University of Virginia Library

A worthy man was this Mr. Hardup; and I
shall never, while I live, again judge of any body
by the expression of the face, or the common report
of the world.

It was in the spring of the year 1818, that I
bade adieu to the city, and went to take possession
of my farm, where I arrived, just when the
sun was gilding the mountain tops with his retreating
rays, as he sunk behind the equally high
hills on the opposite side of the river. The scene
indeed was beautiful to look at, but by no means
encouraging to a man who was going to set down
here, and labour for a livelihood. I was received
by an old man and his wife, who had occupied
my farm a long time, at a very moderate rent,
which they never paid. The aspect of the
house was melancholy. Broken windows, broken

chairs, and a broken table. But there was plenty
of fresh air, and I slept that night on a straw bed,
and studied astronomy through the holes in the roof.
The dead silence too that reigned in this lonely
retreat, contrasted with the ceaseless racket of the
town, to which I had been so long accustomed,
had a mournful effect on my spirits, and disposed
my mind to gloomy thoughts of the future. The
fatigue of my journey, however, at last overpowered
me, and I fell asleep with the certainty
of waking next morning with some terrible malady,
arising from my exposed situation. It is a singular
fact, that I slept that night more sweetly
than I had done, ever since I determined upon the
enjoyment of a life of luxury and ease; and what
is equally singular, I waked early in the morning,
without either a sore throat, a swelled face, or a
rheumatic headache. I am certain of this, for I
felt my throat, shook my head to hear if it cracked,
and looked in a bit of a glass to see if my face
retained its true proportions. I confess, I was
rather disappointed. “But never mind,” thought
I, “I shall certainly pay for it to-morrow.”

The morrow came, however, and I was again
disappointed. I was sure it would come the next
day. But wonderful as it may seem, I thought I
felt better than when I had slept in a feather bed,
and a close room, warmed with anthracite coal. I
began to be encouraged, and by degrees became
reconciled to the enormity of sleeping on a straw

bed, in a room where the air was playing about in
zephyrs, without catching cold. My reader, if he
chance to be in the enjoyment of ease and luxury,
will shrink with horror from my dinners, which
consisted of a piece of salt pork and potatoes for
the first course, and some bread and butter, or
bread and milk for the dessert. At first, I was certain
the pork would produce indigestion; but I
suppose as there was nothing particularly inviting
in it, I did not eat enough to do me any harm, for
I certainly felt as light as a feather after my meals,
and instead of dozing away an hour in a chair, was
ready for exercise at a minute's warning.

The old couple welcomed me to my “nice
place,” and were exceedingly eloquent in praise of
my nice, comfortable house, the nice pork, the
bread and butter, and the milk all equally “nice.”
By degrees I began to be infected with their unaffected
content, and sometimes actually caught
myself enjoying the scanty comforts before me. I
did not reason on the matter, and cudgel myself
into an unwilling submission to necessity: but I
benefitted by the example of the honest old couple,
without reasoning at all about it. Reason and
precept, are a sort of pedagogues, that at best, but
bring about a grumbling acquiescence; but example
comes in the shape of a gentle guide, himself
pursuing the right way, and not commanding
us to follow, but beckoning us on with smiles.

I confess, when I looked around on my domain,

I despaired of ever bringing it into order, beauty,
or productiveness. I knew not the magic of labour
and perseverance; nor did I dream that the fields
around me which seemed only fruitful in rocks and
stones, could ever be made to wave in golden
grain, or green meadows. The only spot of all
my extensive estate that seemed susceptible of improvement,
was about twenty acres that lay directly
before my door, between two shelving
rocky mountains, and through which ran a little
brook of clear spring water. But even this was
so sprinkled with rocks which had rolled down
from the neighbouring hills, that it was sufficiently
discouraging to a man who had for several years
worn spatterdashes, because he shrunk from pulling
on his boots. I spent a month nearly, in pondering
on what I should first undertake, and ended
in despairing to undertake any thing.

One day I was leaning over the bars, at the entrance
to my house, when a tall raw-boned figure,
with hardly an ounce of flesh to his complement,
came riding along, on a horse as hardy and rawboned
as himself. He stopt at the bars, and bade
me good morning. In justice to myself, I must
say, that though proud enough in all conscience,
I am not one of those churls, who because they
have a better coat to their backs, which by the
way, often belongs to the tailor, think themselves
entitled to receive the honest salute of an honest
man, with coldness or contempt. Beshrew me,

such arrant blockheads, they call this vulgar insolence,
when in fact, it is the impulse of nature
whispering to the inmost man, that there is nothing
in outward circumstances, or the difference
of wealth or dress, which places one being so high
above another, that he must not speak to him,
when they happen to meet or be thrown together.
Even when I was enjoying a life of luxury and
ease, and possessed of great wealth, it was a
pleasure to me to talk with these honest fellows
in linsey woolsey; and I will here bear this testimony,
that I have gained from them, more practical
knowledge, heard more plain good sense, and
caught more valuable hints for the government and
enjoyment of life, than I ever did from all the philosophers
I ever conversed with, or all the books I
ever read.

“Good morning, good morning,” said the tall
man on the tall horse, and “good morning, good
morning,” replied I, repating my salutation twice,
not to be outdone in courtesy.

“I believe you don't know me,” said he, after a
short pause, which short as it was, proved the
longest he ever afterwards made in his conversations
with me. “I believe you don't know me;
my name is Lightly, and I am your next neighbour
over the mountain yonder.”

“And my name is Ambler,” said I, “and I am
heartily glad to have you for a neighbour. Won't
you alight?”

“Why I don't care if I do; it was partly my
business to come and have a talk with you.”

Mr. Lightly accordingly dismounted, and fastening
his horse under a tree, to protect him from the
sun, which was waxing hot, followed me into the
house. After taking something, he looked about,
first at one mountain, then at another, and at
length began, “A rough country this you've got
into, Mr. Ambler.”

“Very,” replied I, “so rough that I am afraid I
shall never make any part of it smooth.”

“No?” said Mr. Lightly, “why not?”

“Look at the trees.”

“You must cut them down.”

“Look at the rocks.”

“You must grub them up, they'll make excellent
stone walls.”

“Doubtless, if I had the people who piled Ossa
on Pelion, to assist me.” Mr. Lightly had never
read the history of the great rebellion of the
Giants, and rather stared at me. “But,” added I,
“do you really think I can make any thing out of
these mountains?”

“Do I?” said he, “only come over and see
me to-morrow, and I will give you proof of it;
but no, now I think of it, not to-morrow, the
day after. I am going to walk to Poughkeepsie
to-morrow, and sha'nt be back till sundown.”

“Poughkeepsie!” cried I, “and back again in

one day: why'tis sixty miles; you mean you'll be
back the day after to-morrow evening.”

“No I don't: I mean to-morrow evening, God
willing; but my days are much longer than
yours.”

“I should think so: you mean to make the sun
stand still, like Joshua.”

“No I don't, though my name is Joshua. I
mean to be up at the first crowing of an old cock,
that never sleeps after three in the morning, in
summer.”

“But you've got a horse, why don't you ride?”

“O, that would take me two days; and I can't
well spare the time. I never ride when I'm in a
hurry.”

So saying, Mr. Lightly, after taking my promise
to come over the day after to-morrow, took
his departure, leaving me to ponder on the vast
improbability of a man walking to Poughkeepsie,
and back again in one day. If he does, thought
I, I shall begin to believe in the seven league
boots.

The next morning but one, accordingly, my old
man guided me by a winding path, to the summit of
the mountain, and pointing to a comfortable looking
house, surrounded by a large barn, and other
out houses, standing in the midst of green meadows
and cultivated fields, told me that was the
place to which I was going. As I paused awhile to
contemplate the little rural landscape, I could not

help wishing that it had pleased Providence to
cast my lot where the rocks were so scarce, and
the meadows so green. Lightly saw me at the
top of the hill, and making some half a dozen
long strides with his long legs, met me more than
half way up the mountain side.

“Good morning, good morning,” said he, repeating
it twice, for I soon found he was very fond
of talking, and often repeated the same thing to
keep himself going.

I returned his salutation, adding, “I see you
have got back.”

“O yes; but not quite so soon as I calculated.
I went about four miles out of my way, to bring
home my old woman's yarn from the manufactory,
and it was almost dark before I got home.”

During this brief dialogue, he had shot ahead
of me two or three times. “You are no great
walker, I see,” said Mr. Lightly.

“Why, no; I don't think I could walk sixty-eight
miles a day, in the month of June, without
being a little tired.”

“There's nothing like trying,” said he.

“I don't think I shall try,” thought I.

My new friend, Mr. Lightly, kept me with him
all day, showing me what he had done in the
course of eight or ten years, and describing his
farm, as it was when he first purchased it, for little
or nothing. We came to a beautiful meadow,

which I could not help admiring, and wishing I
had such a one on my farm,

“You have a much finer one,” said Lightly.

“Where? I never saw it.”

“Directly before your door.”

“That! why it is paved with rocks.”

“Well, and so was this.”

“What has become of them all?”

“There they are,” pointing to the wall which
surrounded the meadow.

The wall seemed a work of the Cyclops, or the
builders of the pyramids, for it was literally rocks
piled on rocks, “as if by magic spell.” I inquired
how he got these rocks one upon the other, as I
did not see any machinery.

“We had no machines but such as these,” holding
out his hard, bony hands, and baring part of
his arms, that were nothing but twisted sinews.

“But you did not dig these rocks out of the
ground, and pile them up here yourself, surely?”

“No, no; not quite that either. I have six
boys, who assisted me. You shall see them;
they will be home from work presently.”

“Fine boys' work! faith I should like to see
them.”

“Yonder they come,” said Mr. Lightly.

I followed the direction of his eye, and beheld
coming down the hill, afar off, what I took for
six giants, striding onward with intent to devour
us at one meal. As they advanced towards me,

my apprehensions subsided, for I saw in their
open countenances, and clear blue eyes, indubitable
tokens of harmlessness and good nature. I
never saw such men before; and here in the
mountains, out of the sphere of those artificial
distinctions, which level in some measure, all
physical disparities, I could not help feeling a sort
of qualm of inferiority. In the crowded city, and
amid the conflicts of civilized society, the mind
predominates; but here my business was to cut
down trees, and remove rocks, and the man best
qualified for these, was the great man for my
money. After seeing these “boys,” I did not so
much wonder at the miracles they had achieved.
The whole farm, in fact, exhibited proofs of the
wonders which may be wrought by a few strong
arms, animated and impelled by as many stout
hearts.

“You see what we have done,” said Lightly,
“why can't you do the same?”

“My good sir, I am neither a giant myself, nor
have I any sons that are giants.”

“Well, well,” said he, I will tell you what was
partly my reason—what was partly my reason, for
asking you over to see me. My youngest boy—step
out, Ahasuerus—my youngest boy is just married,
and as our hive is pretty full, it is necessary that
he should swarm out with his wife, who is a good
hearty, industrious girl, that will be excellent help
for your old woman. You can't get on at first,

without some hard work, and you will not be able
to work yourself for some time very hard; you will
want such a boy as mine, to break the way a little
smooth for you."

I caught at the proposal instantly; we were not
long coming to terms, and in three days the new
married couple, the boy and the girl, were established
at my house.

"She don't know any thing about housekeeping,"
said my old woman.

"You shall teach her," said I, and she went
about her work perfectly content."

"He is a mere boy," quoth my old man, "what
can he know of farming."

"He will learn it of you," said I, and the old
man felt as proud as a peacock.

My Polyphemus with two eyes, set to work
without delay, under the direction of my old man,
who talked a great deal, and did nothing; and
who, after having given his opinion was content
to follow that of the other. I was busy, too, looking
on; running about, doing little or nothing; but
taking an interest, and sympathizing with the lusty
labours of the young giant, Ahasuerus, to such a
degree that I have often actually fallen into a violent
perspiration, at seeing him prying up a large
stone. Thus I got a great deal of the benefit of
hard work, without actually fatiguing myself. By
degrees, I cam to work a little myself; and
when I did not work, I gave my advice, and saw

the others work. One day—it was the crisis of
my life—one day Ahasuerus and the old man were
attempting to raise a rock out of the ground by
means of a lever, but their weight was not sufficient.
They tried several times but in vain; whereat
the spirit came upon me, and seizing the far
end of the lever, I hung upon it with all my might,
kicking most manfully all the while. The rock
yielded to our united exertions, and rolled out of
the ground. It was my victory.

“We should not have got it out without you,”
said Ahasuerus.

“It was all your doing,” quoth the old man.

But, to tell the honest truth, I quaked in the
midst of my triumph, lest this unheard of exertion
might have injured a blood vessel, or strained
some of the vital parts. That night I thought,
some how or other, I felt rather faintish and languid.
But it may be I was only a little sleepy;
for I fell asleep in five minutes, and did not wake
till sunrise. It was some time before I could
persuade myself I was quite well; but being
unable fairly to detect any thing to the contrary,
I arose and walked forth into the freshness of the
morning, and my spirit laughed in concert with
the sprightly insects and chirping birds.

After this I became bolder and bolder, until
finally animated by the example of the great
Ahasuerus, I one day laid hold of a rock, and rolled
it fairly out of its bed. I was astonished at

this feat; I had no idea that I could make the
least exertion, without suffering for it severely in
some way or other. I never could do it before,
and what is the reason I can do it now, thought
I; I certainly used to feel very faint, on occasion
of sometimes drawing a hard cork out of a bottle.
My new monitor, experience, whispered me, that
this was nothing but apprehension, which when it
becomes a habit, and gains a certain mastery over
the mind, produces a sensation allied to faintness.
It embarrasses the pulsation, and that occasions a
feeling of swooning. The mental, causes the
physical sensation. I was never so happy in my
whole life, as when I received this lesson of experience.
I was no longer afraid of dying off hand,
of the exertion of drawing a cork.

Thus we went on during the summer. The salt
pork relished wonderfully; the bread and milk
became a delicious dessert; and the rocks daily
vanished from the meadow, like magic. The autumn
now approached, and I bethought to myself
how I should get through the winter, with so many
broken panes, and so many sky lights in the
roof of my house. There was neither carpenter
nor glazier in ten miles; and I was at a loss what
to do. I spoke to Ahasuerus the Great, about it.
“If you will get me a few shingles and nails, and
some glass and putty, I will do it myself,” said he.
“If you can do it, so can I,” said I; for I began
to be a little jealous of Ahasuerus. Accordingly,

I procured the materials, and mounting on the
roof, went to work zealously. It was a devil of
a business; but I got through at last. It did not
look very well, to be sure; but it kept out the
rain, the snow, and the keen air. Encouraged at
my unaccountable ingenuity as a carpenter, I
commenced glazier, and broke six panes of glass
off hand. With the seventh, however, I succeeded;
and well it was that I did so, for I had determined
this should be the last, and its failure
would have forever satisfied me, that none but a man
who had learned the trade of a glazier, could put in
pane of glass. As it was, I passed from the extreme
of depression and vexation, to that of exaltation
and vanity.

“How easy it is to get on in this world, and
with what small means, we may attain to all the
necessary comforts of life!” cried I; “men make
themselves slaves to ward off evils that are imaginary;
and sweat through a life of toil, to become
at last dependent on others, for what they
can do just as well themselves. What is the use
of plaguing myself with these eternal labours; I
will be idle and happy.”

“Remember the poet at Saratoga.”

“Remember the philosopher.”

“Remember the politician.”

“Remember the man of nerves,” whispered memory
in my ear, “and remember thyself—remember
Dyspepsy.” I fled from my conclusion as fast

as I could run, and worked that day harder than
ever.

Winter came, and having a vast forest of wood;
some of which was decaying, and the remainder
had reached its full maturity, I determined to have
it cut down and sold to pay my debt to my old
Scotsman. With the assistance of one or two
others, Ahasuerus performed wonders in the
woods, as he had done among the rocks. I
forget how many cords they sent to market, but
it produced enough to pay my old friend, and then
I stood upon the proudest eminence an unambitious
man can attain; I owed no man a penny,
and I could live without running in debt. This is
a great and solid happiness, not sufficiently appreciated
at this time. People that know no better,
are apt to think that winter in the country, is
one long series of dead uniformity; and that there
is no enjoyment away from the fire-side. But they
are widely mistaken; nature every where presents
a succession of varieties, and those of winter are
not the least beautiful. The short days of December
and January, are perhaps the most gloomy;
but have this advantage, that they are short, and
followed by good long nights, in which it is a luxury,
to nestle in a warm bed, hear the wind whistle,
or the light fleeces of snow patting against the windows,
and fall asleep thinking how much better
off we are, than millions of our fellow-creatures.
When the earth lies barren, the herbage destroyed,

and the forests, stript of their leafy honours, stand
bare to the winds, even then nature is not altogether
desolate in these lonely mountains. The
homely brown of the woods, is dotted here and
there by clusters of evergreens, that appear only
the more beautiful from the barrenness that surrounds
them; and even the gravity of the old grey
beard rocks, is often enlivened with spots of green
moss, that relieve their sober aspect. There is
music too in the wintry solitudes: for in the pure
clear air, every sound is musical. The lowing of
the cattle, the barking of the dog and the squirrel,
the drumming of the partridge, the echoes of the
fowler's gun, the woodman's axe, whose strokes
are by and bye followed by the loud crash of the
falling tree, all breaking in succession, and sometimes
mingling in chorus on the beautiful and
buoyant air, bear with them a lonely, yet touching
charm, which to a contented mind, in a healthy
frame, affords the means of real substantial enjoyment.

Anon nature puts on her robe of spotless white,
the true livery of youth, beauty, and innocence;
and then what an intense, ineffable lustre invests
her all around, and every where. The impurities,
the blemishes, and the deformities of the earth, are
all hidden under the snowy veil; the roughness
becomes smooth and glassy; the stagnant pools,
exhaling in summer disease and death, are robbed
of their poisons; the bogs all invisible, and the

very swamps salubrious. All is clear, pure, unsullied,
and still; the pale image of innocent beauty
clothed for a while in the trappings of the tomb.
All is soothing, but nothing lively: all grave and
solemn, yet nothing melancholy. But the night
is, if possible, still more holy and beautiful, when
the brightness of the moon-beams sporting on the
glittering surface of the snow, creates a sort of
female day, softer, and more soothing, yet almost
equally bright. Not an insect chirps or buzzes in
the ear; there is nothing of life stirring in nature's
veins; her pulses are still. A thousand glittering
stars, invisible at other times, come forth, as if to
view the scene stretched out below them, or watch
with sparkling eyes, the course of their bright
queen, athwart the heavens.

Then come the lengthening days, which at first
steal on imperceptibly, with steps noiseless and
slow, silently unlocking the chains of winter,
and setting nature free so easily, that we do not
hear the turning of the key. At first the trickling
of the waters from the roof, and the falling of the
icicles, apprize us of the advance of the sun,
to resume his glowing sceptre. Anon the little
sunny southern exposures begin to spot the vast
white winding sheet with brown; and here and
there, though very rarely, along the margin of
some living spring, the tender grass begins to peep
forth. Every day the empire of the sun extends
by slow degrees. The brooks begin again to

murmur and glisten, marking their courses by the
increased verdure of the grass, and willows, on
their margins; and by imperceptible degrees, the
few brown leaves that clung all winter to the
sapless branches, are pushed from their hold by
the swelling buds, and fall whispering to the
earth, to mingle with her crumbling atoms. It is
thus, with all the works of nature and with man.
The young buds push off the old dry leaves; the
very rocks are mutable; all feel the universal
law of change, and man the most of all.

I did not spend my winter idly, but went out
every day to see my wood cutters. In order to
give some interest to my walks, I purchased a
gun, procured a brace of fox hounds, and in time
became a mighty hunter, before the Lord. No
man of sentiment has ever heard the “deepmouthed
hound,” as the poet, with singular felicity
calls him, saluting the clear frosty morning, with
sonorous and far sounding challenges, without
feeling its inspiration, in the silence of the mountains.
I found their society, and that of my gun,
delightful, though truth obliges me to confess,
that I seldom got any thing but exercise and a
keen appetite in my sporting rambles. Almost the
first extensive excursion I made, being intent in
following the hounds, I unluckily fell through the
ice into a small pond, which the melting of the
first snows had formed in a little valley. I got
completely wet from head to foot; and I was

some miles from home. The whole way, I suffered
the horrible anticipation of diseases without
number; rheumatism, consumption, catarrh, sore
throat, inflammation of the chest, and a hundred
others. In short, I gave myself up for gone; and
was in such a hurry to get home and settle my affairs,
that I arrived there in a perfect glow. I lost
no time in changing my dress, and it being now
evening, went directly to bed, expecting next
morning to find myself as stiff as a poker. At
first, I fell into a profuse perspiration, and then into
a sound sleep, which lasted till morning.
I can hardly believe it myself, at this moment; I
awoke as well as ever I was in my life, and never
felt any ill effects from my accident. After this, I
defied the whole college of physicians, nay, all the
colleges put together. I considered myself another
Achilles, invulnerable even at the heel, and
now cared no more for the weather than a grizzly
bear, or a seeker of the north west passage.

Thus passed my first winter. In the spring I
paid my debt to Hardup with the product of my
wood. In the summer he came to see me. “I
would not come before, for fear you would think it
was to dun you,” said he. He has repeated his
visit every summer, for the last seven years, and
assures me every time, that were he not Hardup, he
would be Ambler. It would be tedious, neither is
it necessary to the moral of my story, to detail the
progress I made, and the wonders achieved by

Ahasuerus, from the period in which I first took possession
of my estate, to that in which I am now writing.
Great as they were, they bear no comparison
with those I have undergone. My farm is now a little
Eden, among the high hills, whose rugged aspects
only add richness and beauty to the cultivated
fields. I have saved enough to add two wings
to my old house, and to put it in good repair, besides
building a barn and other out-houses. Every
year I execute some little improvements, just to
keep up the excitement of novelty, and prevent me
from thinking too much about myself. Every fair
day in spring, summer, and autumn, it is my custom
to climb a part of the mountain, which overlooks
my little domain, and affords a full view of
its green or golden enclosures.

It lays at the head of a long narrow vale, skirted
on either side, by rough, rocky, steep mountains,
clothed with vast forests of every growth. My
house is on a little round knoll, just on the edge of
the meadow I spoke of at my first arrival here, and
which now has not a single stone above its surface.
The clear spring brook which meanders
through it, and is full of trout, forms the head of a
little river, which gathering, as it proceeds onward,
the tribute of the hills, waxes larger as it
goes, and appears, at different points far down the
valley, coursing its bright way to the Hudson. On
either side of the valley, among rocks and woods,
is sometimes seen a cultivated field or two, with a

house, and a few cattle; but, with this exception,
there is a perfect and beautiful contrast between
the bosom and the sides of the valley. The former
is all softness, verdure and fertility, the latter
all stately forests, or naked sublimity. In a clear
day, and a north west wind, I can see the junction
of the little stream, of which, as being the proprietor
of its parent spring, I consider myself the father,
with the majestic Hudson. I wish the reader,
that is if he is a clever man, or what is still better,
a clever and pretty lady, would come and see
my farm next summer.

I have paid but one visit to the city, and that
was to my old friend Hardup, who is become very
fond of me ever since he conferred a benefit.
While I was one day strolling along the Battery, I
exchanged one of those glances, which bespeak a
doubtful recognition, with a portly, rosy cheeked
man, I was sure I had seen before. On these occasions,
I generally make the first advances.

“I think I have seen you before sir,” said I,
“but really I can't tell exactly where.”

“I am in the same predicament,” replied he,
smiling; “your face is familiar, though I can't recall
your name.”

“My name is Ambler.”

“Good heavens! is it possible,” and though glad
to see me, he seemed quite astonished; “my
name is Abstract!” I almost fell backwards over
one of the benches; it was my friend, the man of

nerves, as hale and hearty, as if he never had any
nerves in his life.

“I'll not believe it,” said I, “why what has happened
to you?”

“O I'm married,” he replied, “and have enough
to do besides attending to my nerves; but you—
you are metamorphosed too; what has come over
you? are you too, married?”

“NO: I'm a bachelor still,” said I, “so you see
there are two opposite ways, to the same thing.”

Having exchanged our addresses, we parted the
best friends in the world.

“You had better get a wife,” cried he.

“I mean to,” I replied, “as soon as I can afford
the revenues of a city, to keep her in pin-money.”

“Pooh! if you can't keep her in pin-money,
you can keep her in order,” answered he of
the nerves, and strutted away, with the air of a
man who was either master at home, or so dexterously
led captive, as not to suspect it.

I begin to grow weary of talking about myself;
and as I have observed, that listeners and
readers, generally get tired before speakers and
authors, will here conclude my story. Its moral
is completed, and I hope cannot be mistaken.
I committed to paper the result of my experience,
not for the purpose of ridiculing the infirmities
of my fellow creatures, or laughing at
the miseries of human life. I wished, if possible,
to persuade them that a large portion of the cares

of this world, from which we are so anxious to
escape, are nothing more than blessings in disguise,
and thus to diminish that inordinate love of
riches, which is founded on the silly presumption
that they are the sources of all happiness. It is
under the dominion of this mistaken idea, that
money becomes indeed the root of all evil, by
being sought with an insatiable appetite, that
swallows up all our feelings of brotherhood, and
causes men to prey upon each other like the wild
beasts of the forest; nay, more—for even their
instinct teaches them to spare their own species.
Were mankind aware of the total inability of
wealth to confer content, or to make case and
leisure delightful, they would perchance seek it
with less avidity, and fewer sacrifices of that integrity,
which is a far more essential ingredient in
human happiness, than the gold for which it is so
often sacrificed. My history may also afford a
useful example to those whose situations entail on
them the necessity of labour and economy, by
teaching them the impossibility of reconciling a
life of luxury and ease, with the enjoyment of
jocund spirits, lusty health, and rational happiness.

“But what has become of your DYSPEPSY
all this time?” the reader will ask.

Faith, I had forgot that entirely!