1811

Ibit eo quo vis, qui zonam perdidit,—HORACE.

IMPATIENCE under misfortunes, is certainly one of the failings of our nature which contributes more than any other to embitter the cup of life; and has been the immediate cause of more acts of desperate depravity, than any passion of the human soul. The loss of fortune, or favour, is particularly apt to give birth to this tormenting sensation; for, as neither the one nor the other frequently occurs without some imprudence, or neglect, of our own, having been the primary cause; so the reflection on that, always furnishes the gloomy retrospect with its principal sting.

I had an old and valuable friend in the country, who, on any cross accident happening, that vexed his associates, or inflamed them with wrath, made always the following sage observations : "There are just two kinds of misfortunes, gentlemen," said he, "at which it is folly ever either to be grieved, or angry; and these are, things that can be remedied; and things that cannot be remedied." He then proved, by plain demonstration, that the case under consideration belonged to one or other of these classes, and showed how vain and unprofitable it was to be vexed at it.

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This maxim of my friend's may be rather too comprehensive, but it is

No. 29.

nevertheless a good one; for a resolu tion to that effect, cannot fail of leading a man to his proper mode of action. It indeed, comprehends all things whatsoever, and is as much as to say, that a man should never suffer himself to grow angry at all; and upon the whole, I think, if the matter. be candidly weighed, it will appear, that the man who suffers himself to be transported. with anger, or teezed by regret, is commonly, if not always the principal sufferer by it; either immediately, or in future. Rage is unlicensed, and runs without a curb. It lessens a man's respectability among his cotemporaries; grieves and hurts the feelings of those connected with him by the tender and social ties of love and friendship; harrows his own soul; and transforms a rational and accountable creature, into the image of a fiend.

An extreme impatience under misfortunes, is so nearly allied to the passion of anger, that they seem to originate in the same principle, and both to be produced by the colision of opposite and prominent features, in the dispositions of the mind. They likewise both point toward the same direction. The one breaks forth uncontrouled, and wreaks its vengeance on others; the other is nursed silently in the bosom, where it sheds its malignant influences, to the ruin of his peace who gives it

shelter. Some justify their anger by a reference to the Scriptures of Truth, where it is said, "Be ye angry and sin not ;" but the experiment is extremely ticklish, and ought to be risked as seldom as possible; and sharp regret for that which cannot be recalled, is heaping fuel on a fire in order to extinguish it. A man is really, in a great measure, either happy, or miserable, fortunate, or unfortunate, as he believes himself to be so.

I do not recommend a stupid, insensible apathy, with regard to the affairs of life; nor yet that listless, inactive resignation, which persuades a man to put his hands in his bosom, say it is the will of Heaven, and sink under embarrassments without a struggle; the contempt which is his due, will infallibly overtake such a man, and poverty and wretchedness press hard upon his declining years.

The most judicious way of encountering misfortunes of every kind, is to take up a firm resolution, never to shrink from them, when they cannot be avoided; not yet to be tamely overcome by them, or add to our anguish by useless repining; but by a steady and cheerful perseverance, endeavour to make the most of a bad bargain that still remains in our power; for it is a grievous loss, indeed, with regard to fortune or favour, that perseverance will not sooner or later overcome.

The various ways in which misfortunes affect different minds are often placed in extremes so manifestly opposite, that in contemplating them, we may well be led to suppose, that the human soul is animated, and directed, in some persons, by corporeal functions

formed of different materials from those in other persons of the same family, frequently differing most widely in this respect.

I have a female cousin, on whom unfortunate accidents have the singular effect of causing violent laughter, which with her is proportioned much better to the calamity, than crying is with many others of the sex. I have seen the losing of a rubber at whist when there was every probability that her party would gain it, cause her to laugh till her eyes streamed with water; and the breaking of a tureene, or set of valuable china, quite convulsed her. Danger always makes her to sing, and misfortunes to laugh. If we hear her in any apartment of the farm house, or the offices, singing very loud, and very quick, we are sure something is on the point of going wrong with her; but if we hear her burst out a laughing, we know that it is past redemption. Her memory is extremely defective; indeed, she scarcely seems to retain any perfect recollection of past events; but her manners are gentle, easy, and engaging; her temper good, and her humour inexhaustible; and with all her singularities, she certainly enjoys a greater share of happiness than her chequered fortune could possibly have bestowed on a mind more enlightened.

It will appear on a philosophic scrutiny of human feelings, that the extremes of laughing and crying, are more nearly allied than their general tenor would insinuate. With children, the one frequently dwindles, or increasess into the other. I once happened to sit beside an African in the pit of our theatre, while the tragedy of Douglas

I have another near relation, who, besides being possessed of an extensive knowledge of literature, and a refined taste, is endowed with every qualification requisite to constitute the valuable friend, the tender parent, the indulgent husband, and the faithful, lover; yet his feelings, and the powers of his conception, are so constructed, as to render him a constant-prey to corroding care. No man can remain many days in his company without saying in his heart," that man was made to be unhappy."

What others view as slight misfortunes, affect him deeply, and in the event of any such happening to himself, or those that are dear to him, he will groan from his inmost soul, perhaps, for a whole night after it first comes to his knowledge, and occasionally for many days afterwards, as the idea recurs to him. Indeed, he never wants something to make him miserable, for on being made acquainted with any favourable turn of fortune, the only mark of joy that it produces, is an involuntary motion of the one hand to scratch the other elbow; and his fancy almost instantaneously presents to him such a number of difficulties, dangers, and bad consequences attending it, that though

I have often hoped to awake him to joy by my tidings, I always left him more miserable than I found him.

I have another acquaintance, whom we generally denominate the knight, who falls upon a method totally dif ferent to overcome misfortunes. On the event of any cross accident happening to him, or vexatious circumstance, he makes straight towards his easy chair -sits calmly down upon it-clenches his right hand, with the exception of his fore-finger, which is suffered to continue straight-strikes it violently against his left shoulder,—keeps it in. that position, with his eyes fixed upon one particular point, till he has cursed the event, and all connected with it most heartily, then, with a countenance of perfect good humour, indulges in a pleasant laugh; and if it is possible to draw a comical or ridiculous inference from the whole, or any part of the affair, he is sure to do it, that the laugh may be kept up; if he fail, he again resumes his former posture, and consigns all connected with it to the devil; then takes another good hearty laugh, and in a few minutes, the affair is no more thought or heard of.

John Leggit is a lad about fifteen, a character of great curiosity, whom, nature seems to have formed in one of her whims. He is not an idiot, for he can perform all the drudgery about his master's house, herd the cows, and run the errands too, providing there be no dead horses on the road, or any very ugly thing, in which case, the time of his return is very uncertain.. Among other singularities in his character, the way that misfortunes affect him is not the least striking. He once became

warmly attached to a young hound, that was likewise very fond of him, paying him all the grateful respect so peculiar to that faithful animal. John loved him above all earthly things; some even thought that he loved him better than his own flesh and blood, the hound came to an untimely end one day, John never got such sport in his life, he was convulsed with laughter when he contemplated the features of his dead friend,-when about his ordinary business he appeared extremely melancholy, but whenever he came and looked at the carcass, he was transported with delight, and expressed it by the most extravagant raptures.

He next attached himself to a turkey cock, whom he trained to come at his call, and pursue and attack such as he ordered him. John was very fond of this amusement, but it proved fatal to his favourite an irritated passenger knocked him dead at a stroke-this proved another source of unbounded merriment to John-his stiff half spread wing the one leg stretched forward, and the other back, were infinitely amusing but the abrupt crook in his neck-his turned up eye, and open bill, were quite irresistible-John laughed at them till he was weak-few ever loved their friends better than John did while they were alive-no man was ever so much delighted with them after they were dead.

To trace these various affections of the human mind to their respective sources is a pleasant and delightful study, but there are abundance of better philosophers in the present age than The Spy. I will therefore content myself with relating a story.

Gregory Me, from being an assistant clerk to a merchant, became, by his industry, one of the wealthiest wine and spirit merchants in Edinburgh.His darling daughter was married privately to one of his clerks-old Gregory was irritated-turned them both out of his house, but mentioned the circumstance to none of his friends Richard loved his wife with the most tender affection, and resolved to do every thing in his power to maintain her decently. Being unacquainted with any other business, he opened a small cellar, near the head of the Canongate. One of the principal brewers gave him credit for as much porter and ales as he could sell, and he made shift to keep a small stock of spirits besides.-By frugality and strict attention, he found at' the end of the year, that he had cleared above £. 100, and established his credit. Few men ever felt happier than Richard about this time-the idea of being independent and supporting his dear Jessy who had ventured every thing for him, without being obliged to cringe to her father, who he thought had rather used them harshly, heightened his energy and perseverance-nothing appeared too hard for him.-Old Gregory loved his daughter, and was pleased to hear of his son-in-law's behaviour, and finally sent a letter, inviting them both to dine with him, as if nothing had ever happened amiss between them. When Richard opened the letter his spirit rose indignant, and he determined not to go; but when he read it to his wife, and acquainted her with his resolution, she burst into tears." What aileth thee my dear," said he, "What would you have me do?" "What you please

Richard." "He turned us out of his house empty." "Yes, but he is still my father." "If we had not appeared to thrive in the world he would never have countenanced us," 99.66 perhaps he would; and as we did not perform our duty to him, the blame was ours; and then, consider Richard, that he is my father;" "And he shall be mine too," said Richard, taking her in his arms and kissing her; "We'll both dine with him to-day;" they went, and were all extremely happy-old Gregory loved them better than if he had never been angry with them-Richard's cellar was soon stocked with the best of wines, and spirits, in addition to its former contents an additional room was added to their lodgings-the value of money lessened in Richard's eyes-the calm steady means of securing a decent competency was overlooked,-What signified a man having credit, or a sum of money, if by means of these he could not amass a fortune!-by one bold, but illegal adventure, he lost £600.--He was ruined at once,-his late kind benefactor too was involved;-friends and fortune all were gone ;-it was a most distressing circumstance,-the only visible effect that it had upon Richard, was that of rousing his energy and perseverance again, to the highest possible height, he pored upon his books that night to a much later hour than usual, and balanced every farthing as he proceeded, taking in things of the smallest value, which had for some time been disregarded ;-when he informed his Jessy of their misfortune, the only feeling apparent in his demeanour, was that of a slight impatience, but it was an impatience for further exertion,

Would to heaven the The Spy, and all his readers, were endowed with this happy disposition of mind! Jessy's tender heart sunk under the idea of their blasted hopes-she fainted away; and on recovering, shed abundance of tears, which gradually calmed her grief.

-Richard was grieved for his wife, not for his misfortune, and in his heart blamed her for her imbecility of mind; not considering, as we have been doing, how variously the same incidents affect different minds;-he could not close his eyes that night, so ardently was he set on further exertions. He arose as soon as it was day and went towards his cellars; it was too early to open, so he walked straight on; there was nothing stirring, save a few poor abandoned females, who were still lingering about the streets and entries,-Richard looked at them and said to himself with a sigh, "Lord what is man!-must it for ever be thus? must one human and rational being always be working the ruin and misery of another? instead of being grieved, I have great reason for being thankful that I am not reduced so low as those wretches, who are lost to all hope with regard to the things of this world, and thoughtless of the world to come ;-what, what, will become of them?" When he reached the head of the Kirk wynd, he saw the beams of the rising sun crowning Arthur's seat with gold, and he determined to make the tour of the Calton-hill, that he might enjoy the prospect, and the breeze of the morning.

In ascending, he very naturally turned aside to the green ridge, on the top of the rock that overhangs the north back of the Canongate. He paused to