It has often been matter of surprise to me, that the important and truly philosophic individual upon whom the community has generously conferred the title of “loafer,” should frequently be so little appreciated as to receive no higher encomiums than such as he may be able to extract from a laugh or a sneer. His title is certainly one of dignity and distinction, and although many efforts have heretofore been made to change it, and substitute the more refined and aristocratic appellation of “gentleman of leisure,” he has ever, and very properly, in my opinion, indignantly resisted such invidious encroachments upon it. He has thoroughly examined its derivation, and fully investigated its import, with all of which he has no reason to find fault, and therefore remains perfectly content.
That the loafer is a meritorious personage, one fact alone should be sufficient to satisfy the most doubting: he is always emphatically a “self-made” man. By carefully studying excellent examples, which have been increasing ever since the world began, and to which we are promised many more bright additions, he seldom fails to attain a great degree of perfection. Unfortunately, our civilization prevents him from securing that renown to which he is fully able to establish a just claim, and which had generally been freely granted to his first predecessors. Should he presume to live, as it is reported of our primitive ancestors, upon husks and acorns, we would quickly pronounce him a madman, if for no other reason than because this would demonstrate that he differed from us in taste, or was blessed with a better organ of digestion! Should he diet upon raw beef, employ his naked fingers and the hollow of his hand in preference to the many table articles invented for our convenience, and now constantly used, we would soon think it an act of charity to confine him in some lunatic asylum, instead of immortalizing him as a philosopher! Civilization, so much admired for the many comforts it has brought with it, has thus resulted much more to his injury than benefit. If the dial of time was set back some two or three thousand years, he is perhaps the only one who would not lose by the change. In truth, civilization and enlightenment, though he does not deny that they have greatly benefitted others, are his most formidable enemies. It will therefore be seen how unreasonable and ungenerous are those who condemn him for doing nothing to advance either. These elements of modern society have been the great cause of inducing many to doubt his usefulness, whilst they have even impelled some seriously to question the necessity of his existence. In proof of this, I may here state, that I once had a very inquisitive and philosophic friend, now for several years gathered to his fathers, whose death, it is said, was occasioned by too close mental application in efforts to ascertain the usefulness and necessity of a well-known micher, who was constantly to be seen at the village tavern. Such, I have been assured, was the precise statement of his physician, who likewise added, that he might perhaps have survived, but for the many perplexing difficulties suggested to his mind by the old command of the apostle, “that if any would not work, neither should he eat.” This entire statement, however, was much questioned; but then, those who doubted it, invariably remarked that the doctor, having so well doctored my friend that he quickly died, had less regard for the truth than solicitude for his professional skill. This involves the whole matter in uncertainty, where I must leave it, not because I belong to the school of the Pyrrhonists, those lying doubters of old, but simply because the subject is too intricate, and might perhaps prove as fatal to me as the one before alluded to did to my worthy friend. Whatever may have been the cause of my friend’s death, we must feel sorry that, if he was engaged upon so serviceable a work, he was not permitted to complete it and present the result of his labors to the world. The information might have proved of considerable benefit to the philosophically inclined. Indeed, if he had removed all possible doubt of the usefulness of such individuals, and shown the real necessity of their existence in our society, a very difficult problem, I must own, would have been solved. Such a favorable solution, too, would have afforded much consolation to all of that class, and might even have caused a great increase of their number. Of one thing, at least, I am certain: it would have confirmed still more, if such a thing be possible, the habits of an acquaintance of mine, who resides in the same village with me. He is known to the villagers by the designation of Easy Peter, but always writes his name, whenever you can induce him to perform so much manual labor, PETER EASY. He is descended from a family whose lineage has been traced to the Welsh and Germans, of which stocks he is extremely fond of boasting. This, to me, seems simply to illustrate an excellent trait in his character, for it exhibits the respect he entertains for his forefathers. Some of the villagers, however, ascribe his boasts to vanity; declaring that he is as vain as a woman, and that if mythology had no Narcissus, he would furnish it with an excellent one. That these are much out in their reckoning, I am well persuaded; for should he become so enchanted with the loveliness of his figure as to languish to death at the fountain in which it might be reflected, they would be the first to attribute his demise to sheer laziness,—a disease, which, fortunately, is not very fatal, otherwise epidemics would never cease in the world.
Easy Peter may at all times be seen in our village. If he is not found at the old log tavern at its eastern end, you are certain to meet him at the tobacco house at its western extremity, where two smoky youths have for several years been engaged in “rolling up” the weed into form for the enjoyment of its devotees. I believe it is the universal experience that all of Peter’s excellent habits possess a great proclivity for places of this kind. Whether this may be owing to a desire for idle associations, or simply to a love of the articles retailed there, I am not well qualified to decide; but whatever may be the cause operating upon Peter, he has a peculiar affinity for these two places in our village, at which his enthusiasm and verbosity frequently amuse and occasionally astonish his auditors. It is true, no one seriously apprehends that any modern Festus will ever impatiently accuse him of being made mad by “much learning,” however prolific he may be in his speeches. He is in no such danger, nor is it probable that he will ever earn the reputation of being wise simply through being boisterous, although many have done so before him. Always referring to the generous liberality ascribed to Socrates as an illustration how men should use their knowledge, he even seeks to surpass this much renowned ancient philosopher, whom he recognizes as his worthy model, in the lavishness with which he dispenses whatever he may happen to know. This, it must be acknowledged, is not so exceedingly much; but then he always mixes it with a marvellous amount of useless verbiage, principally drawn from his imagination and his dreams. Herein, it will readily be conceded, he is not at all singular, and only plays a part for which the times furnish innumerable examples. The inhabitants of the village are all perfectly acquainted with him and his habits, and he has therefore long since ceased to disturb them, not from any reasons of his own, but simply because they have learned not to heed him. It so happens, however, that we are not unfrequently visited by strangers, and these invariably stare with amazement whenever they encounter him at either of his favorite places of resort. It may be supposed that in these magnanimous efforts to entertain all who can be induced, from curiosity or other motives, to while away an idle moment with him, he should naturally indulge in denunciations against the world and its practices. This, I must confess, is an inference not in the least repugnant to his habits; but then he never finds fault from the mere pleasure, of doing so, in which he is so very singular, that I must leave it to others to determine whether he is in advance of the age or behind it.
Shortly after the hour of noon, on a certain summer day which will long be remembered in this locality because of its excessive heat, a young and sprightly farmer chanced to visit the village. His entrance seemed to be regarded as an event somewhat remarkable, for so dull was the season that no strange face had been seen by the villagers for several weeks. Upon arriving at the tavern, having been curiously stared at by the occupants of every building he had passed, he encountered Peter, who immediately entered into heterogeneous conversation, if that can be called conversation in which the talking is all on one side. I will here venture the opinion, though cautiously, that it may, for custom seems to have so decreed, and with few things has custom had more to do. Having invented no new word fully adequate to the occasion, and sufficiently expressive, we are led to submit to its long continued acquiescence in the one now employed. Then, too, excellent talkers could never consent to change this form of expression for any other less creditable to themselves, and the good listener may find sufficient to reconcile himself to it in the remark of old Simonides, who declared that he had frequently repented of having said too much, but never of having remained silent. Notwithstanding the apparent determination to exclude the possibility of a stray word from the new comer, Peter’s conduct had something of novelty in it to the stranger which at once induced him patiently to listen. Of course, this attention was highly pleasing to the talker, for several weeks had been a very long period for him to remain, on account of the dullness of the season, in that silence to which the villagers had doomed him by common consent, under the impression that time spent with him was unprofitably and irretrievably cast away. When, therefore, he was invited by the young man to a seat in his conveyance, Peter had no hesitancy in accepting, and not until they had left the village several miles behind, did he ascertain that the stranger had no intention of returning to it again. He now first bethought himself of the ridiculous blunder he had made in not having informed himself of this fact before. In this sad plight, very sad indeed to him, he slowly dismounted from the vehicle, and commenced pondering upon the best means to get back again to the tavern he had so incautiously left at the bidding of the stranger. To walk so great a distance he would at any time have looked upon as an exceedingly laborious task, but in the awful heat of that day the idea was too terrible to be entertained. At length he concluded to trust to his luck, which had sometimes favored him, although he had frequently complained of its hard decrees, thinking that chance might perhaps send some conveyance that way, through which he could return to the village. I should be greatly gratified to be able to say, that in Peter Easy I had found the man who never lamented over his fate, and who never affirmed that he was the “unluckiest fellow in the world;” but I cannot claim the credit of having made so happy a discovery. Whether that fortunate individual has ever set a foot of real flesh and bone upon earthly soil, is most extremely doubtful; yet all will confide in their better destiny, as did Peter in the present instance, though the certainty of disappointment may seem to stare them in the face. Cheered by so comfortable a hope, he seated himself by the roadside, beneath the shady branches of a ponderous tree, and not feeling just then like the young lady who always “dreaded to retire to bed because she could not talk in her sleep,” he was soon lazily spread out full length upon the sod. He had not been long in this posture, before he found gradually stealing over him a dull and oppressive stupor, which may have owed its origin to a hearty and undigested dinner, for in his case the saying of the wise man did not yet apply—“slothfulness casteth into a deep sleep, and an idle soul shall suffer hunger.” Fortunately for him, his father had been a careful and judicious man, and thus placed him beyond the calamity of the latter portion of the proverb, which his habits might otherwise have reaped; and I much question whether he had ever been so blessed as to realize the truth of the former by experience. In this state of unconsciousness, verging unto sleep, he had a dream, which he has since so often related that it must be very widely known. At least, such is the inference of the villagers, who suppose that it has been honored with frequent repetitions by some of the many strangers who have visited the village since this eventful day in Peter’s life, none of whom could escape hearing it either in whole or by parcels. I shall here endeavor to narrate it, though conscious that much of its effect must necessarily be lost through the absence of his manner and gestures, which no human skill could transfer upon paper; nor can I give it precisely in his own words, for reasons which I must withhold, leaving the reader, however, at liberty to supply such as may best suit his fancy.
Easy Peter, not so exceedingly easy at the time, imagined in his dream that some supernatural power had suddenly seized him. From whence it had come, he could not divine, but it gradually transported him beyond the confines of earth into another world. This so much resembled our own, that had he awoke here, he positively affirms, he should not have been able to discover the least difference. He was not as fortunate as the man who “dreamed that there was no credit to be given to dreams;” and strange enough, in his conscious hours, he defends this fanciful excursion of his momentary slumber as a substantial truth. It has been so effectually impressed upon his mind, that he speaks of it, not as the deceptive experience of a dream, but as a real adventure. The first thing that attracted his attention in this new sphere, was the variety of employments at which he found the people engaged. A French philosopher declares, that they are mean souls who are so buried in business as not to know that the most glorious and principal work of man is to live well; and as Peter gazed upon the continual efforts and ceaseless struggles here exhibited, he could not refrain from indulging in somewhat similar reflections. Scarcely an occasional pause was to be observed in the general commotion, so intent did each appear upon some object that hurried him on.—Amongst these eager scramblers, running to and fro in hot haste, chasing every chimera supposed to hold out a promise, Peter’s eyes detected one who at once claimed his entire attention. He was as ugly as a Theban sphynx, lean and lank, his very gait giving evidence of his cunning and treachery, whilst his countenance, if it mirrored what was passing in the soul, plainly cried out, “Money, money! at whatever cost or consequence, I must have money!” A worthy illustration of the heartless miser, who seeks for nothing but the gratification of his insatiable desire, he never hesitated to inflict a wrong, or crush a soul, to obtain possession of a shilling. The French Vandille, to save the extra expense of three bleedings at three pence each, let out the four and twenty ounces of blood at a single operation, thus purchasing his death at a sixpence—certainly a very cheap transaction. He had his counterpart in this avaricious wretch, who, Peter positively affirms, would have added another four and twenty ounces for the gratification of feasting his eyes upon the glitter of a shekel. “Had he lived,” said a stranger, “in the days of Eumolpus, he would have been an excellent subject for remembrance in the will of that whimsical fellow, who ordered that all to whom he gave legacies, besides his children, should receive them upon condition that they cut up his body and eat it before the people.” “Many,” replied Peter, “have waded through disgust to wealth; and for a trifle, he would never have paused until he had munched it up entirely.” His miserly propensities urged him to the violation of every principle, the sacrifice of every virtue that happened to come in contact with them; and thus he pursued his daily course, still adding to his store as he lost of his manhood. How very ridiculous it is, thought Peter in his dream, that men will grasp and grasp without stopping to ask a question, and thereby only increase the certainty of being eventually grasped themselves, by most unwelcome clutches, without being allowed the time to answer any.
Turning from this wretched specimen of humanity, Peter recognised another who was no less busy, and who seemed as ambitious as Phæton or Icarus, determined to set the world in a blaze, or what appeared more likely to happen, break his own neck in his aspiring flights. He knew of no medium by which to be controlled, and would even have found pleasure in the reputation of being a fool; but, unfortunately, Hobbes spoke truth when he said, that “without learning it is impossible for any man to be either excellently wise or excellently foolish.” Herein he was deficient, and the “number of common fools far exceeding that of wise men,” as a German author observes, they were rendered so general and were so frequently encountered that even this prospect of securing celebrity promised him nothing. Moved by his “wild distemper” he forgot the realities by which he was surrounded, and in his impetuosity to climb up the crooked ladder of distinction, he was hurried to the most extravagant excesses. Erostratus, to obtain renown, fired the temple of Diana, but the Ephesians, to bury his memory in eternal oblivion, prohibited the mention of his name under the penalty of death. This individual, if not yet driven to such extremities to gratify his passion, could nevertheless foresee, in the satiric ridicule certain to follow his mad endeavors, sufficient cause to “go and hang himself out of sheer mortification.” Such, thought Peter, not unfrequently, is the melancholy end of the zealot, when his zeal triumphs over his judgment and dethrones his reason.
As he was watching the manœuvres and expedients of this not uncommon character, a party of gentlemen suddenly intervened between his vision and the subject of his gaze. They were all so exceedingly merry that Peter felt anxious to join in their sport, and declares that he should have done so had he not been deterred by seeing one of them slyly and skilfully sliding his hands into the pockets of another, where, he quite reasonably supposed, it had no business. This was an exploit the like of which he had never witnessed before; but having frequently heard of the practices of a learned profession, he immediately concluded that this cunning villain was a lawyer, so prone are we to form opinions from general reputation. He soon after discovered his error, however, for the loud “hue and cry” that met his ears, very distinctly informed him that upon this world there were pocket pickers and robbers as well as upon our own, showing that we cannot claim these blessings as belonging exclusively to us. Inference, thought Peter, is a very uncertain thing, as often unjust as it is mistaken, and he asked of himself whether it had ever assigned to him a place in the category of rogues. Of this he might have been satisfied, for it has not yet been shown that any has ever escaped such imputations, and we can only be surprised that so many are foolish enough to manifest doubtful anxiety in a matter of which each may be so certain.
Another, who was hurrying along with all possible speed, and whose wild appearance seemed to attract general notice, now claimed Peter’s attention. Not in the least regarding his late experience, he at once concluded that this was a madman, in which he was again partially mistaken. Following after, it was not long before he discovered him to be an eminent physician, visiting a patient to whom he had the day before administered a dose, and who was now in his last agonies. “A wretched, bungling quack! a quack, sir,” exclaimed a young physician, who became irritated at our dreamer as he was declaiming upon this portion of his dream. “Perhaps,” replied a stranger, “the people of that sphere are stupid enough to follow the practice that caused the uncivil jest of Fabius of Bentivoglio, who, on his way to manufacture a doctor, by chance espied an ass yawning with open mouth as if he were laughing. To whom, ‘why laugh you,’ says Fabius, ‘you silly creature? we can make you a doctor too, if you have but money.’” However this may have been, the great haste of the physician was matter of surprise to Peter, who could not understand why a professor, whose business it was to assist people to get out of the world with ease, should be so much concerned for the life of a single patient. His wonder, however, soon subsided upon being furnished with reason to believe that the man of medicine was a more careful student of the Talmud and the Rabbins than of his profession, and that he had not been running for the good of the sick, but for his own fee, which was of infinitely greater importance. Many a one, thought Peter, is rendering service to the devil, even at the very time that we may think him engaged in works of superior excellence.
Easy Peter now lost sight of the physician, but his place was filled by a straight, slender, and serious looking individual, who was holding forth in a magnificent building, which had evidently been erected with a due regard to lodging accommodations. It required nothing beyond what he saw to inform him that this was a preacher in his fashionable temple. Peter had seen few men, notwithstanding his extensive intercourse with the world, who had the faculty of assuming so saintly an appearance as this one, and he therefore determined to follow him home. The holy man had scarcely descended from the pulpit before Peter saw an illustration of how much easier it was to preach humility than to practice it, and felt how few, even of the priesthood, really understood the saying of the essayist, that “the souls of kings and cobblers were cast in the same mould.” To show obeisance to the one, however guilty and degraded by vice he may be, is easy, and honorable, and an imitation of Jesus: to shake hands with the other, and seek to reclaim him by magnanimous and friendly fellowship, is countenancing and encouraging “publicans and sinners.” To greet with the pleasant social smile, and the exhibition of generous solicitude, the poor and ragged parishioner, is changing religion into levity, and “walking in the counsel of the ungodly, and standing in the way of sinners:” to fawn upon and court the favor and association of the more fortunate worshipper, who seldom ever rises from his knees until he has planned some new scheme to play the villain towards his fellow, is “exhorting one another daily, while it is called to-day,” or taking “sweet counsel together, and walking unto the house of God in company.” Peter was not a little surprised, upon reaching the residence of the minister, to discover how much better he was fitted to declaim upon the beauties of charity than to practice magnanimity and forbearance in his own house. This, thought he, is not the only one who, to obtain skill in lecturing the public, exercises himself at the expense of his family’s comfort and happiness.
Peter became interested in the private habits of this reverend gentleman, and would gladly have remained to ascertain yet more concerning them, but being unable to direct the course of his dream, he was unfortunately compelled to follow a melancholy creature who happened just then to cross his dreamy path. True, he had somewhere read or heard that melancholy men were naturally endowed with greater genius than those blessed with more volatile dispositions, and he therefore expected to gain from this new subject what he had missed by losing the other. He was led to a large and splendid establishment, which he regarded as being certainly much better calculated to produce comfort and happiness than melancholy. He had scarcely entered, before he heard a harsh, shrill voice re-echoing through the house, and when the termagant, who seemed to have inherited from nature a perfect right to its possession, made her appearance, he could not help repeating to himself the proverb of Solomon, “It is better to dwell in a corner of the house-top, than with a brawling woman in a wide house.” “What an excellent Tatianian he would have made,” remarked a pert young lady of the village, who would sometimes honor Peter with a few moments of her attention, and to whom the thought of such unfortunate husbands always afforded matter for merriment. “Why so?” anxiously queried Peter, who could not fathom her meaning. “Because they maintained that all, except themselves, were damned through mother Eve, and that women were made by the devil, to the latter of which tenets your hen-pecked vision could no doubt have sworn with the strictest of the sect.” “Notwithstanding such were their origin, we would treasure them,” added another. “Proving,” replied she, “that the gifts from that quarter are preferred, and that there is no justice in your complaints when the penalty is to be paid.” Peter was naturally somewhat sympathetic, and would gladly have condoled with this melancholy man in his affliction, but the domestic pest kept too strict a watch to permit it. He apprehended the consequences likely to follow, should he presume too much, and therefore wisely concluded not to cause the reigning spirit of the mansion to “pass still more the equilibrium of her balance.” He reflected how indiscreet it is to interfere in matters of this kind, and remembering the advice of the old poet, he thought it judicious not to disregard it:
“Have pity on yourself, and, though you’re stout
As mastiff breed, don’t take a bear by th’ snout.”
As a spectator, Peter Easy would not have objected to remain in this splendid establishment of domestic misery, with the view of obtaining some practical knowledge of matrimonial life. He had not ventured out of single blessedness himself, for which he never gave any other reason than that he had been predestinated a bachelor. In this he was believed by many of the villagers, but others continued to maintain that his single blessedness was simply owing to his aversion to the trouble necessarily encountered in visiting and courting for a wife. To this he would only reply, that although he could not, like the old Thracians and Assyrians, rise from his bed in the morning, attend the market with his purse, and return in the evening with one of the fairest and most enchanting maids in the kingdom; nor coolly exchange, for a lovely and bewitching partner, “one hundred and twenty pounds of tobacco, cash,” the value of the best article, as was the practice of his good-natured ancestors, he yet lived in an age affording equal if not greater matrimonial facilities. “Now,” he would declare, “no little of the labor of visiting and courting is voluntarily assumed by the ladies themselves, through ten thousand modest expedients which their ingenuity has invented; and should this prove insufficient, why, it is the easiest matter in the world to pick up a wife on any day of the year upon any highway in the country.” Concluding his bachelor prejudices to be real, they quite naturally induced him to believe that in the domestic affairs of this magnificent mansion, he could see the fruits and consequences of marriage in their true and proper light. Fortune, however, was inclined to deal more favorably with him, and his attention was arrested by a handsome young man who hurried from the building as if anxious to escape the unpleasant sounds of the voice within. Peter followed him as he walked leisurely and contentedly along, until he came to his residence, which was a small, yet handsomely arranged and neatly furnished building. As the young man opened the door, his pretty young wife was the first to meet and welcome him with her cheerful countenance and happy smiles, and then they so lovingly embraced each other, that Peter’s heart, though long a stranger to such feelings, impulsively began to respond to theirs. He turned away, perhaps to check its beatings, but now affirms he did so simply to resolve this astounding mystery; for it was his firm conviction, based upon his own extensive observation, that marriages were formed with no other design than that of providing for the parties a proper and convenient person with whom to fight and quarrel whenever inclination prompted. “It was well to turn away,” replied the pert young lady before alluded to, “for your eyes should never be permitted to feast upon so holy a scene. Like all of your bachelor kin, you ‘are not worthy to see a man first in the morning,’ as the saying of the Benjins used to have it. The unhappy Dido, who pronounced you a pack of brutes, spoke only the truth; and you deserve no better fate than that decreed by the Spartan ruler, who ordained that all of your species should be excluded from the sports and dances of the women, and compelled to run up and down the Forum, unclad and freezing, singing songs in dishonor of themselves.” “Surely,” replied Peter, “rather than endure so rigorous a discipline or punishment, each of us would follow Luther’s jest, and carve unto himself an obedient wife out of a block of stone; or if that would not suffice, perhaps profit by the example of Henry VIII., and ‘put his neck into the yoke, as the only remedy,’ though the spouse provided for him should prove to be nothing but ‘a great Flander’s mare.’” When Peter again looked upon the young couple, they were comfortably seated together, and both seemed still to enjoy the “tender caress” just as much as they could have done in their wooing days; but this was so contrary to his previous observation, and so conflicted with his theory, that he sadly misinterpreted their conduct. He had forgotten the advice of a friend who had repeatedly warned him against indiscriminately venturing opinions upon matters concerning which he was entirely ignorant, lest he might find frequent cause to repent of his errors; for should he happen to be right once in a hundred times, he would certainly be more fortunate than the rest of mankind generally are. He accordingly gives it as his settled opinion, that these two visions of his dream were so addicted to such demonstrations of affection that they could not avoid indulging in them, nor be very particular towards whom they were exhibited. Such practices, Peter declares, are so very common; and he even presumes to account through them for the habits of tenderness which some married people happen to acquire. He could, therefore, not well decide which were the most blessed—this apparently well satisfied couple, or the pair he had seen at the splendid mansion, under the lowering of a domestic storm.
When Peter emerged from the cottage, he came into a dreary street, studded with rows of dilapidated houses on either side, each of which seemed to give ample evidence of the wretchedness existing within. Here he encountered three “ministers of mercy,” who visited this locality on pretence of relieving the wants and distresses of the people. Their holy mission at once arrested his attention, and claimed his regard. How happy the influence of charity, reflected he, coming like the sweet sympathy of angels to bless this suffering community. It was a maxim of Plato, that the “end and aim of all human actions is some good;” and in no other channel can more be accomplished than in the one in which these seemingly worthy men appeared to be engaged. Who can ponder upon the mission of the noble vivandiere, the providence of the French soldier, as he sees her following the camp, extending to the weak and weary, the disabled and fatigued, the hand of help and hospitality, without feeling how small are all things compared with human sympathy and love? Her self-sacrificing and sublime benignity,—attending the rough warrior in his danger, relieving him when in want, aiding him when in distress, ministering to him in sickness, tenderly raising him when he falls upon the field of carnage and providing a place of safety, binding his wounds with her salves, her balsams, and her rolls of soft linen, and freely sharing her delicacies, her smiles, and her good wishes,—gives us a foretaste of that eternity of bliss which shall be the just reward of the good, after a separation from the blighting struggles, and contentions, and jealousies of human life. How well for the world were each a vivandiere, alike in peace and in war! What suffering would be driven from our midst, what misery averted, what wretchedness reclaimed, what happiness dispensed around! Peter imagined he here saw an imitation of her example, and it acted like a charm upon his easy nature. How sad, then, was the sudden change of his feelings when he discovered his mistake, and ascertained that these were nothing but shrewd pretenders after all, who had succeeded, by cunning and hypocrisy, to secure somewhat of a reputation for honesty and charity. Affecting religiously to help the poor, they were only magnanimously helping themselves, at the expense of the little generosity left in the community. How often, thought he, do people obtain credit for possessing a “big heart” just because they have none at all?
Peter was no longer inclined to follow these unworthy administrators of the public bounty, and turning round he beheld a small, hump-backed individual, who at once excited his interest. There was something peculiarly repulsive in this man’s countenance, which invariably prompted all who came in contact with him to put their hands into their pockets and their fingers upon their purses. Peter was not long in ascertaining that he was a broker and usurer, who, following his profession in the midst of these poor and humble creatures, seemed to fatten upon their poverty as does the vulture upon its unfortunate prey. Whenever Peter relates this incident of his dream, he declaims with all the vehemence he possesses. These inhuman and unfeeling wretches, he declares, are the most formidable servants of the devil, and always inherit his qualities to so eminent a degree that no stranger could distinguish the servants from the master. As the hawk pounces upon the helpless and trembling little sparrow, they fasten their greedy talons upon the tatters of a ragged dress with inextricable clutch; and as the savage beast licks the gore of its victim, they suck the blood of theirs until crimson to the dewlap and purple to the elbows. Pandora let loose her horde of evils to trouble the world, said the heathens. The Christian acknowledges that God has not so restricted the power of Satan as to prevent him from sending his scourges upon the earth, of which he has liberally availed himself by establishing his agents in the form of usurers and brokers in every section of the world. Of old, they were justly regarded as little better than murderers, and decidedly worse than thieves; for, says Cato in Cicero, “our ancestors enacted in their laws, that a thief should be condemned to pay double, but an usurer quadruple.” The Jew has at least bigotry and prejudice, inherited from his fathers for nearly two thousand years, to offer as an excuse when he robs the Gentile, and yet it is a common saying, “that every day he takes an oath to do what he can to cheat the Christians;” but these indiscriminately plunder heathen and Christian, exhibiting no emotion beyond a satanic chuckle over their success. They are ravenous pests who speculate upon poverty and misfortune, and digest the misery around them with savage glee—knaves who, for want of souls themselves, seek to crush the souls of the unfortunate and distressed, apparently finding happiness in their agonies, and nectar in their tears. Ah! thought Peter, what worthy denizens of the pit they will make, and what amusement they will afford to their master in their efforts to prey upon each other, for doubtlessly they will follow their unrighteous trade, as the only one fit to be pursued in hell!
Easy Peter regarded this as truly an afflicted street when he was drawn from the usurer to the rendezvous of the speculators. Amid the wretchedness and poverty of this locality, there was an abundance of ill-gotten gain, as he had sufficient opportunity to witness. These new visions of his dream had assembled for the purpose of making a renewed effort in their swindling schemes, and were engaged in revolving their plans with evident satisfaction. Brigands have their leaders, pirates their captains, and these, brigands and pirates sanctioned by society, had their master spirit too. The common bands of freebooters generally select as their chiefs the most desperate and daring amongst them—these had elevated the most heartless to equal distinction. Peter watched them framing their lies, and fortifying them with plausibility, and pronounced the loathsome mass a fit dish for public gullibility to digest. Here were schemes for particular purposes and special individuals—there preparations for each, however large or limited his means. Their enterprises had but a single basis: a design to enrich themselves, at whatever cost to their fellows. This one end had swallowed up every principle of integrity, every entity in morals, every sympathetic impulse of the heart. The misery and distress, the tears, and suffering, and despair, necessarily occasioned by their deceptions, and frauds, and robberies, never disturbed their quiet, but were simply regarded as pleasing comicalities to amuse them whilst pocketing the plunder. Homer assures us that the profession of the robber was regarded as glorious by some of the ancients, and Plutarch informs us that amongst the Spaniards his exploits passed for gallant adventures. Though we punish the bold and daring rogue, without making the least allowance for his hair-breadth escapes, the treacherous plunderer in our midst, who does not even possess the redeeming trait of physical courage, receives our countenance and esteem. As Peter was witnessing this excellent illustration of selfishness and thievery, which a credulous people first pay dearly for and then honor, their operations were interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the Chief, or President of the band, in company with a well-to-do looking individual, on whose arm he was affectionately leaning. They had been friends for many years, and through the false yet plausible representations of the former, the latter soon fell into the snare. Unsuspectingly he became the victim to their designs, and though he left perfectly content, another revolution of the earth was certain to find him a bankrupt. It is true, reflected Peter, that villany is often disguised under the garb of friendship, and where we most confide suspicion is most required.
Peter now heard a great noise in the street, and hurrying to the place from whence it proceeded, he witnessed a grand display of pugilistic skill. What had given origin to the quarrel he was unable to ascertain, yet so bitter was the rage of the antagonists, who numbered some dozen or more, that it had already lasted a considerable time, nor did it seem to be in the least abating. There were but two spectators to the scene, one of whom appeared to be much frightened and concerned, and was using every persuasion to pacify the heated combatants. The other looked calmly on, perfectly composed at what he saw, until unable to contain himself any longer, he approached his friend and very mildly addressed him: “Sir, I crave your pardon for having been amused at your generous but mistaken efforts to quell this foolish quarrel. You must know that there are those in this strange world of ours who have totally blunted every feeling of refinement, and utterly destroyed whatever moral sensibility they may once have possessed. Upon such your honest appeals are always in vain. That they should not be entirely placed beneath mortality, however, God has kindly endowed them with a physical sensibility, through which you may often successfully reach their depraved minds and obdurate hearts. You have appealed to the moral feelings of these rioters to no purpose; and now, to demonstrate what I have said, let me ascertain what impression can be made upon their physical sensibilities.” Thus saying, he threw off a portion of his cumbersome apparel, and giving notice that he had watched their proceedings for upwards of an hour, he declared that the battle must now be ended. This proving ineffectual, he entered into their midst, and making several (to use a technical phrase,) “feel the unpleasant weight of his fists,” he soon dispersed the boisterous crowd. An odd mode, thought Peter, of making peace, yet in this instance a very effectual one.
Immediately after quiet had been restored, the street suddenly became very populous, and Peter’s attention was arrested by the occupant of a splendid conveyance, who was industriously engaged in answering the polite recognitions that greeted him from every side. That this was a personage of no little distinction seemed so evident that Peter asked of the first passer-by what place of trust or honor he filled to such general satisfaction. The inquiry simply elicited the information that he was a private gentleman, who had succeeded in amassing great wealth by taking usury from the poor, and selling worthless stocks to all whom he could deceive into a purchase. He was but one of many illustrations of what Juvenal has written,
“That sins alike unlike rewards have found,
And whilst this villain’s hang’d, the other’s crowned.”
Though every one knew him to be a rogue and a thief, the good condition in which his practices had placed him, secured public obeisance. What a multitude of sins, thought Peter, can be covered by a coach, and what monstrous respect we extend to the knave when blessed with the smiles of fortune!
Turning from the occupant of the coach, Peter beheld a singularly ludicrous, but withal a very distressing spectacle. A poor, poverty-cursed creature was dying of starvation, whilst a wealthy gentleman, who had been pitying him for days, was tenderly bending over him and deploring his great distress, but could not so much open his heart as to reach into his well-filled purse and draw forth a paltry dollar to give relief. Strange, thought Peter, that men will whine, and fret, and lament, over human misery and suffering, and yet so fastly clutch a shilling as not to use it freely in obtaining aid and giving succour.
As Peter was gazing upon this unhappy scene, a smiling little gentleman crossed his path, whom he was now compelled to follow. This interesting individual appeared to be the friend of all whom he encountered, being exceedingly social and affable. His friendly greetings were always returned with the same politeness, though frequently with much less affection. He had acquired a great reputation for benevolence, which so elicited Peter’s esteem that he was pleased with every mark of attention exhibited towards him. It was a maxim of the Stoics that “men were, for the sake of men, brought into the world, that they might assist and benefit each other,” and Peter fancied he here saw one, at least, who lived up to this magnanimous aphorism. This good opinion, however, was suddenly changed upon reaching his residence and discovering that he was the head of a mongrel banking institution, and so well adapted to his business that he experienced little difficulty in defrauding and plundering his customers, even whilst swearing how much he designed to befriend them. He was extremely pleasant to all in front of the counter, and though profusely lavish and exceedingly fair in promises, these were only made to afford him amusement in devising the most ingenious modes in which to break them. He had long robbed the State of its just portion of the dividends, used the funds of the institution in fraudulent transactions, and placed them out secretly at usury. After thus plundering thousands, he very generously gave a little of the booty in charity to the poor. How very easy it is, thought Peter, to win a good name, if you but know how to play the hypocrite behind a fortune.
When Peter emerged from the bank, his eyes encountered a character whose odd appearance at once challenged his notice. He seemed to “take the world extremely easy,” being quite philosophic in his indifference to passing events, yet prided himself upon always rendering full justice to mankind, and their good and evil practices, their virtues and their vices, their errors and their follies. Peter ascertained that he had been suddenly raised, by some fortunate occurrence, from abject poverty to considerable wealth. The cruel manner in which he had been neglected when poor by many whose flatteries now daily greeted him, had somewhat soured his disposition; and although he was generous to those who had once befriended him, he felt little sympathy for the rest of the species. Peter learned that he had engaged to give to a stranger, who contemplated removing his residence to that place, some knowledge of the people, their character and habits. Nothing could have been more gratifying to Peter Easy, so he kept close to his heels until he arrived at the corner of one of the principal streets, the place appointed for their meeting, where he found the stranger in waiting.
There, said he to the stranger, as a poor, though apparently happy individual passed by, is a personation of honesty. With such a man, the old peasants used to say, “one may safely play at mora in the dark.” This, however, is a very questionable compliment in our day, and has brought him nothing but poverty as his reward, than which few evils could be greater under our present social organization. Possessed of a good nature, and feeling a proper interest in the welfare of his friends, he never refused to extend his helping hand, until he has been placed in the deplorable condition of being compelled to hunt for aid himself. A task, thought Peter, which Pluto should have devised for human punishment, instead of providing a hades.
The short gentleman, continued he, who has just passed, is an honored and skilful follower of a profession which has acquired considerable note in the world, though now it must be practiced secretly. What has occasioned this interdict is not easily discovered. Should you say to that gentleman that an improved moral public opinion caused it, he would merrily take your arm, and by leading you to a number of highly respectable resorts, soon show you how much, at least in practice, the majority is on the other side. It is said of the old Germans, that in their passion for gaming, they often staked their persons upon a die, and if unsuccessful, patiently became slaves. The world has made of human life nothing but an uncertain game, in which the shrewdest cheats frequently obtain the greatest honor. No wonder, then, that many who would not purchase heaven by a little inconvenience, never hesitate to follow in the German’s wake, profiting if successful, and enduring if unlucky. That gentleman’s skill has thus far saved him. When he first came amongst us, one of his bachelor kin was reputed wealthy, whilst he was designated as the only heir. Notwithstanding his professional practices, which were of course not taken into account, he married a most respectable citizen’s daughter, who had long been angling for an heir: but the bargain has proved an unprofitable one after all. His wealthy kin, becoming intimate with his pretty housekeeper, eventually married her—thus establishing a different order of succession. Ah, thought Peter, “the best laid plans o’ men and mice gang aft aglie,” and the foolish dreams of fickle maidens often end in a life of good repentance.
Yonder, sir, is another professional gentleman, but his profession is of a different cast. He mistook his calling, and without possessing any brain, desired to become a lawyer, but has failed even to make a tolerable pettifogger. I am assured that his teacher, who swore that his skull was so “miserably thick” that scarcely an idea could be battered into it, constantly importuned and urged him to venture upon some learned profession, having been fully persuaded, from observation, that the stupidity which he so eminently possessed, was one of the most essential qualifications for such an undertaking. I have advised him to turn his attention to medicine, as being better suited to his calibre, and in which he might perhaps prove more prosperous, or at least find greater security for his deficiencies. He still clings to his profession, however, and having thus far maintained his dignity by constant calls upon his acquaintances, he is now prepared to cheat them all. A practice, thought Peter, quite common, but no one need expect to pass through the world without contributing his quota towards supporting the drones that are in it.
There, sir, you may rest assured you see a moral man. Never mind his rags, for you must know that young men, morality, and fine linen, seldom go together in this world, where fathers invite libertines to their houses, where mothers welcome the attentions paid to their daughters by noted debauchees, and where young maidens themselves prefer a smile from wealthy licentiousness to a nod from virtuous poverty. Though he is neither Godwardly nor manwardly crooked, which should secure him esteem in a world of such great pretence to excellence, he has sufficiently experienced that virtue, when contrasted only with its present social rewards, is but an “empty name, a phantom, an abject slave, exposed to the insults of fortune,” as the dying Roman Stoic has declared. He has been tempted enough, but relying upon the self-approval which has never abandoned him, this has only made him a more shining example. I proclaim to you, upon better authority than my own, that there is a resting place provided for the troubled, and that men like he will inherit it. Thanks, thought Peter, for the happy prospect of adding another to the names in my little volume. [Here it must be explained that Peter had long kept a small book, in which he had written the names of all whom he personally encountered during his life, and who, he supposed, might stand a respectable chance of profiting by the exchange of worlds to be made at their last gasp; but thus far he had occasion to call it into requisition only on three several occasions. The third time, however, having discovered his own deception, he used it to amend by erasing one of the names previously registered there.]
You see yonder group of three: the one is a petty printer, the other an unscrupulous politician, and the third an independent voter. Altogether there is wit enough amongst them to make one tolerable fool, and heart enough to make one paltry villain. The first endeavors to persuade the public that the second is an honest and patriotic citizen, for which he receives the common rewards of the political toady: a pleasant smile and lavish promises to begin,—a bitter curse, worse treachery, and a parting kick, to end; the other has already been in office for a time, and has stolen sufficient for another campaign; whilst the third is just preparing to increase his shouts for the good of the country, for which he demands a greater indulgence to his appetites. The palate is a marvellous channel through which to obtain distinction and preferment, an easy manufactory of good opinion, extorting pledges of eternal friendship with astonishing rapidity, and clinching a kind conclusion with emphatic precision. The old maxim has it, that “you may easily pin down a fellow’s nose to a full table,” and much of the success and distinction in the world has no better basis. The aspirant yonder knows full well how to avail himself of this one of our good-natured imperfections, and having duped the people once, through its aid and the assistance of his companions, this success has emboldened him to make another effort. Beware of them all, for though they may be loud in their declamations and vociferous in their patriotic demonstrations, they still answer Seneca’s description,—“their liberty consists principally in stuffing their bellies”—and may yet incur the general ridicule instead of obtaining the public plunder. The most serious public matters, you know, are often made the merest farces, and the frequent promotion of knaves as often incurs no paltry penalties, as you may learn from that red-faced individual approaching this way. “Mankind,” says an old philosopher, “are not so happy, as that the best things shall have the most patrons and defenders;” and notwithstanding the habits of that officer, he has been elevated to the chief position of this place, and now sits in judgment upon all offenders. His first morning task is to meet his friends at the “Stag’s Head” yonder, his second to feast upon and imbibe the wherewith to maintain his ruddy hue, and his third to reel to his office, open his judicial council, and dispose of the drunken or offending creatures who may have been taken into custody during the night, not so much for ill behaviour as to provide a paltry fee for the police. Of course, a police whose rewards depend upon the number of unfortunate creatures that may fall into their clutches, cannot be remarkably cautious upon whom they exercise their authority, nor measure personal freedom by any very exact or liberal scale. Nothing beyond the prospect of a few picayunes, thought Peter, is required to make men’s vision double, and cause them to discover heinous offences where the disinterested and humane only see matter for merriment or pity.
Here comes a peculiar organization of human qualities. Avarice, prodigality, and falsehood, are that man’s principal characteristics—a combination of inconsistent vices which make him rather a petty fool than a sensible knave, to which latter distinction he seems to aspire. To day he will clutch a shilling with a grasp so powerful that nothing can extort it, and to-morrow he will contract a debt to gratify the most paltry vice that may move him. Should he happen to get into your debt upon such an occasion, he will not be at a loss for lies to evade your demand. When Mareschal de Rochelaure was accused of taking part with the Duke of Mayenne, he answered the king that he “did not follow the duke, but his own money, for his debt would be but in a desperate condition, if he did not stick close to his debtor.” Your tenacity in sticking close to that man would only extort from him the same falsehood a thousand times, and if detected and reproached, he would coolly ask you whether you were so cursed a fool as to believe him! He never enjoys a hearty laugh, save when he has duped some unsuspecting individual who may have been induced to confide in him.——You need not be surprised at his quick and sudden disappearance around the corner; for yonder comes his especial friend, the collector, who has caused him to tell more lies than a dozen of satan’s imps could register in a year, and make more clumsy dodges than could be chronicled in a volume as large as a quarto Bible. Of all dreaded things in our place, that collector is the most dreaded. He is a clever, sociable, and amusing fellow, who first puts you in a happy humor by his joviality, and then draws the money from your purse before you are aware of it. He was quite a favorite a few years ago, his society being universally courted, but since he has engaged in his present employment every body dodges and runs from him. My dear sir, if you wish to preserve your friendly intercourse with a neighborhood, never become a collector; but should you ever be beset with more friends than you know what to do with, I know of no honorable process by which you can so easily get rid of them as by commencing this troublesome business. However brave a people may be, reflected Peter, they have never yet had the courage boldly to face a bill, and many who had laughed danger in the face, skulked like cowards into the darkest corner upon beholding the simple shadow of a creditor.
You observe yonder lynx-eyed individual moving slowly along. He sees all that is passing within vision around him. His two eyes seem to answer the purposes of a hundred, and are constantly in motion. Although everything within their range falls under their quick and penetrating scrutiny, they behold nothing to admire or to make him glad. They might as well gaze upon an utter blank, and certainly he would experience more comfort should they recognise only a wide and dismal waste instead of prosperity and happiness. He is as despicable a victim of envy as the world ever saw, which simply moves him to hate the success of those around him, and repine at their happiness. He can only find gratification in their distress and joy in their calamities. A tinge of envy, however much descried, is sometimes productive of good results, for I have known it to prove an incentive to exertion where all else had failed; but when permanently retained, it becomes the powerful and fertile cause of hypocricies, lies, deceits, treacheries, slanders, annihilating every good quality in nature, and yet unsatisfied, still adding fuel to its evil ones. That man would not hesitate to blast the qualities of your brain, merely because he cannot bear your superiority; nor would he pause to ruin you in your possessions, although he should not derive the least profit from it. Whilst, however, he discovers pleasure in the ruin alike of those above and below him, he finds a vulture in his evil passion, which, “like iron over-run with rust, not only defiles, but destroys himself continually.” It is well, reflected Peter, that passions which can only experience delight in the evil fate of others, should likewise make a meal upon their possessor, and that whilst he smiles upon the calamities of the unfortunate, his smile should be but an expression of his inward torture.
There you may recognise a bald-pated knave, whose age, instead of preserving him from the snares of the young, only seems to encourage and embolden him the more. He is in company with his son-in-law, to whom he once refused to give his daughter’s hand in marriage, for reasons which he did not care to make known either to her or his household. The vigilance and curiosity of those less interested, however, soon succeeded in ascertaining them, and the discovery afforded no little amusement at his perplexity. The chief priests and scribes were not in a greater quandary when they had the choice to say “yea,” and be convicted of their baseness, or “nay,” and be stoned by the people. He had too often met the aspirant to his daughter’s hand at places of resort where none of our community who values his moral character is likely to go. Peter was somewhat at a loss here, yet he could not help reflecting that the father who visits places of crime, is in a very ridiculous dilemma when compelled to make use of his personal knowledge and his own dishonor to preserve the reputation of his family.
See there—worthy patterns of a gentleman and lady. He is an honest and faithful husband, and she an affectionate and virtuous wife. They love wisely and well, live happily in each other, and are models to all who know them. Make them your friends, for the very atmosphere in which they move is worth more than all the attention a thousand such as have yet passed us could bestow. The lord who loves his lady truly, and ever keeps unbroken the faith he has plighted to her, becomes as much an example to the world as a joy to his wife; and the lady who never forgets her affection and allegiance to her lord, is so much superior to the common woman that to him she always seems an angel out of Paradise. “An honest man,” said old Simonides, “can have nothing in this world better than a good wife,” and surely an honest woman can ask no higher blessing than a good husband. You see such in those two, and may well seek their friendship and profit by their excellencies of character and correctness of habits. Ah! thought Peter, a happy oasis in the desert of matrimonial life, still inspiring reverence for the institution, though it be made the fickle plaything of the world, its common game of heedless chance and hazard.
There, sir, in that old man you see an impersonation of prejudice, a quality not inaptly defined as “the spider of the mind, filling it with cobwebs.” His opinion once set, no power on earth can change it, and beware that you press not too closely, lest he adopt the convincing logic of Frederick the Great, who, it is said, when argument failed to enforce his convictions, had recourse to “kicking the shins of his opponent.” Guide his thoughts into one channel and they will follow it, though it should lead him to the devil. His prejudices frequently render him as obstinate as a mule, and as often not as wise. He still stands where his fathers stood before him, and joined to the idols and follies of a past age, he has no sympathies with the present. If he thinks at all, he does so simply to fasten upon his mind the more his cherished errors, and your only policy is to “let him alone.” Never, reflected Peter, undertake to straighten the crooked nature of the prejudiced man, for to him all your facts are nothing but a stumbling-block, and all your reasons simple foolishness.
Yonder lame individual furnishes a story well illustrating the fickleness of the human heart. Though we may appear to be enraptured with a single feeling, the intervention of a trifling circumstance not unfrequently entirely relieves us of it. That gentleman courted a fair young maiden, and eventually his attentions resulted in a betrothal. An unfortunate accident soon after deprived him of a leg, and being thus deformed, his love required little time to extinguish her affection, and accordingly broke her faith. She had bargained more for a solid man than a sound head or heart, and being disabled from complying with the conditions, he was politely rejected. Thus good luck often springs from misfortune, and he gained greatly by the loss of a limb. What a world of cripples, thought Peter, this would suddenly become, could all who desired it be relieved by the loss of a leg of the ills from which his fortunate misfortune preserved him.
Turn your eyes to the left, and you may behold a fanciful pair approaching towards us. That pursy and apparently very jovial fellow—mine host of yonder inn—keeps a resort for gentility, and under the cover of respectability, sends forth unnumbered evils to infest and afflict the community. The practices of his house flourish admirably under the beauty of a fashionable exterior; yet the pestiferous rottenness within could not withstand the eye of modern justice for a moment if disguised only in rags. Public morality in the case where gold is concerned, is quite a different thing from that wherein simple copper is brought into the scale. Respectable crime easily escapes the keen vigilance of those who guard the public virtue, whilst we are loud in their praises when some poor, abandoned, God-forsaken wretch is hurried to his doom amid the imposing show of a high morality and an even-handed justice. That man may lavishly spread his fearful evils—the only things with which men appear to be truly bountiful—with unchecked freedom; and whenever they press too heavily upon us, a few plaintive groans will soon arouse the slumbering sentinels of the law. Powerful justice will sound its signal, triumphantly make a brutal “descent” upon some paltry hut, and drag its starving inmates to the slaughter. Well, has not Carneades pronounced his definitive sentence that “justice is folly;” and what matters it whether I offend, and some more unfortunate creature pays the penalty, so that justice is appeased? It must have victims, and fate, ill-fortune, and poverty, have not been miserly in providing them. Thus it is never at a loss for the means wherewith to preserve that reputation which Tully thought so essential “that even those who lived by outrage and villany could not subsist without at least its shadow or semblance.” That fortunate knave may prosper in his practices, and though their fatal consequences may sometimes arouse our vengeance, there never will be wanting those whose immolation will allay it. His tall, robust companion is a character—a perfect original. He will hug, and pet, and caress you with the tenderness of a captivated maiden, all for a picayune; and when he has thus fondled it out of your possession, having no prospect of realizing more, he would as lovingly kick you out of doors for a ha’penny—thus making you as profitable a customer as the circumstances could possibly admit. Headlong and heedless withal, his actions ever in advance of his thoughts, he is a mass of locomotive matter, tumbling about on the earth, with no idea to accomplish, no purpose to fulfil. This is not the only one, reflected Peter, who has, by some comical dispensation of nature, been placed outside of his orbit, as if it designed to exhibit what a fickle whirligig can be made of man by unhinging his directing power.
Look to that building yonder. The gentleman who has just entered it is a modern reformer. He railed against the evil habits of men, and the sinful and dishonest practices of the world, until sent to the penitentiary for having attached another man’s name to a small piece of bankable paper. The imitation was good, but unfortunately for him history had chronicled the adventures of Saavadra, the famous and somewhat romantic nuncio of Portugal, and having failed, in his mania for improvement, to improve upon this noted forger, he atoned for his unsuccessful attempt by faithfully serving the full period of his sentence. He is now riding his hobby-horse of “Reform” again, with even greater boldness than before. This may be owing to the extra courage acquired, or perhaps to the change effected in the times, during the period which he devoted to solitary meditations. The sledge-hammer mode of reform has since accomplished marvels and become highly fashionable; but it is now greatly feared that many too charitable fellows, in their exceedingly magnanimous efforts to drive the erring back from the brink of perdition, will stand a very excellent chance of tumbling in themselves. He has abandoned the task of persuading for the more exalted one of coercing, which may prove more profitable; but should he branch out a second time upon his own responsibility, it is hoped he may realize his ideas of improvement by choosing some species of roguery wherein he shall leave no historical example unexcelled. It is no uncommon occurrence of the ludicrous in life, reflected Peter, to see those in whom the ordinary thief could not confide, suddenly become reformers, and find patrons for their presumption and fools to regard them as patterns of moral propriety.
Note that gentleman and lady opposite. He is her husband. Having seen his wife in dishabille the morning after his wedding, and meeting her upon his return home at noon arrayed for public inspection, it is currently reported, he found her so much improved and beautified that he mistook her for a stranger, and absolutely asked her of the whereabout of his spouse. Nature has been exceedingly kind after all. If it has ordained that youth should fade, it has generously furnished the material whereby a century can be made to assume the appearance of a score. What matters it that old Father Cyprian thought all change the work of satan, and pronounced it running counter to the will of God to paint or black the hair, because he had read, “Thou canst not make one hair white or black?” Who cares for the declaration of Tertullian, that “it is the devil that mounts the actors on their buskins, in order to make Jesus Christ a liar, who has said, that no one can add one cubit to his stature?” They were both wofully mistaken, and our ladies have most triumphantly refuted their errors, by silently exhibiting that a hundred Tophets could not supply imps enough to make half the changes and additions which they daily parade before our eyes. It is marvellous, reflected Peter, what artificial charms can be conjured up by those who properly understand the art of beauty; and why should they fret and complain against fate, when, with paint, powder, and cotton, they are constantly proving that their troublesome deficiencies were simply meant as so many kindnesses, by leaving them at liberty to manufacture whatever hue and dimensions that might best please their fancies?
The young lady and gentleman who have just passed by, seem to have arrested your attention. They are intimate acquaintances, and it is conjectured they will be something more in due time. You heard her indignant remark upon the dissoluteness of that young man yonder, a distant and ill-starred connexion of hers, and her emphatic wish for an edict providing for the decapitation of all such reckless creatures. Her creed, my dear sir, if impartially carried into effect, would scarcely permit a head to remain solidly upon the shoulders of a single citizen in the country; and her companion, though he does share her virtuous affections, would be one of the first to despair for his own. If shrewder and more cunning, he certainly is no better than the individual who has elicited her censure, though she knows it not. Her ignorance is blissful, however deceptive. Should some superhuman agency, thought Peter, suddenly reveal the truthful characters of Cupid’s followers, how many confiding maidens would be startled at having admired the most knavish deceivers, and how many foolish swains would stand aghast with horror at the dishonest treachery of their lady-loves!
In that young man approaching this way, you may recognise somewhat of a philosopher. You might as well attempt to scale the mountains of the moon as to persuade him that there was much real virtue in the world. “We are honest,” he argues, “from convenience or policy, and apparently moral from a fear of society, which has established certain rules, and is given to certain general opinions, the violations of which are always attended with some difficulties or vexations. The old Romans had their censors, whose chief business it was to inspect the morals of the citizens, and could we, by following some such example, spread out before us the hidden conduct and practices of each individual, the little of real conscience and truth, substantial honesty and morality, we should be able to detect, might tempt us to abandon our moral code entirely. Or could we, by a glance, penetrate the past lives and habits, and scrutinize the secret sins of all whom we encounter, what a terrible blushing there would be in the world, and how many would laugh in each other’s faces! Many whose apparent honesty now claims your respect, unable any longer to disguise their hypocrisy, would only make merry over the numerous counterparts of themselves with whom they should constantly come in contact. The virtuous Thrasea spoke but the truth in his favorite maxim, that ‘he who suffers himself to hate vice will hate mankind;’ for, although all must pretend to virtue from a kind of social necessity, it is a garment which they cast aside without a pause when rendered safe from detection, ever faithfully illustrating the saying of Agathias, that ‘virtue upon necessity is just as long lived as the fear that occasions it.’ The world seems desperately determined to vindicate what its Saviour has affirmed, and no prophecy promises to be more fully realized than his sorrowful declaration that ‘narrow is the way which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’” Such is a taste of the young man’s opinions, in which he is so firmly rooted, that should you persuade him that the fate of the town depended upon ten righteous men to be found within it, he would at once take to his heels, and never pause until he was far out of danger. Whether there is not too much of correctness in his melancholy views, you must determine for yourself.—No very difficult matter, reflected Peter, amid the many unpleasant examples that are destined daily to bring unwelcome aid to your judgment, and exhibit to your gaze so many who seem but to struggle the hardest to obtain the greatest curses.
You will pardon the interruption, said the stranger, but my attention has been arrested by the counterfeit manikin suspended by the neck to the branch of yonder tree, and my curiosity excited to know what fickle whim or fancy placed it there. Its import, replied the other, not endeavoring to restrain his merriment, is very significant. The female occupants of the adjoining houses have for some time been engaged in a bitter quarrel. The intolerable scolding propensities of one of them, common report avers, caused her husband to resort to that effective mode of obtaining relief. The cunning of the other, in the progress of the quarrel, has devised that silent but expressive expedient as an annoyance and remembrancer to her enemy, and by replacing it as often as it is destroyed, promises fair to be the conqueror in the end.
Here you may recognise one of those silly or knavish creatures, in whom it is difficult to tell whether the mule or the monkey predominates. He knows but of one vice in the world, and it is the subject of his constant denunciations. He is ceaseless in his praises of honesty, and as “opportunity makes the thief,” according to the proverb, he will probably preserve his reputation as long as he remains amongst those who know him. It is given as a rule, and in case you encounter him it may prove of service, always to mistrust the man who too much prides himself upon possessing a certain quality, and to be suspicious of him who constantly deals in vehement complaints against a particular vice. Such are generally weak in what they boast themselves strong, and their darts are frequently directed against the very fault peculiar to themselves. It is so, thought Peter, even with the great world, which ever descries its own practices, and yet tenaciously continues in them, as if loathe to part with such excellent causes to elicit its censure, and such admirable escape-valves through which its wrath may freely ooze itself away.
There is an amusing and withal pitiable victim of a mistake. He was a lodger at a public inn, and rising early one morning, he was mistaken for a burglar, and received a terrible beating from his hasty and suspicious host. To redress this injury, he flew to the law—a very singular power to decide upon a mistake. The landlord, not thus to be outdone, brought a more serious charge against him in retaliation. The blind Goddess, whose determinations were ascertained by two intelligent juries, very magnanimously gave each the benefit of the mistake, and both found comfortable lodgings in the county prison. There, thought Peter, they had leisure at least to cool their sanguine tempers, and reflect upon the frequent tendency of the merest trifles to grow into importance.
Opposite, you may see a genuine specimen of what the world calls a “successful fellow.” He claims to be a proper person to reside upon this especial sphere of God’s creation, and bases his peculiar fitness upon two facts: he is not encumbered with an extra amount of conscience, nor is he restrained by any settled principles of virtue—two things, he avers, not well calculated to promote prosperity in a world where the right and wrong of human actions are so generally estimated by profit and loss. He will never suffer on account of possessing too much of either, both of which he regards as certain roads to poverty, and consequently loss of the world’s esteem. To persuade you that he is doing you a service whilst plundering you, he thinks the perfection of skill and ingenuity. Should he ever tempt you to enter into any of his promising schemes, beware of his plausible representations, for you may swear they only conceal a design to pick your pocket with your own consent. No very uncommon occurrence, reflected Peter, in a world where prosperity is made to depend upon a cunning address, and where a shrewd head is so much preferred to an honest heart.
Approaching us, you may see a specimen of that sad human depravity so frequently encountered, and whom the good morals of the virtuous public have generally indulged under the plea of necessity. She was unfortunate recently in disturbing the peace of a very respectable locality, and having thus over-stepped the bounds of that necessity which tolerated her, she fell into the meshes of the law, and gave us rather a funny illustration of the melancholy effect misfortune has upon friends. Her most punctual visitors, whom she had always received so very graciously, perhaps having a view to their circumstances and positions in society, now repulsed her the most roughly, and gave free vent to their virtuous indignation when she presumed to solicit their aid. After experiencing this ingratitude and baseness, she became seriously ill from the excitement; and despairing of being again restored, her repentant fears set her raving as if mad. Her disconnected revelations were watched with wonderful anxiety, affording great amusement to some, and as greatly exciting the fears of others; but when she expressed it as a Christian duty that a very minute account of her ill-spent life should be given, she caused more genuine consternation than could have followed a siege of the town. The fearful disclosures of a few dozen of her kind, reflected Peter, in each city and town of the country, specifically setting forth the names of their visitors and lovers, could create more confusion than attended the marches of Alexander, and cause a panic perhaps only equalled by that of ancient Rome when invaded by the barbarians.
Turn, however, from this unwelcome picture, and behold that fancy young man yonder. He is too ignorant to be of any service in the position of life to which he pretends, and too much inflated with his own conceit to render himself useful in a different calling. Between these not uncommon qualities, he manages to trudge along, cheating his tailor, defrauding his landlord, and swindling all who may be so unfortunate as to mistake his appearance for respectability and his pretensions for honesty. How such palpable fools manage to maintain their stupidity upon the plunder of more sensible knaves, is one of those inexplicable mysteries of life which few have attempted to determine. We have repudiated the rule of Aristotle, that only those employments are to be reputed mean which render either the body or the soul unfit for the practice of virtue; and by making certain pursuits a test of social standing, and the neglect of all, a sure index of respectability, we have admirably succeeded in rearing a brood of vagabonds whom it would now be ungenerous to neglect. Thus, perhaps, they owe more to our indulgence and kindness than we are willing to acknowledge, being content to endure an occasional swindle, and in this silent manner atone somewhat for an evil which we have ourselves created. It is so much easier, reflected Peter, to tolerate some errors than to reform them, and we are happily prepared to submit to their inconveniences if they will only do us the kindness a little to tickle our vanity.
Look to the windows of yonder houses—two handsome females. You may learn a salutary lesson by carefully contemplating their countenances. The one has led a life of guilt—the other one of innocence and virtue. Look at their smiles: what sadness there is in the one, and what satisfaction there seems to linger around the other! With the guilty, a smile springs only from the lips; with the good, it pleasantly indicates and answers emotions of the heart. See how vexed and restless the manner of the one, and how easy and calm that of the other—a noble contrast between abandonment and graceful dignity. The very bearing of the one indicates a knowledge of her degradation, whilst that of the other firmly yet modestly asserts her equality and her claim to respect. In their loneliness there, you may clearly read the thoughts of each mirrored in her face. What an expression of languor, regret, melancholy, remorse, agony, despair, you see in the one; what quiet repose, comfort, content, pleasure, happiness, joy, is depicted in the other! See in contrast, a spectre of deep, guilty sorrow, peering out from the wrinkles and furrows which tell of fearful tempests and revulsions within, and a calm placid vision beaming forth the life and buoyancy that speak only of the sweet serenity of the soul: dark, dreary, desolate night, filled with treacheries, conspiracies, murders, sprites, and hobgoblins, and bright, mellow sunshine, awakening every impulse and arousing every feeling to chaste delights! The terrors of guilt must indeed be fathomless, if it mixes a remorseful recollection with every smile, and tortures with mental anguish even the moments treasured for repose. Excitement cannot silence or drive thought from the brain, and retirement cannot prevent the soul from shrinking from its own pollution. “All nature is too weak a fence for sin,” observes an ancient poet, and “hell itself can find no fiercer torment than a guilty mind,” remarks another. Whatever, reflected Peter, may be the evil practices of the world, it cannot avoid the furies which they invoke, nor escape the terrors of their revenge.
Ah! see my worthy friend approaching. He is a preacher, and I believe a good man, who loves his fellows, and means all mankind well. His head and heart, however, do not work well together—the one is as empty as the other is full. Well, if the devout Japanese can perform his devotions by machinery, having his chu-kor constantly fixed in some running stream, where it never ceases praying for the prosperity of his house, why may not we go through ours with equal convenience? We are told that our ceremonies seldom trouble our hearts, and if so, surely there is little reason why they should trouble our tongues or limbs. Some such reflection, no doubt, has induced our people to invent many fashionable and easy modes of getting into heaven, for which they deserve lasting gratitude; but then the ways of the Lord are inscrutable, and he has raised up a brood of stupid, prosey, old-women preachers to pest and afflict them. They may make the sanctuary airy, or shut out the chill, together with their servants, and then snooze away on soft, easy cushions, just as though it was the most paltry trifle to inherit the kingdom; yet the Lord is generous, and will frequently remind them of their error by inflicting upon them the sermons of such stupid though good meaning servants as my friend here. When, therefore, reflected Peter, we rightly understand the uses of “bad preachers,” a very common and very equivocal complaint, they reveal a design the wisdom of which it is sinful to censure.
The dumpy individual yonder, wearing the badge of authority, is a worthy constable. Like the great number of his class, he is an excellent man for his calling, wanting both heart and brain, and being consequently little troubled with conscience or integrity. Every poor wretch, whom misfortune has dragged beneath our compassion, adds a trifle to his purse, and immeasurably to his glory. Living on the world’s depravity, he seeks to deprave it the more, that he may increase the profits of his trade. Under the plea of justice he is constantly outraging its holy decrees, and instead of protecting society, he has become one of the worst of its pests. He will boast for hours of his shrewdness, and gloat with wonderful exultation over the ruin of a victim to his formidable oath. Justice would be fearfully crippled without his excellent eyes, whose vision neither doors nor masonry can shut out, and rendered almost entirely powerless without his ears, which happily possess the sharpness to detect the minutest particulars of a crime carried wonderful distances through the whispers of the wind. Though a score should surround him and witness an event, he would hear more than their forty ears, and surprise them all at the absolute worthlessness of their eyes, when he came to narrate his tale in that convenient arena for the exhibition of his talents, a criminal court. Like the pander in Terence, “to have the knack of perjury” he considers a necessary accomplishment, and he never fails to bring down his game when once fairly brought within the range of his oath. Ah, reflected Peter, how many a poor wretch’s fate has depended upon so excellent a swearer, and no one pitied him!
In that slender young man you behold a miserable victim to his own base passions. He moves along, a loathing disgrace to himself, encountering the contempt of all who have not fallen equally low in general esteem. You will preserve your reputation by following their example, and carefully avoiding him. His evil habits have rendered him so exceedingly infamous that nothing less than the sudden acquisition of about fifty thousand dollars could make him a respectable man in the estimation of our community. Should fortune thus favor him, you may consider the interdict removed, and gain credit by doing obeisance alike to him and his sins. What an excellent badge of character, thought Peter, that can work such marvellous changes in public opinion, and hide more faults and render invisible more defects than the mystic ring of Gyges.
There is a poor fellow whose head has been turned by not properly inquiring into the good subject which engrossed his attention. Running wild in his good excitement, he at last fancied he was blessed with extraordinary power, and for a time labored with exceeding great industry in casting out devils! He has now, however, abandoned the excellent work, declaring that he found so many possessed that his efforts were rendered entirely useless, and vowing that the harvest is still as great as it was ages ago, and the laborers equally few. No doubt, thought Peter, he who shall undertake so laborious a task, will have little time for idleness, for to set all things right for eternity, would require nothing short of eternity itself.
When nature made that man yonder, it no doubt went outside of itself in search of additional material. He is a compound too singular to have been made up entirely of its own qualities. He practices medicine without being able to read; plays the preacher and sometimes the prophet, and occasionally acts the pettifogger. By the one he pretends to save lives, souls by the other, and property by the third. He prays vociferously and predicts astounding developments, but never pays his debts; he is vehement in his denunciations of falsehood, but takes to lying quite naturally when it promises a fair remuneration; he deplores the errors of the world, and professes infallibly to drive away the charms of witches; he denounces credulity, and sees “spooks;” he is a philosopher, and pow-wows until exhausted in breath over all diseases too powerful for his remedies. Never entertaining more than one idea at a time, he must be ruled by it, no matter what it be or to what foolishness it may lead him. To-night he may dream of some impossible event or marvellous discovery, and to-morrow he will proclaim it as a settled fact or superhuman revelation. He is constantly propounding schemes to revolutionize the opinions and change the manners and practices of the world, and yet swears by his faith in predestination. A mass of incongruities, an embodiment of nonsense, he nevertheless finds dupes who, perhaps tired of existence, will swallow his prescriptions, meet their doom through his prophecies, and go to ruin through his counsel. Well, reflected Peter, many a man has prospered just because he was ignorant and stupid, and where wisdom starves foolishness must often grow fat.
Here you may behold a poor victim of misfortune, and a melancholy illustration of how much human nature is capable of enduring. From his boyhood he has been forced to encounter the terrors of adversity, and submit to the agonies of poverty and want. The thumps and cuffs, he declares, originally intended for equal distribution amongst several scores, through some sad mistake, have daily been heaped upon his single head, nor could he dodge the most trifling bump. Unable to counteract his evil fate, he eventually sought refuge against it by adopting the life of the soldier. Thus flying into the face of his destiny, with the odds all against him, he only aggravated it the more, adding to his miseries and increasing his privations. He has figured upon many a field of carnage, but fortune has ever refused to send some stray ball to end his career. Abbas, the Persian king, to prevent the indignities of his misfortunes from falling upon his wives, commanded their heads to be cut off in case he lost the battle—certainly an infallible preventative. Not being disposed to apply so rigorous a remedy to obtain relief, that unhappy creature has continued to submit to the fatalities he could not avoid, and perhaps there are few evils in nature which he has not felt. Though he has won the reputation of a brave soldier, it is the only thing he has ever gained from his countrymen, save their ingratitude. He has been to the wars, and returned to beg his bread. He has stood a faithful sentinel over his country’s honor in times of danger, and in its peace and prosperity he has hungered and thirsted, and no one pitied him. He has grappled with the foe, and been victorious: he has fought against his fate, and it conquered him; yet he is the same old patriot still. It is said that the enjoyments of life always counterbalance its ills, but he can present a tear for every pleasurable emotion he has ever experienced, and a pang for every impulse of joy that has ever lighted up his soul. There is, reflected Peter, a hardness of heart in the world which sometimes seems directed against a single individual, making his existence a fearful burthen and rendering even his hopes a terror to himself.
See there—an excellent humbug. He pretends to science, and under the pretext of enlightening our people, he has visited our town. To instruct the public is certainly an honorable employment, but he is a miserable preceptor. In the science to which he pretends he is a marvellous fool, but as an imposter he is a cunning knave. Knowing his ignorance, he wisely seeks to take advantage of the public curiosity, and by working it into a state of itching excitement, he effects more for himself than the most consummate skill or knowledge could attain. His stupid lectures are nightly greeted by gaping crowds, for which he is solely indebted to the fact, that he has provoked the general inquisitiveness through the common and always effectual expedient—giving private lectures to the ladies! Arouse the morbid tastes of a community, and the silliest mountebank will receive its encouragement. What a happy and convenient thing is science, reflected Peter, not only furnishing a sufficient excuse for all kinds of familiar discourse, but also taking off our hands much unpleasant labor by giving currency to such magnanimous instructors.
Here you may recognise an uncongenial creature who could not survive a single day without some object upon which to exercise his malice. Though he may never before have seen you, you may rest assured he will report you a villain, or something not far removed from one. Of course, it is his especial business to know all concerning you and your possessions, and his imagination will readily account for everything: in such a manner, too, as to leave you little cause for self-esteem. His only true delight appears to be in slander, and he would barter heaven for a bit of scandal; yet it were folly to endeavor to avoid him, for he is not without numerous counterparts whom you could scarcely hope to escape, though you should immediately quit the town. Should we now, reflected Peter, revive the ancient punishment of the Poles, who publicly forced the slanderer beneath a table and there compelled him to bark three several times, declaring that he “had lied like a dog,” what a fearful and terrific yelling and howling would suddenly be set up in the world!
See yonder—a “clever fellow.” He has managed to store his head with an abundance of old jokes and anecdotes, which, having formed an effectual barrier against anything else entering into it, are ever at his service. His tongue never flags, which may perhaps be owing to the light burthens it is required to bear, for he never troubles it to give expression to a heavy thought or weighty idea. It is said that Tithonus was transformed into a grasshopper on account of his inclination to talk, but the same propensity has only succeeded in converting that man into a liar. He can sing a song, whistle a jig, and although he may have talent to play a tolerable tune, it must be confessed he plays a game at cards with much greater skill. Polite and affable, he has the address to pass for a gentleman, which, together with a readiness to do their little errands and oblige their whims, brought him into great favor with the ladies, as you observe he is kindly recognised by every one who passes by him. He has a happy faculty of adapting himself to the company into which he may be introduced; and by long practice he has become so expert, that he now finds no more difficulty in entertaining a circle of staid, sober, and inquisitive dotards with “old wives’ fables,” than in directing some licentious carousal. Amongst the gifts with which nature has blessed him, none has proved of more service to him than his excellent stomach, which seems to be perfect proof against the law of “wear and tear.” He can keep you company at the table until you become stupid, drink your health until you become drunk, and then coolly furnish you with a lying excuse to avert the threatening frowns or pacify the angry rage of your wife. His opinions and his conscience are alike pliable, which enables him without trouble to suit himself either to your mind or heart, or to both if required. He will defend the prejudices and errors of the one with true friendly zeal, and commend the good of the other with the enthusiasm of a saint, or encourage its wickedness with the skill of a panderer. Whatever pleases you will be certain to delight him, and he will soon be so assimilated to your tastes as to declare you his “second self.” A rioting, roistering life, however, best comports with his fancy, and he is constantly leading some of his numerous friends into indecorous exploits or lawless adventures. He swears the world was “made for sport,” and why should he be as morose as an anchorite, or shut himself up like some sleepy monk, too drowsy to brush a fly from his nose? Then, too, he is so very liberal—not only generously sharing his pleasures with you, but even providing you with excellent reasons why you should partake of them, and reducing your most heinous offences into “common, every-day peccadilloes.” Are you young, he will persuade you that few faults or vices are so monstrous as to be denied a place amongst youthful follies; and if old, what could be wiser than to employ the little time remaining for you in the pursuit of pleasure and enjoyment? Freely mingling with all, and never finding fault with any, his accomplishments or traits of character have won for him the fine distinction of being a “very clever fellow,”—which to you may mean that he is an excellent and worthy man, inclined to society and familiar colloquies; whilst to another it would simply indicate that he is a silly and amusing clown, or a shrewd and cunning villain. Well, though such distinction may be highly honorable, it has been courted by so many, and is now so promiscuously conferred, that I make it a rule always to look with caution upon him who wears it, and only trust him in proportion to his cleverness.
Easy Peter heard nothing more, for his attention was here arrested by a large, overgrown youth, who was leaning against a ponderous tree which had very magnanimously been spared from the axe, in the progress of improvement, for the benefit of weary and sweltering pedestrians. This venerable relic of a past age, still standing erect with its extended branches, as if defying the inroads of time, had long been a great favorite with all the lazy loungers of the place, and its huge trunk, to the height of some five or six feet, presented a surface whose glistening and greasy smoothness could not have been imitated by any tradesman’s skill. Many were the changes it had witnessed, both in the old time and in the new, and there was not a loiterer within miles around whose faults and foibles had not been exhibited beneath its sheltering branches. Here the idle personages of the town would congregate in knots and coteries, detailing for the thousandth time their dry anecdotes, stale jokes, and wonderful traditions, in many of which the aged tree itself bore so conspicuous a part that nothing but its constant and inflexible immobility could have satisfied you that it was not a moving, active, and sensible creature. This happy retreat had become so very attractive indeed, that many an unpleasant and unquiet home was abandoned for its more peaceful shades; and numerous were the imprecations uttered against it by the ill-tempered dames of the neighborhood, who, rather than acknowledge a less creditable cause in their own tongues, accused the unconscious tree of enticing away their husbands to the great annoyance and neglect of themselves. If evil wishes could have blasted it, it would not have survived a single hour; and there was never a thunder cloud seen in the distance which was not hailed with many a prayer that the storm might terminate by casting its fragments and splinters to the winds. Though these viragoes could quickly raise terrific tempests around their husbands’ ears which never failed to take effect, the thunderbolts of nature had very wisely been placed beyond their reach; and thus they may renew their vengeful imprecations and malignant wishes, but the venerable tree continues to rear its towering form, and their disobedient husbands still take their ease beneath its shady limbs.
It was one of these idle individuals whom Peter now beheld, and his appearance sufficiently indicated that he had inherited a full portion of the rewards usually attending the habits to which he was addicted. His old, weather-beaten hat admirably betokened that it had done good service in its time. Although the many misfortunes it had encountered, and the narrow escapes it had made, left some very visible impressions, they had failed to deprive it of its entire brim and crown, and the shreds that remained still adhered to each other with a tenacity that spoke eloquently of their former harmonious love. His ill-conditioned apparel, like a divided household, evinced a strong disposition to mutiny and separate, and though much had been done to keep it together, evidently by his own unskilful hands, it still obstinately resisted his kind endeavors. Rent pieces of what had once borne a resemblance to cloth dangled loosely about his ankles, his knees and elbows, refusing to be confined, had broken through the tender barriers that had encased them, and many an old patch about his person would flap and flutter as the soft breeze whispered by him. These outward evidences of decay, having penetrated no deeper than his garments, exhibited his healthy and robust proportions in attractive and amusing contrast. A smile of satisfaction, which many of his more fortunate and prosperous neighbors might have envied, only contributed to bring out his prominent lips in bolder relief, and his countenance was radiant with that self-content which admires whatever is presented, and finds no fault with anything but inconvenience and labor. Happily for him, his rulers were more indulgent than Draco, the Athenian law-giver, who punished idleness with death, and the laws under which he lived more lenient than those of the ancient Gauls, which imposed a penalty upon the young for exceeding the measure of their girdles, because “so large a paunch, at such early years, could proceed from nothing else but laziness and gormandizing.” Blessed by having been born in more auspicious times, he seemed fully aware of his better destiny. Leaning against the shady side of his venerable friend, in whose mute companionship he so much delighted, he was looking leisurely around, as if engaged in taking the exact measurement of every object that met his vision. His easy carelessness appeared to make him oblivious of the busy world, being only occasionally disturbed as he gazed, now upon some blackened chimney, perhaps scenting the delicious odors of a grand Epicurean feast in the ascending smoke, then upon some stately mansion, no doubt pondering upon the tempting yet unattainable luxuries preparing within.
The more Peter contemplated this newly discovered subject, the more did the apparent similarity in sympathies and habits to himself, elicit his admiration. There is no one, thought he, so eminently wise and philosophic as the genuine loafer. Whilst the rest of mankind are struggling and grasping, losing to-morrow what they held with tenacious clutch to-day, this idle philosopher looks calmly on and laughs at the butterfly chase. He sees his fellows contending with bitterness and jealousy for a fancied good, and beholds the only pleasure it could afford crushed in their own hands in their eagerness to attain it. In the conflict around him, the passions of men are arrayed against each other, and the good sentiments of their natures compelled to yield before the concussions they encounter. It is a struggle in which he sees the most vicious too often carry off the greatest prizes, whilst none retires from the field without leaving a portion of his soul behind. Others may follow the alluring promises which tempt them, and be carried away by the first surging wave of excitement that sweeps along, he remains unmoved. Let the world go as it will, he betakes himself to the sweet shade of some friendly tree, and calmly, though rudely it may be, philosophises upon the vanities which dazzle other eyes and bedizzen other heads, but never soften the bed of the grave, nor promise repose beyond it. He knows that heaven is not to be purchased by the fleeting things that charm the eye and gratify human vanity, and the harmony of his spirits is never broken up in conflicts to possess them. Happily the dial of time moves on, never too slow nor too fast for him, and his even temper keeps him in a perpetual calm. Unmoved by the discord around him, he remains content in his solitary leisure, or quietly takes his ease with his companions, furnishing a worthy illustration of genuine and perfect freedom. Even Tully himself could not look upon that man as properly free who had not the privilege of sometimes doing nothing—a privilege rightly appreciated and justly exercised only by the loafer.
As Peter was indulging in these and like reflections, the vision upon which he gazed, and which had occasioned them, suddenly vanished. The rustling of the leaves had aroused him from his slumber, and behold! all had been but a dream. Rubbing his eyes and collecting his wandering thoughts, the only realities that greeted his returning senses were the hot sun above him, whose burning rays, no longer arrested by the shadow, which had gradually moved in another direction, had for some time been illuminating his countenance, and the unpleasant recollection that the village and his home were still several miles distant. To have his dreamy fancies thus dispelled by such a disagreeable transition, at some other time, might have urged him to the exhibition of no little ill-temper; but now he had enough to occupy his mind in reflecting upon the diversified visions of his dream. These he reviewed again and again, until unable to submit any longer to that itching desire which so often disturbs the ease of poor mortals when they imagine they have something interesting to communicate, he arose and slowly commenced the exceeding great labor of walking to the village. He reached it at last, just as the sun was sinking into the far west, and panting from the heat, more than from the exertion, he again seated himself in front of the tavern. He had added greatly to his store, and at once commenced to detail the events of his dream, and from that day to this he has faithfully continued to narrate them to every willing or unwilling listener.
M. H.