But 
 did you not want me to write those cards this 
 morning?" 
 
 " 0, yes ! indeed you must," answered her mo- 
 ther. " For to-morrow the dressmaker will be here 
 all the morning, measuring and taking orders for 
 your spring dresses ; and next day I have appointed 
 the upholsterer about the furniture, and all the liouse 
 will be in confusion — on Saturday you must go to the 
 dentist — I must get all these things done this week, 
 for I shall have no time after Easter." 
 
 " But for what days are the cards to be sent out, 
 mamma?" 
 
 " That I must think of, if I can find time to think. 
 There is the 1st, the 6th, the 10th. Ha\iiig no i>ar- 
 ties in Lent makes them come so thick afterwards, it 
 is scarcely possible to find days enough." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by the entrance 
 of a lady dressed in black — she made a visit of the
 
 246 THE LISTENER. 
 
 usual length, during which she made a great many 
 ill-natured remarks, repeated several slanderous anec- 
 dotes, and expressed herself with much bitterness 
 agaihst some persons who had offended her. As 
 soon as she was gone, Selina said — "Mamma, what 
 is JVIiss Tibbs in mourning for ? " 
 
 " It used to be the custom, my dear, and it is stUl 
 retained by some persons who are particular, to wear 
 mourning in Lent." 
 
 " Nay," said Selina, " if Miss Tibbs is so particu- 
 lar in keeping Lent, she had better abstain from 
 speaking ill of her neighbours, which is the thmg 
 she most delights in, and forgive her enemies, which 
 is the thing she is least disposed to." 
 
 The days passed on — every body ate and every 
 body drank, and every body enjoyed themselves as 
 usual. Two or three people came some days to din- 
 ner, and the entertainment was the same, and the 
 conversation was the same, for any thing I could see, 
 as if there had been twenty — and on the days we 
 dined alone, the objects that occupied our attention 
 were still the same. We talked of the things we 
 did not do, and arranged plans for doing them as 
 soon as we might. I heard no more of Jesus, of his 
 sufferings, or his death ; of sin, or its consequences, 
 or its pardon ; nor, as far as I could perceive, was 
 any one thinking about them. This probably pro- 
 ceeded from my own inexperience and want of 
 knowledge of the world. It could not really be, as 
 it seemed, that the season, so properlif set apart hy
 
 THE LISTENER. 247 
 
 our church, as Mrs T. had said, for meditation, pe- 
 nitence, and prayer, should be passed over without 
 any extra-serious thoughts, of any kind whatever, 
 upon the events at this period commemorated. Cer- 
 tain it is, that no more allusion was made to them in 
 word or deed, except that some one now and then 
 took occasion to say, it was very unlucky it happened 
 to be Lent. 
 
 " Mamma, which niglit are we going to the Ora- 
 torio?" said Selina, on Friday morning. 
 
 " I believe, my dear, we shall have a box to-night ; 
 but you will know when your papa returns." 
 
 On this subject I felt myself quite well informed. 
 I had learned by the newspaper that the theatres are 
 always closed during this season, except on Wed- 
 nesdays and Fridays, when they are opened for the 
 Oratorio, a sort of religious festival, as I conceived, 
 by the names affixed to the performance, and by its 
 being held on the same day of the week as the church 
 prayers ; days, I was aware, to which custom had 
 affixed a peculiar sacredness. I was well pleased 
 with what I heard — for as this amusement was not 
 only allowed in Lent, but confined to it by peculiar 
 appropriation, I certainly might there exj)ect to find 
 something of the devotion with Avhich I had heard 
 the season was to be hallowed. 
 
 The box was secured, the hour came, Ave were 
 duly adorned, and set oft', as I supposed, to our devo- 
 tions, ily thoughts by the way were serious — they 
 had not been used to be so ; but what I had heard
 
 248 THE LISTENER. 
 
 from Mrs T. had made a strong impression on me ; 
 though I was effectually puzzled that it seemed to 
 have so little affected any body else. I tried to com- 
 pose my mind to feelings suitable to the occasion, 
 though no one else in the carriage appeared to be 
 doing so. But then they had been used to spend the 
 Lent properly ; I had hitherto neglected it ; and the 
 reflection caused me some feelings of regret and 
 shame. 
 
 Shame, regret, and devotion, however, had no 
 tickets of admission. I parted at the door with all 
 of them, and became absorbed with such sense of 
 pleasure as was likely to possess a youthful mind 
 on tasting, for the first time, of such an amusement. 
 The splendour of the house, the brilliancy of the 
 lights, the music of the full choir, so unlike to any 
 thing I had heard before ; the gay appearance of 
 the audience, where all without was prosperity and 
 smiles, whatever might be beneath them — thoughts 
 of sadness would have seemed to me a sacrilege ; 
 within tlie compass of these walls, at least, there was 
 a world all joy ; my reflections and feelings were ab- 
 sorbed in sensations of unmingled pleasure. I could 
 not discern where \ice and misery hid itself in that 
 gay crowd ; or, I should rather say, presented their 
 unblushing front, as if by acknowledged right they 
 presided there. I could not guess how the hundreds 
 of immortal beings were employed, who, to support 
 a useless existence, and fill up the measure of their 
 crimes, were doing the drudgery of such an esta-
 
 THE LISTENER. 249 
 
 blisliment. I know nothing of all this — but igno- 
 rant as I was, and thoughtless as I was, I was startled 
 from my delirium of onjoyniont, when, accompanied 
 by tones from the orchestra that might seem to be 
 the music angels sing, I heard these words, " He 
 was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows, 
 and acquainted with grief. He gave his back to the 
 smiters" — I need not pursue the words, we know 
 where they are, we know what they mean — those 
 deep mysterious words, at which patriarchs and pro- 
 phets wondered, which sinners treasure in their 
 bosoms as the criminal the signet that is to stay his 
 execution — which the penitent weeps while he listens 
 to, and triumphs while he weeps — the words of God 
 himself, the prophetic picture of the Saviour's suffer- 
 ings for a ruined, miserable world, for the world that 
 at this season professed to commemorate his mercy 
 and its own degradation — for the world at that 
 moment assembled within those walls. I looked at 
 the person by whom the words were uttered — I 
 looked at the audience by whom they were listened 
 to — I marked the dazzling accompaniments of the 
 scene. Nature and reason spake within me — for, 
 bribed, corrupted, spell-bound as they are, they will 
 speak sometimes, if we will let them. The bold, 
 unblushing front, the unshrinking eye, the immodest 
 attire, the unhallowed air, on the one part — on the 
 other, the expression of indifference or of emotions 
 simply pleasurable, were so contrasted with the 
 images those words brought like unwelcome spectres
 
 250 THE LISTENER. 
 
 to my imagination, that at no moment of my life do 
 I remember to have felt so involuntarily persuaded 
 that these tilings were indeed but the fiction that 
 they seemed — the tragic stories with which men 
 amuse themselves. The beings before me and around 
 me, could they believe themselves the creatures for 
 whom the Messiah had thus suffered ? "Was it they 
 had done it, they had caused it, they, at this very 
 time, professing to keep a fast in imitation of his 
 sufferings, and humble themselves before Him for 
 their share in it ? It was nonsense, it was absurdity, 
 — it was imposition that could not be passed upon 
 a child — to suppose that they who sang, or they who 
 listened, felt themselves to be the sinners that had 
 been so redeemed ; had there been any bosom there 
 to wliich the realismg sense had come, they would 
 have drooped their heads for shame, and gone away. 
 No — I am bold to say, that whate\'er it was before 
 or after, the Messiah's sorrows were, at the moment, 
 to every bosom there, a fiction — enhanced by the 
 exquisite pathos of the music — a beautiful, exciting, 
 heart-affecting fiction, represented by the most de- 
 graded of mankind for the amusement of the gayest 
 and most profligate. Yet hither we had presumed 
 to bring the word of God. Here we addressed Him 
 with the cry for mercy, here we had his name re- 
 sounded from unhallowed lips, reverberating on un- 
 adoring hearts; succeeded as quickly as the scene 
 could change, by a heathen madrigal, sung by the 
 same performers, in the characters of Ceres and
 
 THE LISTENER. 2i>l 
 
 Proserpine, in which Pluto received the orisons so 
 lately offered in mockery to the God of Heaven; 
 uttered in the same spirit, heard with the same feel- 
 ings. We drop the picture. Satire grows grave 
 when she touches on things like these ; and our 
 readers will say we preach. If there be meaning in 
 words, or sense in any thing, God's commandment 
 was that night broken, and his name profaned ; and 
 Christians were there to hear it, and were well 
 pleased. 
 
 But to resume my story. A few days more, and 
 the days of Lent were ended. The imitation of the 
 Messiah's fast in tlie wilderness was completed, the 
 season of humiliation was accomplished, and we were 
 all prepared for the approaching festival of Easter. 
 The day of the Redeemer's death that ended our 
 days of mourning, was decently observed in Mrs T.'s 
 family, as was also the Sunday, the commencement 
 of our joy for his resurrection to eternal life, and our 
 own in his. And what it before behoAcd us to re- 
 member, it now behoved us as quickly as possible to 
 forget ; what was sin the week before the expiation 
 was offered, was no sin as soon as it was accom- 
 plished — there needed, mdeed, the utmost ingenuity 
 to make up for the time that had been lost. Miss 
 Tibbs put off her mourning; Mrs Thoroughgood 
 would have thought it (juite Methodistical to go to 
 church in the week ; Selina honestly rejoiced that 
 Lent came but once a-year ; and I — I remembered, 
 what I hope my readers may not have forgotten, the
 
 252 THE LISTENER. 
 
 beginning of my story. I remembered Selina's igno- 
 rance, and no longer wondered ; for neither could I 
 perceive the connexion between the season and its 
 observances. I remembered ]Mrs Thoroughgood's 
 pious observations, and wondered what they could 
 have meant — for I had not seen a single illustration 
 of them in the practices or occupations of the family 
 in the interval. One good effect, however, came of 
 my meditations — they put me on good terms again 
 with myself : for whatever might be the intention of 
 our Church in instituting this fast — whether, that in 
 order to our being made conformable to our Lord in 
 his life, it was judged necessary that we should have 
 a season of self-denial and abstraction from the ordi- 
 nary occupations and innocent delights of life — or 
 whether, He having fulfilled for us the law, and by 
 his suflferings done away the need of a similar penance 
 on our part, this Avas rather meant as a time of 
 grateful remembrance than of imitation, a time of 
 humiliation before God, and pious commemoration 
 of his love — in either or in any case, it appeared to 
 me that the intentions of the Church had been as 
 well fulfilled by my forgetfulness as by their obser- 
 vance of the season. Whatever mistakes may be in 
 this comparative estimate of wrong, I beg may be 
 attributed to my inexperience and ignorance of the 
 world.
 
 THE LISTEXER. 253 
 
 No. xvm. 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF ABRAHAM. 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her hleeding feet ? 
 And where shall Zion's songs again seem sweet? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 
 
 Hebrew Melodies. 
 
 I WAS travelling once over a distant land — a land 
 it had been, by the way I travelled, of bleakness, and 
 barrenness, and danger. If sometimes I had loitered 
 wliere there were flowers budding, fair as the first 
 and fairest of our Spring, while I yet waited in ex- 
 pectation of their blowing, I saw them wither in the 
 sunshine, fade, and pass away. If ever, amid the 
 parched and thirsty soil, I had looked ujion the 
 bursting of a pure, clear spring, quickly there came 
 to it some unclean thing, and mudded and polluted 
 what had risen so pure. And often, as, beneath some 
 shadowing tree, I had lain down to rest, before I had 
 shod myself again to hasten forward, the cold north 
 wind had come and stripped that tree, and robbed it 
 of its beauty and its shade. It was a wretched land, 
 and they that dwelt in it were like the land they
 
 254 THE LISTENER. 
 
 dwelt in. Their well-seeming virtues rarely bore 
 the bloom they promised, but failed at the moment 
 of expected fruition — their wisdom, however rife it 
 seemed to flow, flowed not far before it became 
 mixed with error and empoisoned — their enjoyments 
 were the evanescent verdure that could not outstand 
 the first cold touch of sorrow. And surely I had felt 
 pity for them as I passed, and mourned that they had 
 not a better land to dwell in. 
 
 Having travelled thus some considerable way, I 
 reached a spot, seeming more fair for the rude path 
 that led to it, and beautiful in the contrast of its 
 fertility with the coldness and barrenness of the land 
 I had passed over. There was no barrier, that I per- 
 ceived, between them ; and yet were they distinct as 
 the darkness of night from the broad Kght of noon. 
 Why the inhabitants of the adjacent country did not 
 pass on to it, I perceived not : but I concluded it 
 was appropriated property — the hereditary posses- 
 sion, probably, of a people too powerful to need a 
 landmark, or an armed outwork, against the en- 
 croachments of their neighbours. Certainly I saw 
 that no desire was manifested on either part, to take 
 possession of the other's land : and, unequal as seem- 
 ed to me the destiny of each, each appeared con- 
 tented to abide their portion. I entered with delight 
 on the rich scenery of this pleasant land. I do not 
 know that I need particularly to describe it : it was 
 like the best spots in our native country — those that 
 industry has toiled to cultivate, and some tasteful
 
 TIIE LISTENER. 255 
 
 hand has taken pleasure to adorn. It was like to 
 those wide estates, that, being appropriated to some 
 ))owerful and rich possessor, who finds pleasure in 
 them, and does with tliem wliat he will, manifest in 
 every part the influence of his interference. It Avas 
 no fairy land I speak of, where magic suns gave 
 birth to golden fruits, or necromantic power charmed 
 tlie elements to stillness. But it was one where 
 forethought had provided every thing, caution had 
 secured every thing, and whatever were the natural 
 ills to which it lay exposed, some defence against 
 their influence, or remedy for their mischiefs, had 
 carefully been provided. The blossoms of their 
 gardens died like others — but their departing beauty 
 left the fruit to ripen richly on the stem. The sun 
 of their daytime went down like others, and often 
 went down in clouds — but the damps of their night 
 were like the waters of affliction to the bosom of sub- 
 mission, the better for its tears. When the tree that 
 adorned it withered in the blast and passed away, 
 there came a friendly watcher and planted another 
 as lovely in its place. The menacing weeds some- 
 times came up, indeed ; but quickly the eye of the 
 inspector marked them, and put in his keen-edged 
 tools to their destruction. Like our most highly 
 cultured grounds, its paths were made straight, and 
 its rough places were made smooth — the threatening 
 tempest passed over it harmless, and the winds that 
 rocked its habitations to their base, found them too
 
 256 THE LISTEXER. 
 
 strongly founded for destruction — ^the dwellers in 
 them slept secure in danger. 
 
 The inhabitants of this happy region, I observed^ 
 were many ; and they seemed to know the value of 
 their estates. They did not live on them in idle 
 luxury, waiting the productions of a soil, that, rich 
 as it was, would surely so have disappointed them : 
 but they cultivated it in cheerful expectation of no 
 uncertain harvest. Though they enjoyed its good in 
 common, it was not in wild misrule, the lawlessness 
 of promiscuous possession. Each one had his place, 
 and each one had his task ; and if the proportion of 
 each was not the same, it showed a fair adjustment 
 to his powers, his industry, or his deserts ; it was 
 enough to suffice him till time and circumstance 
 should bring him elevation in the scale ; there was 
 enough for all ; and all were secure they should not 
 be deprived of the possession, unless they willingly 
 departed to some other residence. 
 
 When I had staid some time with this people, I 
 found that they too had a character something in 
 conformity to the features of their country. They 
 evinced the infirmities and dispositions of other na- 
 tions ; and this appeared to be the chief taint that 
 sullied the lustre of their state, and marred their 
 happiness. Yet even this was not without a pallia- 
 tive and a corrective remedy : the laws w^ere so good, 
 and the administration of them so good, the punish- 
 ment ensued so quickly on misconduct, and the par-
 
 THE LISTENER. 2")7 
 
 don SO quickly on tlic effectual repression of the 
 wrong, that order and peace were the general cha- 
 racters of tlie kingdom, notmthstanding the pecca- 
 bility of its subjects, and the frequent interruptions 
 of their enjoyment by the obtrusion of their faults. 
 I became, after a time, very anxious to know who 
 these people were, and how they came to be in pos- 
 session of so beautiful a territory, while all around 
 it and about it, as I have told, remained so bleak, so 
 bare, 
 
 " Tell me," I said to one I thought could Inform 
 me, " from what great line of ancestry these people 
 are descended ; the children, doubtless, of some 
 pristine hero, who conquered for them this pleasant 
 land, or perhaps the generation of its first posses- 
 sors, who, when the inhabitants of earth were few, 
 found it and took possession, and by their industry 
 and wisdoui, made it what it is, and bequeathed it, 
 with all its blessings, to their posterity ? " 
 
 " This land," he answered, " was not originally 
 theirs who hold it now — their fathers did not con- 
 quer it, their progenitors did not possess it. They 
 dwelt yond*, in the lands you passed through." 
 
 " Indeed ! " I said ; " most happy are they, then, in 
 the exchange. But by what rich purchase is it 
 theirs ? " 
 
 He answered, " It came not into their hands by 
 purchase, but was the gift of our Sovereign Lord 
 the King, who gave it to them and their heirs for 
 ever. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 258 THE LISTENER. 
 
 " In reward for some service to the crown ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " None that I ever heard of," he rephed ; " it 
 was conjBscated property, and he gave it where he 
 pleased." 
 
 " But who then, and where, are the original pos- 
 sessors of these lands ? Do they who planted yonder 
 vines not gather of their fruits ? " 
 
 " No," he rejoined, " nor they who built those 
 palaces may dwell in them — nor they wlio raised 
 those altars may longer worship there. They were 
 faithless ungrateful traitors ; they broke their pledged 
 allegiance to the king, their persons were outlaAved 
 and attainted, their estates forfeited to the crown — 
 and what the fathers made themselves, the children 
 have continued." 
 
 " What were the fathers before this happened ? " 
 
 " The favourites of their Prince — the best and 
 best-beloved of all his realm. The highest in dig- 
 nity, and the most happy in estate, they came, every 
 one of them, of royal blood, and could trace their 
 ancestors by name to a period when ours Avere un- 
 heard of. Here, amid the blessings *surrounding 
 us, they lived secure, no man disputing their pos- 
 session ; for they had been its first possessors, the 
 sole inheritors from remotest ages." 
 
 " And what are the children now ? " 
 
 "Did you not see them," he replied, "loitering 
 in helpless indigence on the confines of our terri- 
 tory ? Come, and I will show you them."
 
 THE LISTENER. 260 
 
 We ■walked towards tlie way opposite to tliat by 
 Avhich I had entered ; and I observed amid sur- 
 rounding dreariness, a few miserable hovels, tlie 
 abodes of the wretched, as their appearance told — 
 humanity was glad to see they were not more, 
 
 " Are these all that remain ? " I said, 
 
 " No," answered my companion, " but they are 
 all that reside in this part of the kingdom, wander- 
 ing round the dwellings that were once their own, 
 where now they enter noi." 
 
 I looked upon those miserable ruins of dejiarted 
 greatness, and saw, or fancied I saw, some traces of 
 nobility in their features — but it was so mixed with 
 an expression of sordid wretchedness, and abject 
 acquiescence in disgrace, I could liken it only to 
 the fallen statue, which the elements have discolour- 
 ed, and the rank herbage overgrown, till we know 
 not if we really perceive, or do but persuade our- 
 selves of its former beauty. Misery, guilt, and 
 deep-written melancholy, there certainly were upon 
 their sallow brows — in some, I could have belie\ed 
 it the melancholy of penitence and shame. 
 
 " The children of royalty," I uttered, as I looked 
 at them, "the certain claimants of that remote 
 ancestry of which we are all so proud ! And do they 
 want for any thing ? " 
 
 " It is likely they want for every thing," my guitle 
 replied ; " for they have no possessions here or any 
 where; they dwell upon the waste; they have no
 
 260 THE LISTENER. 
 
 country, and no friends, and scarce a home — none 
 but those miserable huts." 
 
 I entered one of them. An aged man was sit- 
 ting ; older, I judged, in misery than in years — and 
 yet his head was grey, as sorrow's often is before 
 its time. The scanty hair upon his half-bared head 
 was strikingly contrasted with the abundant fulness 
 of the beard. His features were harsh ; there was 
 vice in them, and there was misery — but it Avas Aice 
 and misery that had done its work and gathered its 
 reward ; and purposed no more, and feared no more, 
 of either ; poverty, abandonment, and despair, were 
 the predominant characters of every thing in him 
 and about him ; excepting that there lay about his 
 feet a group of children, whose sunny foreheads and 
 deep hazel eyes glowed with the vigour of fresh ex- 
 istence, as yet unquestioning of weal or woe. And 
 even to these, the long, falling line of the nose and 
 forehead, and the shadowing eyelid that half veiled 
 the olilong eye, gave such an expression of pensive 
 melancholy, one might have fancied they borrowed 
 their features from their fate. 
 
 I spoke to the old man softly, and said his store 
 appeared a spare one ; and something I said about 
 the condition of his house, and the contrast with 
 their former greatness, when in possession of the 
 adjoining lands, which, as I was told, had been his 
 fathei"s'. 
 
 " They tell me so," he said, " but they were
 
 THE LISTENER. 261 
 
 never mine ; and I do not want tliern ; for I am 
 going to my fathers, from wliom the rajiacity of 
 those strangers stole them." 
 
 " But I have heard tliat you forfeited them by 
 rebellion, and were lawfully ejected ? " 
 
 " It may be so — ^but I know nothing about it. 
 'N\niatever happened, hajijiened before I was born. 
 Compelled to toil my life through for my bread, 
 sometimes to beg it, ay, and sometimes to steal it 
 or forego it, I have had no time to im^uire, and no 
 one has cared to tell me." 
 
 " You do not seem so much concerned as I ex- 
 pected. Would you not like to enter again upon 
 that pleasant land, and look at the dwelling of your 
 fathers ? " 
 
 " No one has invited me. Concerned ! Is the 
 loathed spider, think you, concerned when you wipe 
 it from your gilded cornices, and cast it out as a 
 pollution? Is the hated reptile concerned when 
 you put your foot upon it, as too vile to be shel- 
 tered even in your dust ? What matters our con- 
 cern ? " 
 
 " But your children — perhaps the time may come 
 — do you not wish " 
 
 The old man raised himself from his seat, placed 
 his back against the humid Avail, his clenched hands 
 resting upon the staff before him. " My children ! " 
 lie interrupted me — " I have said I did not know — 
 you say I do not care — but tjiis I know — I Itne my
 
 2G2 THE LISTENER. 
 
 children, miserable villain as I may be, and tliey 
 are suffering, outcast, and despised. The land they 
 dwell upon produces nothing — the returning seasons 
 bear them nothing — look at them, unwashed, un- 
 shod, and starving. Perhaps if they knew what 
 they are, and what they might have been, they 
 would try some means to be reconciled to their 
 King — but who is to instruct them? Wliere are 
 they to find him ? They are born to misery, and 
 they will die in ignorance, the innocent victims of 
 their fathers' deeds, and no man comes to help 
 them." He paused a moment — then, with increas- 
 ing mournfulness, resumed — " The boastful inhabi- 
 tants of yonder place talk much of their abundance. 
 Proudly exulting in their unbought possessions, 
 they cast our forlorn condition in our teeth, and 
 weighing our wretchedness against their bliss, bid 
 us behold in it the issue of our fathers' crimes. I 
 have said I do not know if it be true. I do not 
 know if their land be as abundant as they say. 
 How should I ? They have never imparted to me 
 of its fruits. I do not know if they are really the 
 happy creatures they profess to be. How should 
 I ? They have never bidden me to their hearths. 
 But if it be that their halls are so wide, and their 
 liarvcsts so rich, and their government so benefi- 
 cent as they say — ah ! surely there should be room 
 enough for these few poor children. But none will 
 fetch them in." The father's voice grew hoarse
 
 THE LISTExVER. 203 
 
 witli deepened emotion — the dark eyes of tlie cliil- 
 dren moistened with a tear ; they knew not why, 
 but that their father wept. 
 
 I could have wept too — but I replied, " Perhaps 
 the Prince your fathers so much oftended, forbade 
 your re-entrance on those lands — perhaps its new 
 incumbents hold it on condition never to admit you 
 — or surely they had not so long left you here un- 
 friended ? " 
 
 " It may be so," the old man answered, fixing a 
 look of lorn despair upon his children, paused a 
 moment — then, as if a hopeful doubt had broken in 
 upon his sadness, added, " I never heard it. I have 
 heard he loved our fathers — they who love the 
 fathers are not used to hate the children. It may 
 be so — but when you go back again to yonder lialls, 
 if you see that there is any thing to spare — if there 
 be room enough in their chambers and food enough 
 on their board, ask if they are forbidden to take in 
 my few poor children." 
 
 Readers, I have fulfilled my commission. If you 
 were the possessors of some rich tenement, given by 
 the sovereign, as in former times it often has been 
 in our country, the forfeited property of his traitor 
 subjects to those he makes his friends — while you 
 enjoy the gain of their disloyalty, should you feel 
 no pity for their need? Should you leave their 
 children to perish at your gates ? I believe you 
 would not. There is nothing more moving to our 
 natural feelings, than to look on the residue of fallen
 
 264 THE LISTENER. 
 
 "greatness: if a suffering pauper be pointed out to 
 us as the child of one wlio was of rank and birth 
 superior to our own, a stronger emotion of pity is 
 excited for his degradation ; for we contrast his 
 fortunes with our own, and measure his fall as what 
 ours might be. Still more, if you were the gainers 
 by that change, and held the property that was 
 once his fathers', would you not hold out to the 
 depri\'ed and degraded offspring, some portion of 
 yoiu" Avell-spared abundance? You would go out 
 of those i>leasant lands to the bleak forest I have 
 described, to look for those poor children that were 
 perishing on the waste, and bring them in to live 
 on your estates, and be at least your servants ? 
 Now, believe me, it is no fiction I have told, Jeho- 
 vah has a garden that he cultm-es with especial 
 care, as unlike the heathen lands that lie around it, 
 as the dwelling I have pictured to the country that 
 was about it. He cast out in anger the original 
 inhabitants, and put you in unearned possession of 
 what once was theirs. A few of their outcast chil- 
 dren, innocent of their fathers' sin, ignorant of the 
 real cause of their degradation, and not knowing 
 by what means to be reconciled to their offended 
 ^Maker, are lying about your streets, and lurking 
 round your doors, and you have taken no notice of 
 them. You have not gone to their dwellings to 
 offer them a portion of the word of eternal truth, 
 on wliich you feed so richly. And you have not 
 sought out their children to separate them from
 
 THE LISTENER. 265 
 
 their miseries, and rear them to a better state, be- 
 fore habit has confirmed them in their errors and 
 reconciled tliem to destruction. You know their 
 high original — you trace with lively interest their 
 distant petligree, and are proud to call yourselves 
 by the name of their fathers — it is your boast and 
 glory to observe the law of Moses their legislator, 
 and Christ who was l)orn of them. And yet you 
 hold these ancient people in contempt, individually, 
 if not as a people ; and feel no emotion when you 
 see them perishing without those moral and religi- 
 ous advantages you possess in such rich abundance, 
 and have never been forbidden to communicate. On 
 the contrary, you know there would be joy in hea- 
 ven itself to see the offspring of a Hebrew become 
 a spiritual Christian. The only way in which an 
 inhumanity not natural to our hearts can be ac- 
 counted for, is thoughtlessness of the circumstances 
 in which we stand respecting these people, or igno- 
 rance of the means by which we can amend their 
 condition." 
 
 These thoughts were suggested to me when, on 
 a late occasion, I went to listen where the holders 
 of the rich blessings of the gospel were assembled 
 to consider of the claims of these poor chikb-en ; 
 and deeply was my mind struck with the con- 
 trast I beheld. They were not indeed unfed and 
 naked in their land of barrenness, for pity had 
 fetched them in — but they were sitting there the 
 suppliants for a small share of that which once was
 
 266 "THE LISTENER. 
 
 all their own — the children of Al^raham M^ere in 
 
 the dress of charity — their little eyes cast down and 
 
 often filled with tears, while their wants and claims 
 
 were urged by those who spoke on their behalf, to 
 
 wring a poor pittance from the gay Gentile crowd 
 
 before them — gay in the ornaments of superfluous 
 
 wealth, that, spared to them, had not been missed — 
 
 and gay in the consciousness of moral dignity and 
 
 enjoyment of spiritual good, that, divided with them, 
 
 had surely not been lessened. The sight was to me 
 
 the argument — the scene was its own sufficient 
 
 illustration. Who are those? Who are these? 
 
 Abraham, four thousand years ago, worshipping 
 
 God on the only altar he had upon the earth, the 
 
 temple of Jerusalem in all its splendour, his own 
 
 presence shining in the midst, while our unknown 
 
 forefathers were wandering somewhere in the wilds 
 
 of uncultured ignorance, rose to my imagination 
 
 Avith such impressive reality, every thing that was 
 
 said, or could be said, came short of the spontaneous 
 
 emotion of my bosom, that had already run through 
 
 the world's history for an explanation of the scene 
 
 before me. 
 
 In determining to represent to Christians the 
 
 duty of instructing Jews in general, and Jewish 
 
 children in particular, I have left the grounds on 
 
 which more has been said than I can find to say — 
 
 they are in better hands than mine — I have left to 
 
 others the strength of Scripture language, and the 
 
 mysterious voice of prophecy, and put in the plea of
 
 .THE LISTENER. 2G7 
 
 fueling, justice, and liumianity ; because I am writ- 
 ing for some who may not understand those, but 
 must be accessible to these. I do not wish to sug- 
 gest any particular measures or means ; but merely 
 to awaken in the bosoms of my readers some share 
 of the shame I feel, that I have never given any oi 
 my time, or talents, or superfluous expenditure, to- 
 wards the children of Abraham — that I have not 
 yet, even by a word of persuasion, sent a messenger 
 out from our Christian halls, to ask one of those 
 few poor children to come in to the habitations of 
 their fathers.
 
 268 THE LISTENER. 
 
 No. XIX. 
 INCONSISTENCaES. 
 
 Dieu nous developpe peu a peu notre fond qui nous etoit inconnu ; et 
 nous sommes tous ettones de decouvrir, dans nos vertus niemes, des 
 Gefauts dont nous nous etions crus incapables. C'est comme une grotte 
 qui paroit seclie de tous cotes, et d'ou I'eau rejaillit tout a coup par les 
 endroits dont on se defioit le moins. 
 
 Fenelon. 
 
 A FRIEND requested me, a short time since, to write 
 a paper on Consistency. I was well pleased with 
 the suggestion ; it is a pleasant thing to have a 
 subject given, when every body ^vi'ites so much, 
 that subjects are growing scarce ; I thought I 
 would quickly set about it, and indite a paper de- 
 scribing the beauty, and loveliness, and excellence 
 of Consistency. But when I would have gone to 
 work to paint the portrait, I found myself in no 
 small difficulty — for where was the original ? Had 
 I any acquaintance with it ? Had I ever seen it ? 
 Imagination may make a drawing, but a portrait 
 it cannot make — and what would it avail me to de- 
 scribe an imaginary being, whose features none 
 would recognise, Avlien I profess to draw always
 
 THE LISTE^^:R. 269 
 
 from the life, and describe only wliat I hear and 
 see ? What was to be done ? I coukl think of but 
 . one way of emerging from this great difficulty, with- 
 out breaking the promise I had given to touch the 
 subject. If there were such a thing as Consist- 
 ency — and I had never heard it doubted — it must 
 be somewhere to be found ; why not look after it ? 
 I must, of course, have seen it often, and my igno- 
 rance of its exact features, and the contour of the 
 countenance altogether, must be the result of inat- 
 tention or forgetfulness ? This might be repaired, 
 as ignorance mostly may, by diligent research — and 
 I resolved that it should be so. I resolved to listen 
 every where, and look at every thing, and inquire 
 of every body, till I should find my subject, and so 
 have no more to do but to paint the resemblance of 
 it. I put my pencil in my pocket — and my Indian- 
 rubber, lest I should sketch a feature wrong — and 
 patiently resolved to delay the portrait tiU I had 
 seen the individual, whom I did not doubt to meet 
 in some of the ordinary walks of society, now that I 
 had seriously set myself to watch for her. The pro- 
 gress of my researches is what I wish to disclose to 
 my readers. 
 
 It happened, a short time after, that I was stay- 
 ing in a house where, without that sort of profusion 
 that intimates abundant wealth, there was an air of 
 ease and liberality that spoke poverty equally dis- 
 tant. As many servants were kept as could do the 
 required service well ; but not so many as usually
 
 270 THE LISTENED. 
 
 prevent its being done at all. As much ornament 
 was about the house, as gave a tone of elegance and 
 comfort to the apartments ; but not so much that 
 everything must be bundled up in sacks of bro^vn 
 Holland, till somebody is expected worthy to look 
 upon it. The dress of the family was genteel, per- 
 haps a little recherche ; but not so as to convey the 
 idea that the great essential of their happiness, the 
 cardinal virtue of their character, was to have their 
 clothes becoming and well made. In short, the 
 whole air of the mansion seemed to say. We have 
 not enough to squander, but we have enough to 
 enjoy. 
 
 It befell on an occasion, that we — that is, myself 
 and the ladies of the family — sate pleasantly engaged 
 in our morning occupations, about as important as 
 such occupations usually are — that is, one was mak- 
 ing a frill, and another was unpicking a frill that 
 somebody else had made — one was making match- 
 boxes for the chimney, and another was making 
 matches to put into the match-boxes, and so on. A 
 person was announced who came to solicit a con- 
 tribution to some charitable eftbrts making in the 
 neighbourhood for the relief of indigence, or suffer- 
 ing of some kind, I do not exactly remember what. 
 The lady of the house listened with much civiUty to 
 the application ; fully approved of the object and 
 the proposed means ; wished all manner of success, 
 and greatly lamented that her very limited income 
 did not allow of her doing so much good as she
 
 THE LISTENER, 271 
 
 desired ! They liad contributed already to so many 
 tilings, the objects of private charity tluit presented 
 themselves were so numerous, it was quite impos- 
 sible to assist in any new eftbrts. The applicant, 
 who, as an intimate friend of the family, used the 
 liberty of persuasion, again pointed out the necessity 
 of the case, and the Christian duty of dispensing 
 what we hold of providential bounty. The lady re- 
 plied extremely well — spoke fairly of the beauty and 
 the duty of charity — admitted that she did not give 
 so much as she should feel to be right, and as she 
 should be inclined to, but that she actually had no 
 more to spare — her income was only sufficient for 
 the proprieties of her condition — she never expended 
 any thing unnecessarily — she wished she had a few 
 hundreds a-year more, and she would give a guinea 
 to this undertaking most willingly — there" was no- 
 thing for which she so much desired wealth. Then 
 turning to her daughters, she said, "I do not know 
 how the girls' allowance stands — they are always 
 anxious to give, and I am sure this is a case in wliich 
 they would feel deeply interested — but they, like 
 myself, cannot do all they wish." 
 
 " I really am sorry," said the elder daughter, 
 " but I have given away every farthing I can possibly- 
 spare — if I had a shilling left that I could do with- 
 out, t should think it my duty to give it on such an 
 occasion." 
 
 " I have no money," said one of the younger girls, 
 " but I am thinking whether I can assist the charity
 
 272 THE LISTENER. 
 
 in any other way — whether I can take any part in 
 the trouble of providing — of visiting the" 
 
 " I am sure, Julia, you cannot," interrupted her 
 sister; "you know you have more to do already than 
 you can get through. Our time is taken up with 
 so many things — it is impossible you can undertake 
 any thing more." 
 
 " Well, I believe it is," answered Julia ; " but 
 this is so plainly a case of urgent necessity — a duty 
 so obvious, that we certainly ought to aid it in some 
 way." 
 
 " We ought, if we could, my dear," said her 
 mamma ; " but no one is required to do more than 
 they can. As it has not pleased Providence, to give 
 us any superfluity of wealth, much is not required of 
 us. It cannot be our duty to give more than we can 
 spare with propriety, and in justice to ourselves and 
 our families — I am really sorry, because I think it a 
 proper case." 
 
 The contribution was declined, and the visitor 
 departed. I held my tongue, because I always hold 
 my tongue ; but I had been thinking all the time. 
 I thought it was a pity people so charitably disposed 
 had so limited an income — I thouglit how painful it 
 must be to them to feel that there was no way in 
 which they could make their circumstances yield to 
 the claims of their suffering fellow-creatures, without 
 trespassing on the expenditure imperiously demand- 
 ed of them by the proprieties of life. And, as my 
 secret reflections are apt to excurse very widely from
 
 THE WSTEXER. 273 
 
 the point wliere they begin, and no one spoke to in- 
 terrupt me, I went on to think what is the real 
 extent of charity that Christian principle may de- 
 mand of any one. It is immediately perceptible that 
 it cannot be to do away with the distinctions Provi- 
 dence has made, and throw from us the advantages 
 and indulgences Providence has given, and disenable 
 oiu'selves to support the expenditure required by our 
 station, itself a means of dispersing wealth, and 
 averting poverty from the industrious. A limit, there- 
 fore, there must be to every one's liberality. But can 
 that limit be within the point where a case of real 
 want presents itself, and the possessor of wealth can 
 command, without injustice or injury to any one, 
 something to bestow ? I was just entering in thought 
 upon this wide field of rumination, when the ser- 
 vant announced the arrival of a vender of certain 
 rare articles of dress and curious wares from abroad 
 — things as pleasant to the eye of taste as to that 
 of vanity. The vender was willingly admitted. 
 Every thing was examined, many things were wished 
 for, a few things were purchased. Mamma bought 
 some ornaments for the table — the eldest girl bought 
 some ivory winders for her thread, much prettier 
 than the wooden ones she had in use before — Julia 
 bought a gilded buclde to fasten her waistband. 
 These things were all very pretty — not very extra- 
 vagant in price — harmless indulgences of taste — the 
 produce of some one's industry — the superfluity the 
 Creator has provided means for, and therefore cau- 
 VOL. I. S
 
 274 THE LISTENER. 
 
 not disapprove. But they were all unnecessary. The 
 one lady had added nothing to her influence or re- 
 spectability by the ornaments for her table — the 
 second lady had added nothing to her comfort or 
 happiness by exchanging wooden winders for ivory 
 ones — the third lady had added nothing to her grace 
 or beauty by a new buckle for her waistband. " There- 
 fore," I said within myself, " their words and their 
 actions do not consist. They said there was nothing 
 for which they so much valued wealth as to distri- 
 bute it to the necessitous. That was not true — they 
 preferred to spend it on themselves. They said they 
 had not any money to spare, though they felt strongly 
 the claim that was made on them. That was not 
 true — they could spare money the first time they felt 
 inclined. Had these people said they had given in 
 charity as large a portion of their income as they 
 thought it their duty to deprive themselves of, and 
 wished to give no more, it had been well ; and, 
 whether right or wrong, they had spoken honestly ; 
 but inasmuch as they said they wished to give, and 
 regretted that they could not, their words and their 
 deeds were not consistent." 
 
 " Good morning, dear," said Mrs Wliite to her 
 cousin Mrs Grey, as I chanced to hear one morning 
 on the Parade at Brighton ; *' I have a favour to ask 
 of you — our girls are going to have a quadrille party 
 next week — I wish you would let your young people 
 come."
 
 TILE LISTENER. 275 
 
 "You know I do not like my girls to enter into 
 those things " 
 
 " Not when it takes them into public, and leads to 
 habitual dissipation — but in private parties, and when 
 you know Avhat company they mix witli, and Avhen 
 you are sure they will neither hear nor see any thing 
 calculated to pervert their principles or corrupt their 
 minds, it is impossible you can imagine any harm in 
 a party merely because they dance. We shall not 
 havfe above thirty people." 
 
 " No, certainly not because they dance. To dance, 
 literally, is only to move in a certain measured step, 
 and jump a certain number of inches from the ground, 
 and go about the room in a prescribed figure, in- 
 stead of the irregular figure and unmeasured pace 
 they would observe were they running upon the hiUs. 
 I am not so absurd as to suppose there can be any 
 harm in this motion more than in any other motion. 
 Therefore that my girls do not come, is not merely 
 because you have dancing, but I do not like that sort 
 of party for them at any rate. It is a scene of dis- 
 play — an exhibition of the person and excitation of 
 the mind, that they are better and hai)pier without, 
 and I should be sorry they acquired a taste for it." 
 
 " I cannot think why you should fear their having 
 a taste for an innocent amusement that all young 
 people enjoy — you are not bringing them up for the 
 cloister, I suppose ? " 
 
 " By no means : I bring them up to be agreeable 
 and useful in society, and therefore would not wish
 
 276 THE LISTENER. 
 
 to unfit them for it — ^but you cannot pretend to say 
 there is any real enjoyment of society, any mental 
 improvement to be expected, or benevolent feeling 
 to be cultivated, in these parties ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not — I cannot say there is — but at least 
 there is no harm." 
 
 " That is not so certain — I apprehend a great 
 deal of harm may be done. A great many wi'ong 
 feelings are excited — if they are much noticed, and 
 have the best partners, vanity and self-esteem* are 
 excited — if they see others succeeding better, jea- 
 lousy is excited : jealousy, and vanity, and self- 
 esteem, are sins, and in all sin there is harm. Then 
 there is so much thought and care about what they 
 are to wear, and how they shall look, and what will 
 be thought of them by strangers — a set of people, in 
 whose approbation or affections they can never find 
 credit or advantage, whom they care notliing about, 
 and to whom, therefore, I would not have them feel 
 anxious to commend themselves by such factitious 
 means. They are contented now with pleasing tliose 
 who know and love them, and in whose society they 
 find advantage — I would rather they did not come 
 to you to acquire new desires, and divert theii" minds 
 from more rational pursuits." 
 
 " I would not persuade you against your wishes — 
 I know your sort of religion forbids you to conform 
 to what you call the practices of the Avorld — but I 
 do not perfectly understand to which of its practices 
 you do, and to which you do not, object."
 
 THE LISTENER. 277 
 
 Tho ladios parted. !Mrs Grey and myself walked 
 home to find the young ladies, to wliom their mannna 
 mentioned what had passed. They gave entire assent 
 to her opinions ; spoke with more vehemence and 
 less moderation against the vanity and Aviekedness 
 of such amusements — pitied their cousins' corrupt 
 propensities, and detailed half-a-dozen instances of 
 the spirit of emulation, and contention, and display, 
 exercised in parties of the kind ; and then they talked 
 ahdut renouncing the world, and its pomps, and its 
 delusions — and the spirit of self-renunciation, meek- 
 ness, and humility, that could only be maintained 
 away from scenes of dissipation, rivalry, and display 
 — and so on, and so on — and I thought they talked 
 uncommonly well, only rather too fast ; particularly 
 as nobody was disposed to contradict them. 
 
 I observed, however, that they were remarkably 
 busy all the time, as if in the act of prepax-ing for 
 something. 
 
 " Mamma," said Charlotte, " have you brought 
 the flowers for our bonnets ?" 
 
 " Xo, my dear, but we will send for them." 
 "Well, but we must make haste — the meeting 
 bearins in an hour or two, and we shall not be 
 ready — ring the bell." The bell was not answered. 
 " Ring again." The bell broke — that was the bell- 
 hanger's fault. " Where is John ?" — " John is gone 
 out, ma'am." — " How tiresome ! then Betty nuist 
 go." — " Betty is about INIiss Cliarlotte's pelisse that 
 must be done to put on this morning." — " Was ever
 
 278 THE LISTENER, 
 
 any thing so provoking ! — then, cook, you mus go." 
 — " I am just putting down the meat, miss, and can't 
 leave it." 
 
 " My dear," said INIrs Grey, " you can wear your 
 bonnets as they are." 
 
 " 'No, mamma, that is impossible — we had better 
 not go at all." 
 
 " Then you must fetch them yourselves." 
 
 " Yes, and how are we to be ready ? Every body 
 will be there before us. Things always happen so 
 contrarily!" 
 
 And now a certain quantity of ill-humour, and a 
 considerable quantity of impatience, were manifested 
 on all sides. Mamma blamed the girls, fii'st for 
 thinking about their dress at all, and then for not 
 having thought of it sooner. The girls wondered 
 then' mamma had not brought in the flowers. John 
 was blamed for not being at home when he had 
 been sent out — Betty was blamed for being busy 
 when she had been set to work — the cook was 
 blamed for dressing the meat, though no one, as 
 I believe, meant to go without their dinner. The 
 ladies were what, in domestic phraseology, is called 
 put out; and, wlien that takes place in a family, 
 it does not signify who is to blame, or what the 
 matter is — every body must submit to be in the 
 wrong. 
 
 Time mends all things. The young ladies went 
 to the anniversary of some charitable society in the 
 town — and the young ladies came home again.
 
 THE LISTENER. 279 
 
 " Well, my clears," said Mrs Grey, " how have 
 you been pleased?" 
 
 " Tolerably," rejilied Ann ; " but we were so late, 
 and got such bad seats — I could not enjoy it at all. 
 Do you know that there were those Miss Browns in 
 the High Street, sitting before us in the best seats 
 — and they would not make room for us, though 
 they knew very well who we were. A great many 
 people put themselves forward who have not done 
 half so much for the charity as we have." — " Dear, 
 yes," said Charlotte, " and I had such a vidgar wo- 
 man next me — she would speak to me, and I was 
 quite afraid lest people should think I knew her." — 
 *' And, mamma, the three Miss Blacks were there — 
 their servants were in such gay liveries — it made 
 me feel ashamed of John's old clothes. Julia Black 
 was very rude to me — but I took care to be quite as 
 rude to her — for I think myself of as much conse- 
 quence as she is." — " Lady Buff was there — I wish 
 we could have gotten up to speak to her — people 
 must have thought we belonged to nobody." 
 
 " Those who knew you, had no occasion to think, 
 my dear : and those who did not, are not of much 
 consequence to you. But you have not told me 
 what you heard." 
 
 " O, we heard a great deal of good — I wonder 
 my cousin Wliites were not there — much better for 
 them than going to 1)alls — it was a very interesting 
 meeting ; but there were not so many people of 
 consequence there as last year — these things always.
 
 280 THE LISTENER. 
 
 go off. Thei'e were some excellent speeches — it 
 vexed me to hear that disagreeable man who was so 
 rude to us once at the committee, so very much ap- 
 plauded — I quite hate that man ; but he made by far 
 the most sensible and religious speech." 
 
 To that connexion of ideas, which, on the repeti- 
 tion of a single word, brings back to memory all with 
 which it has sometime been associated, it was, doubt- 
 less, owing, that I, at this moment, thought of pomps, 
 and delusions, and inconformities — and self-sub- 
 jection, and meekness, and humility — and love of 
 approbation, and fear of opinion, and rivalry, and 
 contention ; and a great many other things that had 
 not much to do with the dinner we were eatino:, or 
 the meeting we were talldng of. Had Mrs White 
 been there, a part of her doubts had been solved at 
 least — for though she had not learned what it was 
 of the world the Miss Greys' religion taught them 
 to renounce, she had certainly discovered what it 
 was not. Is it the practice of the world, or its 
 spirit, that stands most opposed to religion ? Avails 
 it any thing to renounce the one and keep the other ? 
 I saw no Consistency between the morning's dis- 
 course and the evening's, except in volubility of 
 speech. 
 
 I was visiting lately a friend in the country ; a 
 rational good sort of woman ; the queen, by long 
 established courtesy, of a populous village, where 
 nobody thought themselves of more consequence
 
 THE LISTENER. 281 
 
 than hei'self. She liad been a very happy woman 
 all her life, and might have continued so to the end 
 of it, had she not been disturbed by the conduct 
 of her neighbours, and certain disorders that had 
 broken out in the village. All Lady Betty Ball's 
 sorrows grew out of her warm attachment to the 
 Church of England, and very susceptible aversion 
 to every thing that looked like a departure from its 
 rules, or a dissent from its opinions. Some of her 
 neighbours, and even the curate of the parish him- 
 self, were beginning to disturb her peace by mani- 
 festing most dangerous symptoms of dissent. The 
 former, in spite of her opposition, persisted in teach- 
 ing grown people to read, and collecting children 
 into Sunday Schools — means directly tending to 
 make sectarians of them. Some had even gone so 
 far as to read the Bible to the sick and dying poor, 
 and draw their attention to the eternal world — a 
 dangerous encroachment on the rights of the esta- 
 blished ministry. Xay, such was the spirit of dis- 
 sent amongst them, it was becoming a common 
 thing to hear religion spoken of in society, and 
 theological subjects discussed at table. But what 
 could stay the infection, when the minister himself 
 had caught it, and actually took part in a Bible 
 Society, refused to go to the Assembly-rooms, and 
 administered the sacramental, emblems to three or 
 four people at a time, without reading the appointed 
 words to each one separately? Then the poor — 
 the very poor — had come into the work of subver-
 
 282 THE LISTEN'ER. 
 
 sion : she had heard witli her own ears a day-la- 
 bourer singing Toplady's h\anns as he sat at dinner 
 under a haystack : and she had seen with her own 
 eyes a washerwoman reading a tract, as she paused 
 to rest her bundle on a milestone by the roadside. 
 The ringing of the church-bells on a Thursday 
 evening totally suspended her appetite — on a Wed- 
 nesday or Friday, provided it were at eleven o'clock, 
 and there were no sermon, it was not observed to 
 have the same effect. Lady Betty had great respect 
 for the authorised version of the Scriptures in pro- 
 per time and place : for instance — any part of it on 
 the Sunday, or the Proper Lessons on any day — but 
 if she chanced to see a Bible in the kitchen window 
 that looked as if it had moved since Sunday, or in 
 her childi-en's hands after their lesson had been said, 
 the spectre of dissent rose immediately to her af- 
 flicted vision, and her concern for the Establishment 
 took no rest till she had suppressed the innovation. 
 To hum a psalm-tune on a week day, to like an ex- 
 tempore sermon, to refuse a game of cards, or to be 
 shocked at the use of an accidental oath, were things 
 she held especially, and about equally, dangerous to 
 the Church — the friend who was convicted of either 
 lost her esteem, and the servant who was suspected 
 of either lost her confidence. 
 
 Partly from participation in her love of the 
 Church, and partly from the tenderness I always 
 have for the honest zeal that takes fright even at 
 the bugbears of its own imagination when they seem
 
 THE LISTEN-ER. 283 
 
 to endanger tlie tiling it loves, I should have felt a 
 great deal for Lady Betty's sorrows, had I not ob- 
 served there were times and circumstances in wliich 
 her respect for the Church, and its decisions, and 
 its wisdom, was considerably abated. The esta- 
 blished religion has appointed the celebration of the 
 Sa1)bath, and enjoins on its members to attend those 
 ai)pointments strictly — it orders all secular aftairs to 
 be suspended — the sale of the necessaries of life to 
 be forborne — the unnecessary labour of man and 
 beast dispensed with — the amusements of the idle, 
 as well as the toils of the industrious, to be super- 
 seded by pubEc manifestations of religious reve- 
 rence, and private exercise of dcAotion. Lady Betty 
 was of another mind : she could make a better use 
 of this day than that to which the Church has as- 
 signed it. It was the best day of the seven for 
 tra\elling, because there were fewer things on the 
 road, and there was not much else to be done — ex- 
 cept the occupations to which the Church devoted it, 
 and they were of no consequence. She would go 
 to the morning service, and so might her children, 
 if there was nothing to prevent — that is, if there 
 had not fallen a shower in the night to make it 
 damp ; or there was not a cloud in the heavens that 
 miglit produce a shower by and by ', or she had not 
 slept too late to be ready within ten minutes after 
 the bells had done ringing. Two services are or- 
 dered ; but she held the second altogether superflu- 
 ous — the carriage, and of course the horses, and of 
 course the servants, were always required at three
 
 284 THE LISTENER." 
 
 o'clock for her customary drive. Slie liked ortlio- 
 dox religion in inferior people, provided always it 
 did not interfere with the orthodox irrelio-ion — that 
 is to say, the convenience of their superiors. She 
 did not disapprove of her servants going to church — 
 but it was seldom convenient to spare them. Articles 
 were purchased from her tradespeoj^le on Sunday — 
 the law is otherwise, but it was convenient. Persons 
 were employed to fetch things, and carry things, 
 and do things, on the Sabbath, in direct opposition 
 to the law's command that they should be at church : 
 but this too was convenient. The Church has 
 issued a Catechism for the instruction and guidance 
 of the young, and Lady Betty's children were most 
 carefully taught it, and made to repeat it — but they 
 were not taught, nor indeed allowed, to follow or 
 believe it. Their mother would have thought them 
 very superstitious had they feared the influence of 
 an evil spirit, and very methodistical had they ex- 
 pected the influence of a good spirit ; she would 
 have been much vexed had they grown up with a 
 contempt for the vanities of life to which she reared 
 them, or a distaste for the pomps and splendoui's 
 she taught them to aspire to. Tlie articles of the 
 Christian faith, as explained by the Church, she 
 would not allow to be so much as named before 
 them, lest it should put odd notions into their 
 heads ; and in respect to the keeping of all God's 
 commandments — that might be very well, according 
 to her own interpretation of them, l)ut not accord- 
 ing to that of the Church, given in the Catechism :
 
 THE LISTENER. 285 
 
 for tliey were by procc'iit and example taught to 
 consider their own advantage first, their neigh- 
 bour's benefit second, and God's requirements last. 
 They were to obey lawful authorities when it was 
 dangerous or disreputable to do otherwise — but to 
 circumvent the law, to evade it, or furtively to de- 
 fraud the revenue, were daily practices. They 
 might not tell a lie, so called ; but they wei'e taught 
 to tell as many indirect ones, by false representa- 
 tions, false excuses, false politeness, as might suit 
 their purpose : and in respect to slander, evil-speak- 
 ing, unkind and malevolent feelings, if they were 
 ever checked in these, it was only because children 
 should not be encouraged in them : daily proof 
 was before their eves, that Avhen thov ceased to be 
 children, there would be no harm in these things. 
 The Church has appointed certain times for the 
 celebration of the Loi-d's Supper, and earnestly ex- 
 horts her members to be present there, and duly to 
 receive it. Here Lady Betty dissents again — she 
 can only attend once a-year, or when she haj^pens 
 to have a leisure week — that is, a week free from 
 common engagements, to prepare herself for the 
 ceremony. In opinions it were endless to trace out 
 the difi'erences — the Church teaches her perpetually 
 to repeat in public, that she is a ruined and cor- 
 rupted creature, needing the interference of divine 
 grace to reconcile her to God, and make her meet 
 for eternity — but she insists in ])ri\ate that she is 
 a good sort of a persQU, and that her acquaintance
 
 286 THE LISTENER. 
 
 are very good, and nobody is in need of conversion 
 but papists and pagans, and nobody in need of re- 
 pentance but drunkards and pickpockets. In short, 
 I could not be long with Lady Betty, without perceiv- 
 ing that she dissents from the Established Church 
 in opinion, in practice, in every thing : and there- 
 fore is not consistent in her fears for it. 
 
 *' Mamma," said little Julia to her mother, one of 
 my intimate friends, " what is the reason you would 
 not let us play at cards last night, when we wanted 
 to amuse our little party — ^you let the boys play at 
 marbles — I should like to understand the difference?" 
 
 " The difference," replied my friend, " is almost 
 too nice for you to perceive — yet there is a differ- 
 ence, and perhaps I can make you understand it. 
 Marbles is the game of our childhood, .and in no 
 danger of becoming the passion of our later years. 
 It is also a game of skill and not of chance ; what 
 we win, therefore, is in some sense earned, and con- 
 sequently ours ; which it is not honestly, when we 
 come into possession by the chances of the game. I 
 should, however, object to playing at marbles, or 
 any thing else, for money, lest it should induce a 
 love of gambling that would soon transfer itself to 
 other ventures. Cards are generally played for 
 money. They might be a most innocent amusement 
 in childhood, were there no danger of their becom- 
 ing the taste of the woman, and were there nothing 
 to be won or lost by the game."
 
 THE LISTENER. 287 
 
 " But what, mamma," said the little girl, " is the 
 harm of winning or losing?" 
 
 " If you win, what you gain is not honestly yours 
 — ^you neither earn it, nor deserve it, nor receive it 
 as a voluntary gift — it is not therefore a lawful pos- 
 session. The law of man does not consider it so, since 
 the gamester is not obliged to pay his debts ; and 
 the law of God, I believe, would still less consider it 
 so. This appears a small matter, while the sum is 
 small — but there is no limit to a moral maxim of 
 this sort — a little and a little added, and the sum 
 becomes a large one. The yet greater evil is the 
 feeling excited while you play —the eagerness, the 
 anxiety, the temper, the impatience, and the ultimate 
 vexation — it is impossible to see a party of children 
 play at cards for money, and not perceive these ef- 
 fects, even more obviously than among elder people^ 
 because they have less control over their emotions 
 to suppress or conceal them. All these unnatural 
 stimulants to passions, these morbid stirrings of the 
 spirits, are destructive to the simple, calm, and inno- 
 cent delights of childhood, and creative of a desu'e 
 for excitation, which the duties and ordinary enjoy- 
 ments of after life are scarcely likely to supply, I 
 had the same reason for not allowing you to put your 
 money into the raffle. I considered that the feeling 
 of pleasure which would attend your winning, or of 
 pain in losing, would be equally injurious to the 
 mind it acted on, as arising from no legitimate cause 
 of pain and jjleasuro : besides that the desu'c of win-
 
 288 THE LISTENER. 
 
 ning — and if there were no desire to win, there 
 Avoukl be no pleasure in playing — must be gratified 
 at the cost of your antagonist. A most dangerous 
 taste to cultivate, is the desire of succeeding at an- 
 other's cost, and that without any superior merit or 
 exertion of our own." 
 
 Here the conversation ended. I thought the mo- 
 ther's remai'ks very sensible and just, and indispu- 
 tably applicable to the years of childhood, whatever 
 they might be later : but a surprise awaited me. I 
 had been invited by my friend to accompany her the 
 following day to the school at which her elder daugh- 
 ters were educating, to be present at the distribution 
 of prizes. As some of my readers have inferred, 
 from my former remarks on the subject, that I dis- 
 approve of prizes altogether, I may take this oppor- 
 tunity of assuring them I do not. Reward is the 
 natural fruit of merit, and I would have it ever be 
 its attendant. In a school or elsewhere, I would have 
 each one rewarded according to their merit. But 
 it should be their abstract, not their comparative 
 success — a prize for reaching some given point, not 
 for outstripping, without eftbrt, a less competent but 
 as willing competitor. This by the way — for what 
 I went to see is by no means to the point. 
 
 When we had passed the stone wall and iron gate 
 by which the corruptions of the world are supposed 
 to bo excluded from minds not sufficiently matured 
 to resist them, we were shown into the hall of this 
 mansion of education, already crowded with the young
 
 THE LISTENER. 289 
 
 candidates fov honour or reward — as yet I knew 
 not whicli. They woi-e their gayest dress, and the 
 apartment was decked as for festivity ; but it did 
 not strike me that the countenances, as I examined 
 them successively, wore exactly a festive aspect — 
 there was an expression of painful anxiety in most, 
 and in those that had an air of confident gaiety, it 
 did not seem to sit altogether easy. There was not 
 one among them I could have selected as the picture 
 of conscious merit waiting its reward. I began to 
 apprehend that, by some strange mischance, not 
 one among them thought she coidd make good her 
 claim. The ceremony began, and the names of many 
 were called in succession. As each young lady heard 
 her own, a vivid expression of pleasure passed over 
 her features, but they soon resumed the pre\ious 
 expression of anxiety ; while those who did not hear 
 their names, clianged their air of doubt to one of 
 sullen despondency. I begged to know the meaning 
 of this proceeding, and was informed that those 
 whose names were not called, had, on prcNaous exa- 
 mination, been found undeserving to be admitted as 
 competitors for reward. Nothing could be more 
 just than that those who had merited no recompense 
 should expect none, and receive none — though I did 
 not perceive why they should have been kept to this 
 time in ignorance of their exclusion ; the harassment 
 of uncertainty and suspense not being considered 
 particularly good for the susceptible spirits of child- 
 hood. The more deserving competitors were now 
 
 VOL. T, T
 
 290 THE LISTEN-ER. 
 
 numbered, and an equal number of ornamented cavds 
 were put into a most portentous bag of briglit blue 
 satin. Now again I was a little puzzled : there were 
 fifteen ladies of this non-excluded class — they were 
 of diflerent ages, and most likely of very different 
 attainments — but to all appearance they must be of 
 exactly equal merit, for the same bag received all 
 the cards, and the cards that went into the bag were 
 all alike. As my old trick of listening could avail 
 me nothing, where the most profound and suspensive 
 silence prevailed, I was obliged to betake myself to 
 guessing how this could be. My best conjecture was, 
 that to avoid all rivalship, every deser\ing pupil was 
 to ha\'e a prize proportioned to her individual merit, 
 and that, though my eye could not perceive it, there 
 niust be written on each card the name of a lady, 
 and the prize adjudged to her. It is true I did not 
 exactly see how these decrees of justice were to find 
 their way out of the blue satin bag into the fingers 
 of the rightful possessor ; unless Merlin, or Kater- 
 felto, or some other of the conjuring tribe, were 
 hidden at the bottom of it, while each in succession 
 thrust in her little hand. What was my surprise 
 when, out of fifteen ladies who had been pronoun- 
 ced deserving of reward for their improvement in 
 music, the occasion of this first lottery, one only 
 gained the prize — not by merit, or talent, or industry, 
 superior to her competitors, but by the accident of 
 putting her fingers on the right card — wliile all the 
 rest, though judged deser\'ing of reward, were to
 
 THE LISTENER. 291. 
 
 Suffor the disappointment of excited expectation, and 
 see another enjoy the recompense to which their own 
 claim had been admitted equal, and pcrliaps was 
 known to be superior ! I need not describe the re- 
 peated ceremony — one after another the lotteries 
 went on — for each difterent branch of education. I 
 turned to my friend wlion the ceremony concluded, 
 and asked her how she could suffer the minds of her 
 children to be thus acted upon — their feelings thus 
 senselessly excited — the very spirit and essence of 
 gaming thus instilled? She said it was the cus- 
 tom of the school ; and she had never thought of 
 any harm there could be in it. I reminded her of 
 the conversation of the preceding evening with her 
 little Julia, and remarked on the inconsistency of 
 her keen perception of danger in the one case, with 
 her blind insensibility to it in the other. For my 
 own part, this system seemed to me such an outrage 
 upon common sense, that on any evidence but fact, I 
 could not have believed any rational governess could 
 invent, or any careful parent suffer, such a practice. 
 When all was over, I made especial inquiry into the 
 results ; and I found one girl, whom I knew to be by 
 no means the best, laden with prizes, exultiugly set- 
 ting off" to her home to exhibit proofs of an ad\'ance- 
 ment she had not made, and display her triumph 
 over companions she had by no means equalled. I 
 saw another, an industrious, clever girl, going oft", 
 with tearful eyes and saddened spirits, without a 
 single testimony of good conduct or recompense of
 
 292 THE LISTEJfER. 
 
 exertion ; thoiigli she had been worthy of drawing for 
 every prize, and of all the se,hool had best deserved 
 to be so. 
 
 We contemn the wisdom of our ancestors, wlio, 
 when they could not decide the merits of a cause, 
 referred it to the decision of Heaven by some su- 
 perstitious ordeal. Do the ladies who superintend 
 these schools really believe that fortune will respect 
 the merits of their pupils, and do they so intend to 
 teach them ? Or — more probable result, and yet 
 more dangerous lesson for their after-life — do they 
 mean to teach them tliat success goes by hap, and 
 not by merit ; that it is better to be lucky than 
 wise ; that to win a prize is easier than to earn it ? 
 We doubt not that many of our readers who are not 
 in these secrets, will think the pi'actice so strange a 
 one, we need not to have spoken so much about it. 
 I should have thought so too, did I not know that 
 it is practised by some governesses, and suffered by 
 many parents, who, I believe, act under the influ- 
 ence of the best moral feeling, and the purest reli- 
 gious principle, in the management of the children 
 committed to their care, and would by no means 
 suffer them to receive such impressions under any 
 other form.
 
 THE LISTENER,. 203 
 
 No. XX 
 MORE INCONSISTENCIES. 
 
 Qu'attendons nous des hommes ? lis sont foibles, inconstants, aveu- 
 gles : les uns ne veulent pas ce qu'ils peuvent, les autres ne peuvent 
 pas ce qu'ils veulent. La nature est un roseau nasse; si on veut appu- 
 yer dessus, le roseau plie, ne peut nous soutenir, et nous perce la 
 main, 
 
 FEMiLOiV. 
 
 Mr Listener, 
 ILvviNG observed with much concern the ill success 
 of your researches after Consistency, and felt a 
 growing impatience that the portrait was not pro- 
 duced, it came into my mind that I might assist you 
 in the search, happening to be intimate with a family 
 who are continually speaking of it, and that after 
 the manner of a familiar acquaintance. The word 
 being perpetually on their lips, I could not doubt 
 but they were "well acquainted with the thing, and 
 perhaps could afford the very information you had 
 sought so far in vain. Anxious now as ever to 
 assist you, I proposed myself a short residence 
 among them, not liking to expose my ignorance by 
 directly asking for the information I wanted. No- 
 thing could be more promising than the fii'st aspect
 
 294 THE LISTENER. 
 
 of things. With the first breath I drew in their 
 abode, I seemed to inhale a love of this unknown — 
 and so contagious is example, that before many days 
 had elapsed, I found it impossible to express myself 
 on any subject without using the word. It is a 
 delightful word — it will do for any thing — with the 
 help of a small negation it will stand for sin, or 
 folly, or falsehood, or treachery, or caprice, or infi- 
 delity, or any thing within the whole compass of 
 moral defectibihty. Whenever a fool committed 
 folly, we said he was not consistent — when the false- 
 hearted did one thing and professed another, we 
 said they were not consistent — when the selfish be- 
 trayed their friends to serve themselves, we said they 
 were not consistent — in short, whenever a sinner, 
 under any form, committed sin, we said he was not 
 consistent. I was delighted — for, in all the lan- 
 guages I had learned, I never found a word so uni- 
 versally applicable. But most of all was it valuable 
 to designate those nameless discrepancies in our 
 friends which all are quick to perceive, but no one 
 can readily describe. We were no slanderers, and 
 would not for worlds have said those who did not 
 please were false, or ignorant, or disagreeable, or 
 any thing that perhaps they might not be — but we 
 could always say they were Inconsistent, without 
 danger of contradiction : and we did say so of every 
 • one who had the misfortune to come within our ob- 
 servation. In one respect, at least, we obeyed the 
 spirit of the Christian precept — for we treated our
 
 THE LISTENER. 295 
 
 Qnemies in this matter to the full as well as our 
 friends. Among the abundant oxamjilcs and count- 
 less uses of this term, I know not where to select 
 for your information — any instance I may give you 
 can be but one of thousands. 
 
 . We were just rid of some evening visitors with' 
 whom we had spent several hours in the rapid inter- 
 change of most polite discoui-se. They had said 
 every thing that language can express, in praise of 
 all that was in the house, or about the house, or 
 mthin ken of any of the windows — and the ladies, 
 my companions, had given back to the full, the mea- 
 sure they had meted. If they said our drawings or 
 fancy works were beautiful, Ave said they were no- 
 thing in comparison with theirs : if they praised our 
 music, we were suri)rised that they, who were used 
 to so much better, should be so very kind as to lis- 
 ten to it. We said their cliildren were the largest, 
 and their dogs the smallest, and their jewels the 
 brightest, and their words the wisest, in the known 
 Avorld — for any thing I knew, it might be so, for 
 they were strangers to me. As soon as they were 
 gone, Miss Sarah said, with a sigh, " AVhat dreadful 
 flatterers those people are— and they swallow it as 
 willingly as they bestow it ! There is no way of 
 pleasing them, but by the grossest comj)liments. 
 They are vei-y false : I know exactly what they 
 mean when they admire any thing — they only want 
 you to say that something of theirs is better. I
 
 296 THE LISTENER. 
 
 make a point of saying so directly, because I know 
 they will be disappointed if I do not." 
 
 "Are they very superior people?" I asked 
 
 " Oh, by no means : they understand nothing : 
 
 they praise every thing and every body alike : they 
 
 think flattery must please others because it pleases 
 
 them, and they bestow it as liberally as they desire 
 
 . 
 
 " There is, at least, good-nature in the inten- 
 tion." 
 
 " If they were more consistent in their good-na- 
 ture ; but they will not continue to praise us in our 
 absence, I doubt." 
 
 " If they do," thought I, " we shall have better 
 than requital at their hands : " but we were quite 
 agreed that it was inconsistent to flatter people in 
 their presence, and speak ill of them the moment 
 they were gone. 
 
 " I wish," said Matilda, one morning, with refer- 
 ence to a lady who had just made her first visit at 
 the house — " I wish Miss N.'s conduct were more 
 consistent. If I knew nothing of her, I should be 
 greatly taken with her manner and conversation 
 this morning : I should really think her very sen- 
 sible and serious " 
 
 " And how do you know she is not ? " I asked, 
 interrupting her. 
 
 " One can only judge the tree by its fruits ; and 
 her conduct is so very inconsistent.".
 
 THE LISTENER. 297 
 
 " In wliat way do you mean ? " 
 
 *' I really do not exactly know ; I have very little 
 acquaintance with her ; I have avoided it, because 
 I think such people dangerous : but I have heard 
 many things of her, not at all consistent with a reli- 
 gious character. It is very easy to talk and profess, 
 but when one knows she does not mean what she 
 says, there is danger in having the form of godli- 
 ness without the power." 
 
 I admitted the justness of this remark, but still 
 desired to know wherein Miss N. stood more ex- 
 posed than others to this danger: for I had been 
 much pleased with her conversation in the short 
 visit she made us. Urged again, Matilda said Miss 
 N. wore feathers, which she thought noit consistent 
 with the sobriety of dress that becomes a Christian 
 — then she had heard she went into gay company; 
 she did not know if it was true, but she supposed it 
 was ; she often saw her speaking to people of that 
 sort — the Scriptures had requured us not to be con- 
 formed to the fashions of the world. I thought the 
 Scriptures had also commanded us not to speak evil 
 one of another, nor to judge one another ; but I did 
 not make the remark. 
 
 " I have heard," continued Matilda — " I do not 
 remember where I heard it — but I know I heard it 
 from somebody — that she is not particularly strict 
 in the observance of the Sabbath — it is impossible 
 a person can be a child of God, and break his posi- 
 tive commandments."
 
 298 .THE LISTENER. 
 
 I thought it was one of the positive command- 
 ments that we should not bear false-witness against 
 our neighbours. But I made no remark, at this, 
 time not quite agreeing with my friend ; for, if 
 Matilda did not know what she said to be false, she 
 did not know it to be true ; and if it was true, she 
 had only assumed Avhat she began with asserting, 
 that Miss N. professed what she did not mean. How 
 did Matilda know what Miss N. professed? In our 
 recent conversation, confessedly the first she had 
 ever had with her, I am certain she had not pro- 
 fessed not to wear feathers, or not to go into com- 
 pany ; and, supposing Matilda did not profess to 
 speak no evil, and bear no false-witness, I consi-r 
 dered that, however wrong I might regard them, 
 both or either, I could not well apply to them my 
 favourite word — a great disappointment to me. 
 
 Seated at tea in the balcony of our house, we 
 were conversing one evening on a melancholy oc- 
 currence in a family of the neighbourhood, in which 
 a young person had been reduced to a state of deep 
 and morbid melancholy, by the effects of long-pro- 
 tracted anxiety, ending in severe and remediless 
 affliction. It came to be considered, in the course 
 of conversation, how far such a result was consist- 
 ent with religious submission to the will of Heaven. 
 It was very sapiently proved, that, by a mind en- 
 tirely detached from the things of earth, the loss oi 
 ■earthly things could not consistently be felt — ^that 
 a mind entirely trusting in the. wisdom and power
 
 THE LISTENER. 299 
 
 of God, could not consistently sufter from anxiety — 
 that a mind totally acquiescent in the will of God, 
 could not consistently feel regret at the dispensa- 
 tions of Providence — and, above all, that where no 
 loss, or anxiety, or regret could be felt, the mind 
 could not consistently be deranged by them. Tlie.se 
 were truths beyond all controversy, and we wero 
 thence successfully going on to deduce the incon- 
 sistency of this helpless sufterer in particular, and 
 of every body else in general, ourselves excepted, 
 when the rolling of distant thunder in the horizon 
 announced a coming storm, called off our atten- 
 tion, and turned the conversation. The storm arose. 
 The young ladies became desperately frightened — 
 they did not know for what, but lest some harm 
 should happen to themselves, or somebody, or some- 
 thing that belonged to them. When I endeavoiu-ed 
 to soothe them by assurance that no ill would hap- 
 pen, they grew angry. How could I be sure of 
 that? Lightning often kills people — wind often 
 blows houses down — people sometimes lose their 
 eyes or their hearing in a thunder-strom — in short', 
 they thought it quite wicked not to be frightened 
 when there was danger, and distressed when there 
 might be suffering, to others, if not to ourselves. 
 The storm subsided — but not so the fears. They 
 had now, indeed, a definite object; very consider- 
 able damage was supposed to have been done on a 
 distant part of the coast, where they had property, 
 and they might possibly be very material losers by
 
 300 THE LISTENER. 
 
 the accident. Gloom, fretfulness, and anxiety per- 
 vaded the house through all that night and the 
 succeeding day. With the hopefulness generally 
 experienced by the uninterested spectator of others* 
 anxieties, I represented to them every probability 
 or possibility, reasonable or unreasonable, that their 
 property might not have been injured — but they 
 persisted in expecting the worst, in rejecting all 
 palliations of the possible mischief. They would 
 not eat — they would not sleep — they would not 
 divert their minds by employment, or relieve them- 
 selves by conversation : and when they thought 
 they perceived in me an opinion that they showed 
 more uneasiness than was warranted by a yet un- 
 certain ill, and more impatience under an imagined 
 loss, than might have been reasonable even under a 
 known one, they observed, that to be less anxious than 
 they were, would be unnatural, insensible, impossible 
 — in short, inconsistent with common sense. It did 
 not happen to us at that time to renew the con- 
 versation of the balcony — of minds detached from 
 earth — of trust that could not be shaken — of acqui- 
 escence that could not be moved — of that self-pos- 
 session, in short, that could not be disturbed in a 
 devoted and well-regulated mind. 
 
 Among our intimate acquaintance, there was one 
 young person whose liveliness of manner and buoy- 
 ancy of spirits made her the life of her family and 
 the zest of every company she happened to mix with. 
 She went gaily and cheerfully about every task that
 
 THE LISTENER. 301 
 
 circumstance or choice imposed ; slie spoke of everj' 
 thing with playful vivacity, and did every thing with 
 an air of confident expectation ; meet her when you 
 would, or where you would, there was always bright- 
 ness in her eye, and a smile on her brow, and acti- 
 vity and enjoyment in her whole demeanour. We 
 allowed that this was agreeable, we confessed great 
 pleasure in her society — but we could not approve 
 her character — it was not consistent for a Christian 
 to be always so light-hearted. The pilgrim, the 
 penitent, the culprit, the suppliant dependent on 
 Almighty pity, the combatant struggling through 
 unequal warfare, the prodigal as yet almost a stran- 
 ger in his home, the meek, the mournful, and the 
 broken-hearted — emblems by which the Deity has 
 described his people — are characters, we said, that 
 consist not with so much gaiety and lightness of 
 spirits, such sanguine, cheerful, fearless animation. 
 
 There was another, on whose brow the shade of 
 pensiveness for ever sat supreme — she seemed to be 
 always feeling, one might have said, always suffer- 
 ing — if there ever came a smile on her features, it 
 was gone, ere you could be sure you saw it there — 
 if there ever escaped from her a word of jest, the 
 sigh came so quickly after, you felt forbidden to 
 remark it : the liquid eye, and changeful colour, 
 spoke intensity of feeling — but even in her feeling 
 there was a stillness imperturbable — in her very 
 pleasures, if she knew any, there was a tone of 
 melancholy. Her aflectionate softness we felt was
 
 302 THE LISTENER. 
 
 lovely, her gentle sadness Interesting ; we could 
 even have loved her, had we not seen her so very 
 inconsistent. A Christian who professes, as we sup- 
 posed she did, to have found a real and substantial 
 Hiss in grateful anticipation of eternal joy, ought 
 never to be melancholy — habitual sadness, an air 
 of habitual suffering, was not consistent with the 
 security, and peace, and joy, offered in the Grospel 
 to the believer, and professedly accepted by him. 
 
 There was a third person, whose busy, bustling, 
 babbling nature, happily set in motion by a dispo- 
 sition to good, was for ever talking, and for ever 
 doing ; from sunrise to sunset, she was to be seen 
 in motion — assisting every body, exhorting every 
 body, teaching every body — sometimes laden with 
 books to give away, sometimes with work to be 
 done or clothes to be bestowed ; her tables were 
 strewed with tracts and baby-linen — her basket was 
 filled with conserves and cough-mixtures — nobody 
 could live without her assistance, nobody could die 
 without her administration — it almost seemed that 
 nobody could go to heaven without her guidance. 
 The days were too short for what she had to do — 
 the hours were not long enough for what she had to 
 say; her busy head was always devising somethinsf 
 — her bustling step was always pursuing something 
 — lior rapid finger was always making something — 
 lier tongue outstripped them all ; and of all, good 
 was the object, and benevolence the motive. Her 
 name was written in every record of humanity, and
 
 tHE LISTENER. 303 
 
 sounded on every tongue, and engraven, doubtless, 
 in many a grateful heart — but we did not like her, 
 because she was not, as we said, altogether consist- 
 ent — while engaged so much abroad, domestic piety 
 was overlooked — while hurried up and down in 
 perpetual activity of benevolence, private devotion 
 must be neglected ; there could be no time for read- 
 ing or reflection ; the religion of the closet was of 
 more avail than all this bustle, and more consistent 
 with the genuine spirit of the Gospel. 
 
 A fourtl) friend we had of an opposite character. 
 She was never to be found taking part in the insti- 
 tutions of benevolence, or joining in public exertions 
 for the propagation of truth. She was not known 
 as the instructor of the ignorant, or the comforter 
 of the afflicted ; she was not known to belong to in- 
 stitutions or societies ; she was very seldom heard 
 to speak upon religion, and Avas very seldom seen in 
 religious society. In private only might her piety 
 be detected — in the peace and holiness that reigned 
 in her family — the devotion that seemed to have its 
 favourite dwelling in her closet — the silent study of 
 the truth — the firm abiding by its precepts — the 
 regulation of her temper by its laws — the tone, in 
 short, of her whole feelings, habits, and desires, 
 pei-ceived though untold, betrayed rather tlian ex- 
 hibited. It Avas necessary to know her intimately 
 to perceive all this — Ave kncAV it, but it did not 
 please us. If she Avas pious in heart, and dcAoted 
 in private, Avhy did she not come forward ? Whjj
 
 304 THE LISTENER. 
 
 did she not join with others of like feelings, and do 
 as they do ? It was not consistent that one who 
 really loved the truth, should be supinely indifferent 
 about its propagation — one who really feels must 
 talk and act, must be anxious to impart what she 
 knows and disclose what she enjoys : a barren and 
 un})roductive faith, so difficult to discover, and so 
 fruitless, could not be consistent Christianity. 
 
 There was a fifth, whom birth and circumstances 
 had accustomed to all the elegances and luxuries of 
 life. A refined anind, a cultivated taste, and deli- 
 cate habits, all conspired to make these things valu- 
 able and needful to her ; and it was evident they 
 were valued and enjoyed. She was nice in her dress, 
 expensive in her establishment, stylish in the ar- 
 rangements of her household. Her we condemned 
 at once : so much indulgence and display, and care 
 for things exterior, were not consistent with humi- 
 lity, self-denial and renunciation of the world. 
 
 A sixth, who, in a station of equal elevation and 
 with equal means, was neglectful of appeai-ances, 
 homely in her habits, indifferent to the distinctions 
 of society, whether from inclination, or from con- 
 scientious self-abasement, received from us no kinder 
 judgment. It was not consistent in people of rank 
 to look like housemaids, to live like peasants, to 
 contravene the arrangements of Providence, by le- 
 velling the distinctions of rank and circumstance. 
 
 These, and such as these, are but instances of our 
 ample success, in finding all our neighbours guilty
 
 THE LISTENER. 305 
 
 of Inconsistency. In the full enjoyment of these 
 discoveries, there came athwart me, Mr Listener, 
 the recollection of your paper almost forgotten, and 
 of my wish to help you. After all our talk about 
 Consistency, and the want of Consistency, and the 
 beauty of Consistency, where was the idea the word 
 had stood for ? Within me, and around me, I began 
 to search for it. In my own mind, I could find no- 
 thing like an idea upon the subject — I had applied 
 the word so indiscriminately to such a heterogeneous 
 multitude of things, from the careless dropping of 
 an unweighed word to the crime of grossest ma- 
 lignity, it was impossible for any one definition, or 
 any one idea, to comprehend the whole. Around 
 me — alas ! in reiterating the charge of inconsistency 
 on others, had we not amply proved it in ourselves ? 
 
 VOL. I, V
 
 30G THE LISTENER. 
 
 ls"o. XXI. 
 CONSISTENCY. 
 
 Des qu'ou se met a negocier avec les circonstaiices, tout est perdu, 
 car il n'est persunne qui n'uit des circonstances. La let^on qu'il importe 
 le plus (le donner aux hoiumes dans ce monde, c'ebt de ne transiger 
 avcc auc'uue consideratitm quand il s'agit du devoir. 
 
 De Stael. 
 
 My readers may, I fear, become weary of a subject 
 that has loitered unsuccessfully through three or 
 four papers, with no better result than that of pro\'- 
 ing, what might scarcely need a proof, that a great 
 many people talk of what they do not understand, or 
 reproach others with the wrongs themselves unwit- 
 tingly commit. Lest this should be, I propose, like 
 other narrators, to tack a moral to my tale, by way 
 of conclusion, and so abandon it. My object was 
 not, as may have seemed, to pro\'e every body in the 
 wrong, but rather to exliibit the various modes of 
 inconsistency ; tliat, perceiving it and applj'ing it, 
 each one may correct tlieir own. Some have said, 
 Wliy expose the faults and inconsistencies of those 
 whose principles are good, and bring on religion 
 the reproach of all the inconsistencies of those who
 
 THE LISTENER. 307 
 
 profess it ? Let the shame be to the creature, and 
 the glory to the Creator — what is good in us is His, 
 what is evil is our own. But if it be true tliat these 
 things exist, and that they are inconsistencies, shall 
 we say — shall we leave it to others to say for us — 
 that what, in the careless and the earthly-minded, we 
 should condemn as fiiults, in those who profess more 
 seriousness and devotion, we can gloss over and dis- 
 own ? It was said of one of old, that it was easier 
 to believe that drunkenness was not a vice, than that 
 he should be guilty of one. Far be from Christianity 
 the adoption of so heathenish a principle ! Rather 
 say the spot is the blacker for the brightness of the 
 surface on which it is seen — the stain the darker for 
 the purity of the garment it pollutes : it seems so, 
 and it is so. If we are ashamed of it, as well indeed 
 we may, let us efface it, clean it, wipe it out — but 
 not deny tliat it is there, or that it is what it seems. 
 Christians think not themselves, they think not each 
 other, sinless creatures. Should they desire to pass 
 their alloy upon the world as pure and proven gold ? 
 But they say it is for the honour of religion, not 
 their own, that they are so tenacious of the exposure 
 of their faults. We are glad if it is so — but we would 
 rather have this pious tenaciousness exercised in 
 correcting the evils than in glossing them over, in 
 lamenting than in denying them. So much, by the 
 way, in reply to some remarks that have been made 
 to us. 
 
 We hear of the beauty of Consistenev ; we repeat
 
 30 8 THE LISTENER. 
 
 perpetually, because we hear it, tliat nothing Is so 
 beautiful as a consistent character ; but what does it 
 mean ? The sinner's consistency, alas ! is sin — the 
 false heart's consistency is falsehood- — the villain's 
 consistency is villany ; but is this beautiful ? It is 
 a very common argximent in the world, or rather a 
 phrase that supplies the place of one, that it does not 
 signify what religion a man professes, or what faith 
 he holds, provided his conduct be consistent. Con- 
 sistent with what ? His errors ? His perversions ? 
 That, alas ! it is but too sure to be. The man who 
 believes there is no God, is consistent when he 
 breaks his laws, and sets his asserted power at de- 
 fiance. The man who believes that there is no 
 eternity, is consistent when he devotes himself to 
 the things of time and sense ; and is but the more 
 consistent as he becomes more sensual. He whose 
 perverted judgment and corrupted taste prefer the 
 pleasures of sni to the peace of holiness, the interests 
 of time to the bliss of eternity, is consistent when 
 he takes the one and leaves the other — is consistent 
 when he commits sin, is consistent when he defends 
 it. The basest character on earth may be a consistent 
 one. There cannot, therefore, be a more dangerous 
 maxim ; and I name it the rather as my young 
 friends will hear it frequently repeated by the wise 
 and prudent of the world. 
 
 A consistent character must certainly be that, 
 which, having chosen the object of existence, em-- 
 ploys the powers of existence to the attaimnent of
 
 THE LISTENER. 309 
 
 that object : and in each particular, liaving formed 
 a purpose, to do and to be wliat will promote that 
 purpose. The inconsistency of the greater nuniljer 
 of persons arises from their having conscience enough, 
 and moral sense enough, to perceive m hat their ob- 
 iect ought to be, and to determine their choice for 
 good ; while they have neither sense enough, nor 
 virtue enough, to pui-sue it : and so the means and 
 the end are for ever at variance, and the strangest 
 inconsistencies are the result. 
 
 The world in general — I mean the decent and 
 moral part of it, for the outlawed rioter in mischief 
 we must leave to the full credit of his consistency — 
 confess an end and object of existence which they 
 do not pursue. We thus act exactly like a traveller, 
 who, wishing to go to Greenwich, should, on reading 
 the way-posts that direct him thither, turn oft" to the 
 other hand, and proceed to London ; of such a tra- 
 veller we should say that either he could not read,, 
 or that he wanted understanding, or that he did not 
 really desire to go to the place he professed to set 
 out for. And so we may say in effect of all the 
 inconsistencies of life and conduct — they arise in 
 ignorance, raisjudgment, or dishonesty. 
 • I will illustrate my meaning by a few examples — ^ 
 not of the most important, perhaps, for it is not in 
 great matters that we make the most mistakes — it 
 is the familiar occurrences of daily life that make up 
 the character and conduct of persons in ordinary 
 life. When symptoms of physical disorder are to be
 
 310 THE LISTENER. 
 
 cured, the cause of those symptoms must be disco- 
 vered and removed : so, when discrepancies of conduct 
 and inconsistency of character are to be corrected, 
 the better way is to proceed at once to the source 
 whence they spring : we all know by experience 
 how difficult it is to correct bad habits ; perhaps 
 the difficulty would be lessened, if, instead of at- 
 tempting to cure the manifestation of the evil, we 
 were to descend into our hearts, see whence it arises, 
 and subdue the disposition there. The best method 
 of correcting our inconsistencies is to become better 
 acquainted with our own hearts, whence all our 
 conduct is derived. If it is with the conduct of 
 others we have to do, whether to judge or to corror^t, 
 the success of our endeavours, and the justness of 
 our judgment, mainly depend on looking beyond the 
 apparent inconsistency to its cause, and ascribing it 
 to its right source. Want of information, or a bad 
 judgment, claim very unequal censure, as well as a 
 very different remedy, from that which is due to 
 dishonesty of purpose. 
 
 I know a young person to whom circumstances 
 have given considerable control in her parents' house 
 • — she devotes time and talents to the management 
 and education of her sisters, and says she has no- 
 thing so much at heart as their happiness and im- 
 provement. To effect this, she keeps the house in 
 perpetual contention — she makes their wishes and 
 tastes yield in every thing to hers — she finds fault 
 with every thing they do, complains of every thing
 
 THE LISTENER. 311 
 
 that happens to interrupt her ijurposes, condemns 
 every thing that does not exactly, meet lier ideas — 
 reasonable or unreasonable, nothing must take place 
 in the family that does not exactly suit her conve- 
 nience, and what does suit her convenience must be 
 done at any rate. One of two things is the case — - 
 either she is dishonest in her purpose, and, while she 
 seems to devote her time and attention to her family, 
 she really desires nothing but the indulgence of her 
 own self-will ; or she wants judgment to perceive 
 that always giving herself the preference is not the 
 way to make others good and happy ; and that the 
 devotion of all her time, talents, and powers, to the 
 annoying, contradicting, and molesting every one 
 about her, is not a very consistent sort of sisterly 
 devotion. If I were not indisposed to say any thing 
 to any body above twenty years of age, I might just 
 drop a hint that there are some devoted wives, and 
 devoted mothers, and devoted mistresses, who do 
 exactly the same thing. Did this traveller never 
 mean to go to Greenwich ? Or, on arriving at the 
 way-post, and reading, " To London," did she con- 
 clude that that would bring her there ? 
 
 I know another who seems very anxious to be 
 sought and belo\(Hl by her companions in society, 
 complains perpetually that nobody cares for her 
 and every body neglects her, and she receives no 
 attention and no kindness from any one. Mean-time, 
 if she sees those people whose inattention displeases 
 her, she goes across the street to avoid meeting them :
 
 312 JHE LISTENER, 
 
 when she comes into company, she sits in dogged 
 and sullen silence ; or only speaks to de'^lare that 
 she hates all company, and is never happy but when 
 she is alone, or to say something rude or imperti- 
 nent to the society in general, or to some one in 
 particular : if any offer of kindness is made her, she 
 refuses it ; if any particular attention is paid her, 
 she attributes it to some sinister motive. Now, as 
 I am satisfied from this lady's uneasiness that she 
 is honest in her wish to be beloved, she must either, 
 like the last traveller, think the way to reach her 
 destination is to turn out of the road, or she must be 
 unable to read, and really believe that L-o-n-d-o-n 
 spells Greenwich — that is, she must think the way 
 to be desired and sought in society, is to be very 
 disagreeable, or that d-i-s-1-i-k-e-d really spells be- 
 loved, and so, with honest ignorance, takes the way 
 to it. 
 
 A third I could point out, who desires, as I un- 
 derstand from herself, to improve her talents and 
 inform her mind, that, when the transient beauty of 
 her person shall have passed, and the zest of exte- 
 rior amusements shall have passed, she may not be 
 to others as a thing that has lost its value, to herself 
 as one that has expended her possessions. But with 
 ample powers and all means at command, she stands 
 for an hour together at the fire-place, watching the 
 reflection of the lustres — she begins to yawn at nine 
 o'clock, and goes to bed at ten — is up, but not dress- 
 ed, about the same hour in the morning — takes half
 
 THE LISTENER. 3l3 
 
 an hour to put on lior bonnet when slio goes out, 
 and another half hour, when she comes home, to take 
 it off again ; regretting, the while, that she has not 
 time to improve herself. Wlien any one about heF 
 is conversing upon serious and rational topics, she 
 throws herself on the sofa and shuts her eyes, be- 
 cause she does not understand such things ; forget- 
 ful that listening she might learn. When asked her 
 opinion, or in any way addressed upon any subject, 
 she says she is not used to converse of such things, 
 she is not used to express herself, she wishes she 
 were more clever ; forgetting again it is difficult to 
 be used to a thing one is determined not to attempt. 
 She chooses her companions among those who are 
 young, frivolous, and ignorant, because with those 
 who are informed and sensible she feels herself 
 inferior and embarrassed. In her studies and pur- 
 suits, especially reading, she does the same — she 
 takes the lightest, the most frivolous, and the worsts 
 because she cannot understand more solid works : 
 she wishes she could understand them — then she 
 should be very fond of reading. Now, really, I am 
 at a loss how to class the inconsistency of this young 
 lady — I am inclined to think she is not honest in her 
 purpose — I believe, that in her heart, she likes Lon- 
 don better than Greenwich — would rather be idle 
 and frivolous, than a sensible, rational, and culti- 
 vated woman. 
 
 To ascend to higher matters, which yet affect ouf 
 conduct in the smallest, there is one great source of
 
 314 TUE LISTENER. 
 
 inconsistency in the world, of which the features are 
 too broad to be mistaken, of whicli the compass is 
 wide enough to include every age, and character, 
 and capability of human kind — the inconsistency of 
 those who call themselves Christians and are not — 
 who are travelling thither where they do not desire 
 to arrive — who are going, as they say, to immor- 
 tality, but neitlier know the road, nor ask it, nor will 
 listen if you tell them : nay, there is not an obstacle 
 that may oppose their progress, but they put it on 
 their path — there is not a temptation that may divert 
 them from it, but they hasten to turn after it ; what- 
 ever reminds them of their pretended destination is 
 mournful to them, whatever brings them nearer to 
 it, is frightful. They allow the truth of every thing, 
 and feel the importance of nothing — they admit the 
 authority of Scripture, and deny every thing it con- 
 tains — they call God their Father, and would be 
 ashamed to bear the characters of his children — they 
 acknowledge a Deity and an eternity, and live as if 
 there were none. I need not designate them fur- 
 ther. What consistency can be expected from such 
 as these? 
 
 If, then, we would be consistent, we must first 
 see that our object and our means of pursuing it, our 
 path and our destination, are agreed. If they are 
 not, let us examine where the evil is. Do we want 
 information, do we want judgment, or do we want 
 honesty ? One or the other we want assuredly. 
 
 There is a character consistent in beauty, in holi-
 
 TIIIC U.STEXKK. 315 
 
 ness, in perfection. The features of it have been 
 sketched, distinct though scpanite, in the records of 
 eternal truth — the whole have been conjoined, em- 
 bodied, realised, in the person of the incarnate Deity. 
 Conformity to tliis standard is perfection — every 
 departure from it is an imperfection — here perfect 
 consistency would be perfect holiness. It is a stand- 
 ard no man has attained — yet it is the only one, con- 
 sistency with which is desirable. Wlien we seek 
 consistency for ourselves, this ought to be what we 
 mean — when we desire consistency in others, this 
 ought to be the rule by which we judge them. But, 
 I fear, for the most part, that is not our meaning. 
 The only lawful code of conformity is abrogated; 
 the only real standard of excellence, consistency 
 with which is beautiful, and every inconsistency with 
 which is a defect, is put out of sight ; while we make 
 to ourselves each one a standard of our own, mould- 
 ed in our own prejudices, our own habits, our own 
 peculiar taste and character ; and by this we mea- 
 sure every thing, judge every thing, and too fre- 
 quently condemn every body, for no better reason 
 than because they are not like ourselves. In great 
 things and in small things, from the important fea- 
 tures of moral rectitude to the trifling ornaments of 
 exterior propriety. Self is our standard, and all is 
 right or wrong, admired or condemned, as it agrees 
 with, or departs from, this standard, this household 
 deity, that each one has made for himself, and fa- 
 shioned to his own taste, that he may worship it.
 
 316 THE LISTENER. 
 
 CoisrsiSTENCT, therefore, a word that in the Ian? 
 guage of Christianity should mean conformity to 
 our Maker's will, has come, in common language, to 
 mean little else than conformity to the narrow ideas 
 of the individual who uses it.
 
 THE LISTEXER. 31 7 
 
 No. XXII. 
 A FABLE. 
 
 Q wad some power the giftie gie us, 
 To see oursells as others see us, 
 It wad firae mony a blunder free us 
 
 And foolish notion! 
 
 Bdrns. 
 
 The searcher after liidden wealth has sometimes 
 found a- treasure scarcely less valuable, though not 
 the same as that he looked for. The blighted au- 
 tumn leaf encloses a bud of future promise ; and the 
 hour of disappointment is the birth-time, not sel- 
 dom, of a hope more fair than that which it extin- 
 guishes. Even so do the defeats of our baffled wis- 
 dom bequeath to us a jewel of no common price — a 
 lesson of humility, self-knowledge, and forbearance. 
 
 Such was my reflection, as, in the closing sen- 
 tence of my last paper, I alluded to that self-esteem 
 which makes to itself an idol of the things tliat are 
 its own, and desires to conform to them tlie things 
 of others. And I determined to make it the subject, 
 of future admonition to those who even now are
 
 318 THE LISTENER. 
 
 setting out on the passage of life, with these Penates 
 in their bosoms ; prepared to immolate to them every 
 thing that is most lovely, most excellent, and most 
 generous in human intercourse — justness, forbear- 
 ance, concord, good-humour, kindness, liberality, 
 affection, harmony, and peace. 
 
 An opposition of interests, each one's selfishness 
 taking arms in defence of its own, is undoubtedly 
 the source of much of the misery of life, and much 
 of the contention with which it is distracted. But 
 if we observe the various sources of disunion and 
 disagreement that break the peace of families and 
 the harmony of society, we shall find that opposing 
 interests are not the only, nor perhaps the most 
 frequent cause. We see the members of a family 
 teasing, contradicting, and annoying one another 
 perpetually, when all their real interests are in 
 common : we see the members of society traduc- 
 ing, despising, and maligning one another, when it is 
 the interest of all to live in sociability and peace. 
 One very fruitful source of these disorders — but I 
 would believe, not one that is irremediable, since a 
 better knowledge and better government of our own 
 hearts might surely correct it — is that self-esteem 
 of which I spoke ; that making of our own ideas the 
 standard of all excellence. Hear a fable : — 
 
 The beasts of the earth, and the birds of the air, 
 and the fishes of the sea, were living once — I do 
 not think it was in Noah's ark — in peaceful com-
 
 TlIK LISTENER. 319 
 
 nuinity together; tliat is, tliey might have been 
 peaceful if they would ; being all fully provided, 
 and secure in possession of their own. 
 
 But peace, it appears, was not to their mind. 
 The Rein-deer, taking a walk one day to refresh 
 himself, and being accustomed then, as now, to walk 
 upon four legs, met with a Heron, who, as every 
 one knows, walks upon two. " Yonder is a fine 
 bird," said the Rein-deer to himself, " but the fellow 
 is a blockhead ; Avhy does he not go on as many 
 logs as I do ? — I'll e'en knock him over, to conAance 
 him of his mistake ;" and forthwith he ran his 
 sturdy sides against the slender limbs of the bird ; 
 and if he did not break them, it was no fault of 
 his. 
 
 A frolicsome Colt, playing his morning gambols, 
 happened to come up to a young Bullock, entangled 
 by his horns in a thicket, who, with groans and 
 cries, solicited assistance to release him. "By no 
 means," said the Colt; "it is your own fault. What 
 need you be wearing those things upon your head 
 — don't you see that we have none ?" and kicking 
 up his hoofs in the poor captive's face, he galloped 
 off. 
 
 A Magpie, washing to improve the society of the 
 neighbourliood, sent an invitation to some Black- 
 birds, to dine with him in a certain wheat-field, 
 where, at much expense no doubt, a dinner of newly 
 sown corn had been provided. The Blackbirds 
 came in a full suit of black — the Magpie was dress-
 
 320 THE LISTENER. 
 
 etl, as usual, in black and white ; which, when the 
 Blackbirds saw, great whisperings began amongst 
 them. What a vulgar fellow ! — how monstrously 
 unfasliionable ! — could he not see that every body 
 wears black ? — they wished they had not come ; 
 they gulped down the corn, half-choking with ill- 
 humour ; two of them died that night of indiges- 
 tion ; the rest would ever after endure the pangs of 
 hunger rather than alight in a field where a Magpie 
 was feeding. 
 
 A certain Crab, cast upon the shore by the tide, 
 and eager to regain his native element, was walk- 
 ing, as was his custom, sideways to the water's 
 edge. By the way he met Avith an Eel in the same 
 predicament ; but he, like most other people, tra- 
 velled with his head foremost. " I do not see, sir," 
 said the Eel, " why you should refuse to conform to 
 the customs of the world and the habits of society — 
 therefore I will thank you to turn about, and walk 
 like other people." The Crab maintained his right 
 to walk as he pleased, more especially, as it was the 
 only way he could walk. The Eel persisted. A 
 quarrel ensued — mean-time, tlie tide went out, and 
 neither party, backward or forward, being able to 
 reach the water, they were left to die of thirst upon 
 the sand. 
 
 " Hear those creatures," said a pretty little Thrush, 
 who, just finishing his morning song, had alighted 
 ,pn a bough that overhung a bee-hive — " would voa 
 believe they take that noise for music ? The taste*-*
 
 THE LISTENER. 321 
 
 less creatures ! and pretend to have a concert ! How 
 I hate pretension ! I Avill shame them into silence ;" 
 — and forthwith the Thrush resumed his hjudest 
 song. The Bees, liowever, happening to have more 
 taste for honey than music, a concert not in their 
 thoughts, Avent buzzing on, totally unconscious of 
 the rivalship they had excited. The Thrush grew 
 ■vvroth — they were actually trying to out-sing him — 
 that was not to be borne — and down he pounced 
 upon the Bees, as one by one they soared above 
 their hive, and struck them to the ground with his 
 beak: they trying in vain to pierce his close feathers 
 with their sting — though some historians arc of 
 opinion he did not escape altogether unhurt. 
 
 " Pray, sir," said a Goat to a Sheep, as they 
 chanced to meet one day upon a narrow path of 
 a decliAdty, but just wide enough to allow them 
 to pass — " may 1 take the liberty of asking why 
 vou wear your hair curled, Avhile I wear mine 
 straight ?" The Sheep, not remarkable for his 
 reasoning powers, had no particular reason to give 
 — it answered his purpose, and, if each was content 
 with his own, there was no need of argument. The 
 Goat thought otherwise — people ought to have 
 reasons for what they do, and be able to explain 
 the grounds of their conduct — and if thev have not 
 brains enough to discrimuiate, they ought to follow 
 the example of those that have — therefore, to con- 
 vince him that there was a reason why long loose 
 hair was more advantageous than close cuxlcd avooI, 
 
 VOL. I. 3C
 
 322 THE LISTENER, 
 
 he should take the liberty of putting his horns into 
 his fleece, and rolling him down the steep; which, 
 if he had worn hair, he could not so easily have 
 done. 
 
 It happened that a beautiful little Spaniel fox-med 
 a strong attachment to a certain Rabbit he was in 
 the habit of meeting in the beds of his master's 
 garden. The Rabbit felt extremely much flattered 
 by the jjrotection of so superior a person ; but there 
 was one subject of difterence between them that was 
 not easily to be adjusted. The Spaniel assured the 
 Rabbit it was excessively vulgar to live upon vege- 
 table diet — no rational creature did so — it was food 
 only for brutes — he hoped, now he had chosen the 
 Rabbit for his friend, he woidd try to acquh-e more 
 polite habits. The Rabbit modestly suggested that, 
 besides that he had no teeth to masticate animal 
 food, and possibly no organ to digest it, he did not 
 exactly know how he was to get it. The Spaniel 
 generously promised to remove the latter difticulty, 
 by sharing with him his own food — as to his teeth, 
 if he could not masticate the meat, he might swallow 
 it wliole ; it would save appearances, and nobody 
 would know whether he digested it or not. The 
 ambitious Rabbit, eager to place himself on an 
 equality with his friend, and willing to imitate him 
 in every thing, most assiduously swallowed the meat 
 the Spaniel brought him ; and, if he did not enjoy 
 his meals to the full as nmch as when he fed on 
 cabbages and parsley, the idea of gi'owing more
 
 TTIE LISTENER. 323 
 
 gonteel quite reconciled him to the privation. But, 
 alas ! nature prevailed, and poor Bunny died. 
 
 A Fly, who had been born and bred among his 
 kindred, behind a drawing-room curtain, determined 
 to go forth and see the world, and make himself bet- 
 ter acquainted with the beings that inhabit it. On 
 his return, he was observed to be morose and me- 
 lancholy — he shut himself up in the creek of the ceil- 
 ing, and could scarcely be persuaded to go out in 
 search of necessary food. His friends, greatly con- 
 cerned, questioned him upon the cause of this sad- 
 ness ; to which he only answered, that what he had 
 seen of the world had so disgusted him, he was 
 determined to have no more intercourse with it — 
 he would rather stay in his creek and starve. His 
 companions, who had seen nothing in society so 
 much amiss, except a few Spiders, continued to ex- 
 press their surprise ; till the poor fly explained, that 
 during his recent intercourse Avith the world, he 
 observed that the animals had the folly to wear 
 their eyes in the front of their heads — of all the 
 living creatures he had become acquainted >\-ith, 
 there was not one, besides themselves, that could 
 see behind him — he would sooner starve in solitude 
 than associate with creatures so senseless ; and he 
 is supposed to have died of cold soon after ; because 
 he would not go to the hearth to warm himself, lest 
 he should meet a creature without the eves at the 
 back of his head. 
 
 My readers, I am sure, must feel much afiected
 
 324 THE LISTENER. 
 
 at the mournful state of society in the animal crea- 
 tion at that period ; at sorrows that overwhelmed 
 alike the innocent and the guilty. I can imagine 
 that nothing, wliile they read it, stays then* tears 
 from falling, but the hope that such a state of so- 
 ciety never has existed. I cannot certainly pledge 
 myself to the liistorical truth of what I have related 
 — though it appears to me quite as probable as many 
 things that are believed — but I can assui-e you, I 
 have seen something very like it, in the state of 
 society among certain young ladies and gentlemen 
 of my acquaintance in various parts of the habitable 
 eartli : I say you'tig ones, more especially — because 
 it is an evil the experience and self-knowledge of 
 increasing years tend, in some degree, to correct. 
 But habit not unfrequently perpetuates what began 
 in folly ; whicli makes it tlie more necessary that 
 early habits — habits to which ignorance and inex- 
 perience mostly tend — should be watched, and, as 
 far as may be, restrained ; lest, confirmed by repe- 
 tition, and become insensible to ourselves, the fault 
 remain when the excuse is gone. 
 
 Young persons, ignorant of the world and mostly 
 ignorant of themselves, receive from their parents 
 or their governess, or from tlie combined circum- 
 stances of their education, a certain set of opinions, 
 ideas, and habits — very good ones, perhaps; but 
 confined, as the sphere in which they are collected. 
 This set of notions is made into a standard of excel- 
 lence, difl'cring materially accortling to the dilier-
 
 THE LISTENER. 325 
 
 ence of education — but every girl thinks her own 
 standard tlie best, or rather the oidv one, for she 
 knows no other ; and she comes into society fully 
 prepai'od to measure all and everything by her own 
 set of notions. If to discover her mistake and cor- 
 rect it were the only results, it would be very well 
 — the best and easiest remedy for a temporary evil 
 — but this is not all. Censoriousness, contempt, 
 impertinence, ill-humour, contention, and injustice, 
 are the abundant progeny ; and self-esteem is the 
 parent of them all. Too high an opinion of our- 
 selves, and too low an opinion of others, is the cer- 
 tain position assumed by a mind so conditioned — 
 the very worst that can possibly be maintained, for 
 all that is most lovely and valuable in the human 
 character. 
 
 I observe a young woman who has been brought 
 np in a London school — she has been taught to do 
 every thing by the rvdes of politeness — she walks by 
 rule, and talks by rule, and eats by rule, and thinks 
 by rule — and she is withal a very polite young per- 
 son. She goes into the country and meets persons 
 who have had an education quite as good as her 
 owai ; but they do everything as nature suggests, 
 with the careless freedom of home and a country 
 life. She decides at once that they are coarse 
 and rude. She treats them with contempt, speaks 
 of them with ridicule, and decides that it would be 
 an outrage upon her good breeding to become their 
 companion and friend. She is mistaken — they are
 
 326 THE LISTENER. 
 
 neither coarse nor rude — there is more elegance 
 very frequently in their ease than in her mannerism 
 — more grace in then" carelessness than her high 
 polish. They have feelings as refined, and minds 
 as vrell cultivated, as her own. And these too re- 
 turn her the compliment of aversion — ^they call her 
 fine, affected, artificial — they think she can have no 
 simplicity of feeling, or honesty of heart, under an 
 exterior that betrays so much design. They are 
 unjust too — she is not affecting any thing or design- 
 ing any thing — her heart is as open and as true as 
 theirs — but artificial refinement has, by education 
 and habit, become natural to her. 
 
 Again, a girl has been brought up abroad — under 
 skies where lighter spirits, and less thoughtful minds, 
 and less cautious temperaments, give to the manners 
 more ease and cheerfulness : and the feelings, from 
 their very want of depth, acquire an appearance of 
 more warmth and vivacity. She goes into society 
 in England, where more thought, more feeling, more 
 moral sensibility, encumber the mind whose intrinsic 
 value they enhance, and give to the manners a de- 
 gree of restraint, reserve, and heaviness. Now, if 
 this young lady says these manners are disagreeable 
 to her, she is not used to them, and cannot enjoy 
 such society, that is very well, and she may be free 
 to avoid it. But if she affects contempt for her 
 countrywomen, exults in her own superiority, fan- 
 cies they are admiring in her what she desires in 
 them ; or believes that they are not ten times more
 
 THE LISTENER. 327 
 
 agi*eoal)lc to each other than she is to them, she is 
 mistaken. They have turned the glass; and at the 
 A'ery moment she is rising in her own esteem, on the 
 comparison, they are seeing her bold, flippant, heart- 
 less, imprudent, mdelicate : not at all more just than 
 herself, they attribute to character what is mere 
 manner, or do not make allowance for circumstances 
 in their estimate of character. Both parties seeing 
 tliemselves in the other's glass, had gone away hum- 
 bled, perhaps ; but having looked only in their own, 
 exalted in their own esteem, they have separated 
 highly pleased with nothing but themselves. 
 
 Here are persons brought together by providen- 
 tial circumstances — they might be the happier for 
 each other's friendship ; the better for the counter- 
 balance of each other's peculiarities ; mutually im- 
 proved by the very opposition of character ; but 
 they despise each other when they meet — cold civi- 
 lity and haughty distance ill conceal their avei'sion ; 
 when apart, they ridicule and traduce each other 
 without mercy. 
 
 The woman, who, with considerable natural powers, 
 has been placed in a situation to cultivate them highly ; 
 ■whose taste for literary pursuits, never checked by 
 the claims of domestic duty, or encumbered with at- 
 tention to the homely necessities of existence, revels 
 in the full delight of intellectual emi)loyment, and, 
 while she indulges her own inclination, fulfils the 
 wishes of those she loves, and gratifies by her im- 
 provements and talents all around her — comes in
 
 328 
 
 THE LISTENER, 
 
 contact with some quiet, domestic girl, whom smaller 
 powers, or smaller means, or different example, has 
 consigned to other occupations, and other pleasures : 
 her business is the direction of household affairs, 
 and the plying of the indefatigable needle ; her 
 amusements, the weeding of her garden, the feeding 
 of her canaries, or a five miles' walk in the mud : the 
 comfort no less of those about her, the cheerful and 
 useful assistant of her parents, the prudent adviser 
 of her inferiors, and the affectionate friend of her 
 equals. What should these be to each other but 
 objects of mutual kindness and admiration, each ful- 
 filling her own destiny, improving the peculiar 
 talents committed to her charge, and contributing 
 to the happiness of those around her ? And what are 
 they to each other? The clever and accomplished 
 woman turns her back on the useful, domestic friend ; 
 repels her friendly intimacy ; wonders she wastes 
 her time in work when she might be improving her 
 mind ; laughs at her amusements ; despises her plain 
 good sense; and, when not restrained by the civili- 
 ties of society, treats her with disregard and imper- 
 tinence. The other does not remain her debtor in 
 this reckoning of mutual depreciation. She thinks 
 women should keep their spliere — better be a good 
 housewife than set up for a great genius — it is waste 
 of time to be always reading — why does not her 
 friend do something that is useful ? She does not 
 approve of learned ladies — she cannot bear hlue-stock- 
 inys — it is only for display women learn so much —
 
 TlIE LISTEXER. 329 
 
 it is not consistent with feminine modesty to be so 
 much distinu-uished fur talents and attainments. 
 
 To speak more generally of what I have thus 
 evidenced by a few examples : Young people think 
 every one who does not know what they happen to 
 have been taught, is ignorant — every thing they 
 happen not to have learned, is useless — every thing 
 that is not the custom of the society in which they 
 happen to have moved, is vulgar — every one who 
 does not like what they happen to like, has bad taste 
 — every one Avho does not feel what hap[)ens to affect 
 them, has no heart — every one who is not employed 
 as they are, wastes his time — every one who does 
 not conform to their estimate of right, has no con- 
 science — every one whose opinions are not like their 
 own, or their mannna's, or their governess's, is mis- 
 taken. If it ended here, we might live very happily 
 in our self-esteem ; and society, if not in unanimity, 
 might remain in peace. But it does not. We are 
 never contented in our fancied superiority — offence 
 is taken where it is not given, or given where it is 
 not provoked — kindness is coldly withheld, or rudely 
 repulsed, or ungratefully repaid with ridicule — pain 
 is inflicted unnecessarily, where all have of necessity 
 enough — innocent feelings are mortified, and inno- 
 cent enjoyments marred. Instead of being, as we 
 ought to be, the variously wrought parts of one pro- 
 vidential whole, to support, to counterbalance, to 
 assist each other ; to communicate to others what we 
 hold in pre-eminence ; to avail ourselves in others
 
 330 THE LISTEXER. 
 
 of what in us is deficient : it seems to be the very 
 essence of our existence to depreciate and despise 
 others ; while our minds become at once narrowed 
 and inflated by "admiration of our own supposed 
 advantage ground.
 
 THE LISTENER. 331 
 
 No. XXIII. 
 
 EGOTISM. 
 
 Commvinement le plus simple et le plus sur est de ne jamais parler 
 de sol ni en Men ni en mal sans besoin : I'amour propre ainie niicux 
 les injures que I'oublie et le silence. 
 
 Fenelon. 
 
 I NEVER pass by without attention any suggestion 
 given verbally by a friend, or conveyed anonymously 
 by letter. To such hints I am indebted for many 
 of the subjects of my papers — sometimes by direct 
 request, sometimes by the accidental expression of 
 a wish that things were not so : and sometimes in 
 company with my younger friends, I venture to con- 
 fess my subjects are stolen from observation of habits 
 that to themselves I am not at liberty to remark : 
 and when this happens, when some young lady finds 
 in my pages her own words, or her own follies, I 
 am persuaded she reads them smiling, and without 
 offence — even as if we told her her ribbon was un- 
 tied, or her feathers about to blow away ; it had 
 escaped her observation — she cannot see herself as 
 others see her — the mirror once presented, she can 
 judge of the justness of my remarks.
 
 332 THE LISTENER. 
 
 And as, in the luibbub of this noisy world, there 
 is much passing that I may not hear, I am happy to 
 let others listen, and insert with pleasure the follow- 
 ing paper, which lias my entire ajjprobation. If I 
 add to it some observations of my own, it is not by 
 way of amendment, nor because I am determined 
 to let no one else have all the say. But, alas ! my 
 young critics are so difficult to please — if the List- 
 ener happens to be shorter than usual, they say it is 
 a fraud — if it happens to be more grave than usual, 
 they say it is stupid — if any one but myself has list- 
 ened, they say I am asleep — if it relates to men and 
 women, forgetting they shall sometimes be men and 
 women themselves, they say it is of no use to them. 
 Wherefore, in the attempt, never in the records of 
 humanity successful, at pleasing every body, I am 
 often induced to spoil the composition of my friends, 
 by tacking it to something of my own. 
 
 The following paper, on a subject it has long been 
 my intention to touch upon, needs no apology for 
 its introduction : it refers to habits that may as well 
 be the habits of youth as of age — indeed, if they 
 exist in after life, it is almost certain to be because 
 they have been indulged at its commencement. 
 
 ILvs it ever happened to any but myself, to listen 
 to I, I, I, in conversation, till, wearied with the mo- 
 notony of the sound, I was fain to quarrel with the
 
 THE LISTEXER. 333 
 
 useful little word, and almost wli^h I coidd portray 
 its hydra head, and present it in a mirror to my 
 oracles, that they might turn away disgusted for 
 ever with its hideous form ? If so — such will have 
 sympathy with my tale. 
 
 I was the companion, one morning, of an invalid 
 young lady, of rather respectable mind, and who 
 was sufficiently recovered to take an interesting part 
 in conversation, when her medical attendant was an- 
 nounced. A young gentleman entered, whom I judg- 
 ed to be about twenty-five : liis pleasing appearance 
 and studious countenance attracted my attention; 
 and after the few necessary medical inquiries were 
 dismissed, I was alert on his introduction of topics 
 more general. I listened for some time even more 
 than willingly, and from the wisdom of his remarks, 
 I should certainly have given him credence for a 
 man of reading and of thought, and as such, should 
 have judged he gave the preference to literary so- 
 ciety, Avithout the unceasing assurances of these facts 
 from his own lips. But to convey to my readers 
 a clearer idea of my disquiet, I will give the outline 
 of the closing part of the conversation, assuring them, 
 however, that the preceding discussion did more 
 credit to the doctor's pretensions. 
 
 Dr E. — Have you seen that ponderous work of 
 Mr S. ? I sat up till past midnight reading it. It is 
 a most delightful thing ; and 1 can never lay aside a 
 book in the midst, when I am interested. 
 
 Miss H. — I have not seen it, but from youi' re-
 
 334 THE LISTENER. 
 
 commendation shall be glad to do so, particularly as 
 in this country place I can find but little society. 
 
 Dr E. — True — literary society is the charm of 
 life : I mingle with no other (excepting indeed pro- 
 fessionally) ; and then [introducing a splendid list of 
 literati] with such men as these, one can find mental 
 reciprocity : and I have the honour of their intimate 
 acquaintance. 
 
 Miss H — I have read the works of C and 
 
 of S you have just named. What kind of man 
 
 is C in the parlour? 
 
 Dr R. — O, quite charming ! I was very intimate 
 with him — he exceedingly regretted my leaving 
 town — I must stay and dine with liini whenever he 
 
 got hold of me ; and then B and F , they 
 
 were my inseparable associates : after such compa- 
 nions I can scarcely have j^atience to listen to com- 
 mon talkers. 
 
 ISIiss H. — It is well for those who cannot find 
 society to their taste, that there are books. 
 
 Db R. — I read constantly : I am quite a de- 
 vourer of books, all books that I can obtain ; I can 
 pick something good out of all ; but my time is very 
 precious this morning, and my visit has ah-eady been 
 extended ; but when I get into an interesting con- 
 versation, I, I And, thought I, as he made his 
 
 retiring bow, with the interesting subject self, 
 doctor, you are not soon weary. 
 
 I will detail one other demand on my patience 
 from this ill-favoured propensity ; and I would that
 
 THE LISTENER. 335 
 
 these were isolated passages in my listening history : 
 but perhaps I may have been peculiarly consoeiated 
 with egotists. At all events, I know I am a great 
 favourite with them, and that, whatever they may 
 say about literary conversation, they always prefer 
 my attentive ear. 
 
 I took up my abode for some time with a lady, 
 whose habits of benevolence were extensive, and of 
 whose true philanthropy of heart I had heard much. 
 I expected to follow her to the alms-house, the hos- 
 ])ital, and the garret ; and I was not disappointed ; 
 thitlicr she went, and for purposes the kindest and 
 most noble ; she relieved their pressing wants, minis- 
 tered consolation in the kindest tone, and gave reli- 
 gious instruction wherever needed. But then she 
 kept a strict calendar of all these pious visitings, 
 and that, too, for the entertainment of her company : 
 all were called upon to hear the history of the ap- 
 l)alling scenes she had Tvitnessed, the tears of grati- 
 tude that had fallen on her hands, the prayers, half 
 articulate, that had been offered for her by the dying ; 
 and to hear her attestations of disregard to the oppo- 
 sition she had to encounter in these her labours of 
 love. Who, with such an ap])cal, could withhold 
 their commendation ? I therefore, of course, as I 
 listened again and again to the same tale to different 
 auditors, heard many pretty complimentary speeches 
 about magnanimity, &c. ; and getting somewhat 
 weary, I drew nearer to the lady's guests, till I 
 actually thought I heard from one (he was a clergy-
 
 338 THE LISTENER. 
 
 an, I believe) an inward -whisper, that he would 
 like to refer his friend to the first four verses of the 
 sixth chapter of ISIatthew, but that it would be un- 
 polite. If my listening powers were too acute when 
 I heard this, let me now lay aside my title, and, 
 turning monitor at once, assure my young friends, 
 if they would have their conversation listened to 
 with pleasure, they must be economists with self, as 
 their subject. 
 
 AA'THEMIS. 
 
 There is one point on which God and man are 
 agreed — their hatred of Selfishness : with this only 
 difference, that God hates it every where, and man 
 hates it every where but in himself. There he feels 
 it not, knows it not, and never would discover it, 
 did not the prominence of the same quality in others 
 come in perpetual and painful collision with it in 
 him : and many a hard rub, and many a rude knock, 
 must his self-love suflfer, before he discovers what 
 part of him it is that has been wounded. Amid the 
 thousand forms that Self assumes, in its influence 
 upon our thoughts, and words, and deeds, the least 
 harmful it may be, but certainly not the least of- 
 fensive, is that in which it affects our conversation. 
 We have indeed, like Anthemis, listened to the I, I, I, 
 till we have thought it the worst-sounding letter of 
 all the English alphabet ; only halting, in our opin- 
 ion, between it and its compound companion, the
 
 THE LISTENER. 337 
 
 my, my, my, with which it rings in everlasting 
 clianges. 
 
 On behalf of the very young, we certainly have it 
 to plead, that they know very little of any thing hut 
 what is iu some sense their own. If they talk of 
 persons, it must be their parents, their brothers and 
 sisters, because they are the only people they know 
 — if they talk of any body's affairs, it must be their 
 own, because they are acquainted with no other — if 
 of events, it must be what happens to themselves, 
 for they hear nothing of what happens to any body 
 else. As soon, tlierefore, as children begin to con- 
 verse, it is most likely to be about themselves, or 
 something that belongs to them ; and to the rapid 
 growing of this unwatched habit, may probably be 
 attributed the ridiculous and offensive egotism of 
 many persons in conversation, who, in conduct, prove 
 that their feelings and affections are by no means 
 self-engrossed. But the more indigenous this un- 
 sightly weed, the more need is there to prevent its 
 growth. It has many varieties — the leaf is not al- 
 ways of the same shape, nor the flower of the same 
 colour — but they are all of one genus ; and our read- 
 ers, who are by this time, we trust, most excellent 
 botanists, will have no difficulty in detecting them, 
 however much affected by the soil they grow in. 
 Tlie /'.<f and mys a lady exhibits in conversation, 
 will bear such analogy to her character as the wares 
 on the stall of the Bazar bear to the trade of the 
 vender. Or, if she have a great deal of what is 
 
 A'OL. I. Y
 
 338 THK LISTENER. 
 
 called tact, she will perhaps vary the article accord- 
 ing to the demands of the market. In fashionable 
 life it will be mi/ cousin Sir Ralph, mi/ father the 
 Earl, and my great-uncle the Duke — the living 
 relatives and the departed fathers, the halls of her 
 family, their rent-rolls, or their graves, will afford 
 abundant etalage for any conversation she may have 
 to furnish out. Among those who, ha\'ing gotten 
 into the world they know not how, are determined 
 it shall at least be known they are there, it is my 
 houses, my servants, my park, my gardens — or if the 
 lady be too young to claim on her own behalf, my 
 father's houses, &c. &c. will answer all the purpose. 
 But happily for the supply of this sort of talk, rank 
 and wealth, though very useful, are not necessary to 
 it. Without any ostentation whatever, but merely 
 from the habit of occupying themselves with their 
 own individuality, some will let the company choose 
 the subject ; but be it what it may. all they have to 
 say upon it is the / or the my — books, travel, sor- 
 row, sickness, nature, art — no matter — it is, / have 
 seen, / have done, / have been, / have learned, / 
 have suffered, / have known. Whatever it be to 
 others, the / is the subject to tliem ; for they tell 
 you nothing of the matter but their own concern 
 with it. For example, let the city of Naples be 
 spoken of — one will tell you Avhat is seen there, what 
 is done there, what happens there, and make her 
 reflections upon all, without naming herself; you 
 will only perceive by her knowledge and her re-
 
 THE LISTENER. 339 
 
 marks, that she has been in Naples : anotlier will 
 tell you how she came there, and why she wont, and 
 how long she staid, and what she did, and Avhat she 
 saw; and the things themselves will appear but as 
 accidents to the idea of Self. Some ladies I have 
 known, who, not content with the present display of 
 their powers, are determined to re-sell their wares 
 at second hand ; they tell you all the witty things 
 they said to somebody yesterday, and the wise re- 
 marks they made to a certain company last night — 
 / said, 1 remarked — the commodity should be valu- 
 able indeed to be thus brought to market a second 
 time. Others there are, who, under pretext of con- 
 fidence, little complimentary when sho^vn alike to 
 all, pester people with their own affairs — before you 
 have been two hours in their company, you are 
 inti-oduced to all their family, and all their family's 
 concerns — pecuniary affairs, domestic secrets, per- 
 sonal feelings — a sort of bird's-eye view of every 
 thing that belongs to them, past, present, and to 
 come : and wo to the secrets of those who may chance 
 to have been in connexion witli these egotists ! — in 
 such a view, you must needs see ten miles round. 
 
 There is an egotism of which we must speak more 
 seriously. Faults, that in the world we laugh at, 
 when they attain the dignity and purity of sacred 
 things, become matter of serious regret. I speak 
 nothing of the ostentatious display of ])ious and be- 
 nevolent exertion, too well depicted in the sketch of 
 Authemis, to need our further remark. We live at
 
 340 THE LISTENER. 
 
 a time when religion, its deepest and dearest inte- 
 rests, have become a subject of general conversation. 
 We would have it so — but we mark, with regret, 
 that Self has introduced itself here. The heartless 
 loquacity — we must say heartless, for in matters of 
 such deep interest, facility of speech bespeaks the 
 feelings light — the unshrinking jabber with which 
 people tell you their soul's history, their past impres- 
 sions and present difficulties, their doctrines and their 
 doubts, their manifestations and their experiences — 
 not in the ear of confidence, to have those doubts 
 removed, and those doctrines verified — not in the ear 
 of anxious inquiry, to communicate knowledge and 
 give encouragement — but any where, in any com- 
 pany, to any body who will listen — The, / felt, / 
 thought, / experienced — my sorrows, my consola- 
 tions. Sorrows that, if real, should blanch the cheek 
 to think upon, mercies that enwrap all heaven in 
 amazement, they will tell out as unconcernedly aa 
 the adventures of the morning — the voice falters not, 
 the colour changes not, the eye falls not. And to 
 what purpose all this personality ? To get good, or 
 do good ? By no means : but that whatever subject 
 they look upon, they always see themselves in the 
 foreground of the picture, with every minute par- 
 ticular swelled into importance, while all besides is 
 merged in indistinctness. 
 
 We may be assured there is nothing so ill-bred, 
 so enn-ayant, so little entertaining, so absolutely 
 impertinent, as this habit of talking always with
 
 THE LISTENER. 341 
 
 reference to ourselves. For every I)Otly lias a Self of 
 their own, to which they attach as much importance 
 as we to ours, and see all other matters small in the 
 comparison. The lady of rank has her castles and 
 her ancestors — they are the foreground of her pic- 
 ture — there they stood when she came into being, 
 and there they are still, in all the magnitude of near 
 perspective ; and if her estimate of their real size 
 be not corrected by experience and good sense, she 
 expects that others will see them as large as she 
 does. But that will not be so. The lady of wealth 
 has gotten her houses and lands in the foreground — 
 these are the lai'ger features of her landscape — titles 
 and the castles are seen at a smaller angle. Neither 
 lady will admire the proportions of her neighbour's 
 drawing, should they chance to discover themsehes 
 in each other's conversation. She again, whether 
 rich or poor, whose world is her own domesticity, 
 sees nothing so prominent as the aftairs of her nur- 
 sery or her household ; and perceives not that in the 
 eyes of others her children are a set of diminutives, 
 undistinguishable in the mass of humanity ; in which 
 that they ever existed, or that they cease to exist, is 
 matter of equal indifference. And she who holds her 
 mental powers in predominance, to whom the nearest 
 objects are knowledge, and reason, and science, and 
 learning — she takes disgust at the egotism of the 
 former three, and does not perceive that the magni- 
 tude she gives to her own pursuits, seems as ill pro- 
 portioned to them as theirs to her. And if there be
 
 342 THE LISTENER. 
 
 one who is disabused alike of all, of wealth, and 
 rank and learning ; and, having taken just measure 
 both of what she has and of what she has not, has 
 placed all in the obscurity of the distance; and in 
 nearness to her heart and pre-eminence in her con- 
 templation, has placed the great things of eternity — 
 right though she is, and just though her drawing be, 
 even she should be aware that others see it not 
 so. The shades that overcast her landscape, never 
 hung on theirs — the sunbeam that lights it, never 
 shone on them. In time and season she must speak 
 to them for good — but when good is not the object, 
 she, too, must be aware of offensive egotism, in 
 speaking of joys and sorrows that they never knew, 
 and exhibiting contempt for things that she despises, 
 but they cannot. 
 
 It is thus that each one attributes to the objects 
 around him, not their true and actual proportion, but 
 a magnitude proportioned to their nearness to him- 
 self. We say not that he draws ill who does so — 
 for to each one, things are important more or less, in 
 proportion to his own interest in them. But hence 
 is the mischief — we forget that every one has a Self 
 of their own, and that the constant setting forth of 
 ours, is to others preposterous, obtrusive, and ridi- 
 culous. The painter who draws a folio in the front 
 of his picture and a castle in the distance, properly 
 draws the book the larger of the two : but he must 
 be a fool if he therefore thinks the folio is the larger, 
 and expects every body else to think so too. Yet
 
 THE LISTENER. 343 
 
 nothing wiser are wo, when we suffer ourselves to be 
 perpetually pointing to ourselves, our affairs, and our 
 possessions, as if they were as interesting to others 
 as they are important to us. 
 
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