The Looking-Glass for the Mind; or, Intellectual Mirror

His father, however, did not choose to be too hasty in giving credit to his son's predictions, and thought it more advisable to wait a little. While Anthony and his father were reasoning on this matter, the clouds burst, and down came a very heavy shower of rain. Poor Anthony was now doubly disappointed, and vented his grief in tears, refusing to listen to the voice of consolation.

The rain continued, without intermission, till three o'clock in the afternoon, when the clouds began to disperse, the sun resumed its splendour, the element its clearness, and all nature breathed the odours of the spring. As the weather brightened, so did the countenance of little Anthony, and by degrees he recovered his good humour.

His father now thought it necessary to indulge him with a little walk, and off they set. The calmness of the air, the music of the feathered songsters, the lively and enchanting verdure of the fields, and the sweet perfumes that breathed all around them, completely quieted and composed the troubled heart of the disappointed Anthony.

"Do not you observe," said his father to him, "how agreeable the change is of every thing before you? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull every thing appeared to you yesterday; the ground was parched up for want of rain; the flowers had lost their colour, and hung their heads in languor; and, in short, all nature seemed to be in a state of inaction. What can be the reason, that nature has so suddenly put on such a different aspect?" – "That is easily accounted for, Sir," said Anthony, "it undoubtedly is occasioned by the rain that has fallen to-day."

Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words, than he saw his father's motive for asking him the question. He now plainly perceived the impropriety of his late conduct, in being so unhappy about what was evidently so universally serviceable. He blushed, but his father took no notice of it, judging that his own sense would sufficiently teach him another time, without reluctance, to sacrifice selfish pleasure to the general good of the community at large.

THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN, THE GARDENER

In the city of Lincoln lived an honest and industrious gardener, whose name was Jonathan, and who was in general considered as the most skilful in his profession of any in that county. His fruits were much larger than any of his neighbours, and were generally supposed to have a more exquisite flavour.

It was the pride of all the neighbouring gentlemen to have Jonathan's fruits to form their desserts, so that he was under no necessity of sending the produce of his garden to market, as he was always sure of meeting with a sale for them at home. His prudence and assiduity increased as his good fortune enlarged, and, instead of riches making him idle, he attended more closely to cultivation.

Such a character and situation could not fail of procuring him a suitable matrimonial mate, and he accordingly married a young woman in the neighbourhood, whose name was Bella, and who was both prudent and handsome. The first year of their marriage was as comfortable as they could wish for; for Bella assisted her husband in his business, and every thing prospered with them.

This happiness, however, was not to last long; for near his house lived another gardener, whose name was Guzzle, and who spent his time, from morning to night, in an alehouse. The merry and thoughtless humour of Guzzle, by degrees, began to be pleasing to Jonathan, who soon fell into the same ruinous error. At first, he only went now and then to drink with him, and talk to him about gardening; but he very soon began to drop the subject of plants, and delight only in the praises of malt.

Bella saw this change in her husband with the utmost grief and consternation. As yet, not having sufficient experience to attend the wall-fruit herself, she was frequently obliged to fetch him home to his work, when she generally found him in a state of intoxication. It would often have been better had he kept out of the garden than gone into it; for his head was generally so muddled with beer, when he went to work on his trees, that his pruning-knife committed the greatest depredations, cutting away those branches which ought to have been left, and leaving those that were useless.

Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the garden fell off in the quality and quantity of its fruit, and the more Jonathan perceived the decay, the more he gave himself up to drinking. As his garden gradually failed in procuring him the means of getting strong liquor, he first parted with his furniture, and then with his linen and clothes.

Bella, in the mean time, did what little she could to keep things together; but all to no purpose. One day, when she was gone to market with some roots she had reared herself, he went and sold his working utensils, and immediately went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge what must be the situation of poor Bella on her return! It was indeed a heart-breaking consideration, to be thus reduced to poverty by the folly of her husband; but yet she loved him, and equally felt for him as for herself, but still more for an infant, as yet but six months old, and which received its nourishment from her breast.

In the evening Jonathan came home drunk, and, swearing at his wife, asked her for something to eat. Bella handed him a knife, and put before him a large basket covered with her apron; Jonathan, in a pet, pulled away the apron; but his astonishment was inexpressible, when he beheld nothing in the basket but his own child fast asleep. "Eat that," said Bella, "for I have nothing else to give you. It is your own child, and if you do not devour it, famine and misery will in a short time."

Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone at these words, and for some time remained speechless, with his eyes fixed on his little sleeping son. At last recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart eased itself in tears and lamentations. He rose and embraced his wife, asked her pardon, and promised to amend; and what was still better, he was faithful to his promise.

Though his wife's father had for some time refused to see him, yet, on being made acquainted with his promises of reformation, he advanced money sufficient to enable him to restore his garden to its former state, Jonathan did not deceive him; for his garden put on another appearance, and cut a more splendid figure than ever. After this, neither his prudence nor activity forsook him, but he became at once, and continued so even to old age, the honest man, the indulgent husband, and the tender father. He would sometimes tell this tale of his follies to his son, as a lesson to him, how dangerous it is to get connected with bad company, and how easily human nature is led astray by the poison of example. The son, who thus acquired knowledge at the father's former expense, became a wise and prudent man, and conceived such an aversion to idleness and drinking, that he continued all his life as sober as he was laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause of reformation in a deluded father.

THE SPARROW'S NEST

Billy Jessamy, having one day espied a sparrow's nest under the eves of the house, ran directly to inform his sisters of the important discovery, and they immediately fell into a consultation concerning the manner in which they should take it. It was at last agreed, that they should wait till the young ones were fledged, that Billy should then get a ladder up against the wall, and that his sisters should hold it fast below, while he mounted after the prize.

As soon as they thought these poor little creatures were properly fledged, preparations were made for the execution of their intended plan. The old birds flew backwards and forwards about the nest, and expressed, as well as they were able, the sorrow and affliction they felt on being robbed of their young. Billy and his two sisters, however, paid no regard to their piteous moans; for they took the nest, with three young ones in it.

As they had now got the innocent prisoners in their possession, the next thing to be considered was, what they should do with them. The younger sister, being of a mild and tender-hearted disposition, proposed putting them into a cage, promising to look after them herself, and to see that they wanted for nothing. She reminded her brother and sister how pretty it would be to see and hear those birds when grown up.

Billy, however, was of a very different opinion; for he insisted on it, that it would be better to pluck off their feathers, and then set them down in the middle of the room, as it would be very funny to see how they would hop about without feathers. The elder sister was of the same way of thinking as the younger; but Billy was determined to have the matter entirely his own way.

The two little ladies, finding they were not likely to have things as they wished, gave up the point without much hesitation; for Billy had already begun to strip the poor helpless birds. As fast as he plucked them, he put them down on the floor, and it was not long before the little birds were stripped of all their tender feathers. The poor things cried Weet! Weet! and complained in the most piteous accents; they shook their little wings, and shuddered with cold.

Billy, however, who had not the least kind of feeling for their sufferings, carried his persecutions still further, pushing them with his toe, to make them go on when they stopped, and laughing most heartily whenever they staggered or tumbled down through weakness. Though his two sisters at first setting off had pleaded against this cruel kind of sport, yet, seeing their brother so merry on the occasion, they forgot their former dictates of humanity, and joined in the cruel sport with him. Such, as we saw in the preceding tale, is the influence of bad example!

In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at a distance they saw their tutor approaching. This put them into some flurry, and each pocketed a bird. They would have avoided their tutor, but he called to them, and asked their reason for wishing to shun him. They approached him very slowly, with their eyes cast downwards, which convinced him that something amiss was going forwards.

On their answering, that they were only playing, their tutor observed to them, that they very well knew he never denied them innocent amusement, but, on the contrary, was always glad to see them cheerful and happy. He took notice that each held one of their hands in their pocket, upon which he insisted on their pulling them out, and letting him see what it was they endeavoured to conceal.

They were obliged to comply, much against their will, when each produced a poor bird, that had been stripped of its feathers. The tutor was filled with pity and indignation, and gave each of them a look, that was more dreadful than any words he could have spoken. After some silence, Billy attempted to justify himself by saying, that it was a droll sight to see sparrows hopping about without feathers, and he could see no harm in it.

"Can you then," said the tutor to Billy, "take pleasure in seeing innocent creatures suffer, and hear their cries without pity?" Billy said he did not see how they could suffer from having a few feathers pulled off. The tutor, to convince him of his error, pulled a few hairs from his head, when he roared out loudly, that he hurt him. "What would your pain be then," said the tutor, "were I thus to pluck all the hair off your head? You are sensible of the pain you now feel, but you were insensible of the torment to which you put those innocent creatures, that never offended you. But that you, ladies, should join in such an act of cruelty, very much surprises me!"

The ladies stood motionless, and then, without being able to say a word, sat down, with their eyes swimming in tears; which their tutor observing, he said no more to them. But Billy still persisted in his opinion, that he did the birds no harm; on the contrary, he said, they showed their pleasure by clapping their wings and chirping.

"They clapped their wings," said the tutor, "from the pain you put them to; and what you call chirping, were cries and lamentations. Could those birds have expressed themselves in your speech, you would have heard them cry, 'Ah, father and mother! save us, for we have fallen into the hands of cruel children, who have robbed us of all our feathers! We are cold and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we shall soon die!'"

The little ladies could no longer refrain from tears, and accused Billy of leading them into this act of cruelty. Billy was himself become sensible of his faults, and had already felt the smart of having a few hairs plucked from his head; but the reproaches of his own heart were now visible on his countenance. It appeared to the tutor, that there was no need of carrying the punishment any further; for the error Billy had committed did not arise from a natural love of cruelty, but merely from want of thought and reflection. From this moment Billy, instead of punishing and tormenting dumb creatures, always felt for their distresses, and did what he could to relieve them.

WILLIAM AND THOMAS; Or, the Contrast between Industry and Indolence

In a village, at no small distance from the metropolis, lived a wealthy husbandman, who had two sons, William and Thomas, of whom the former was exactly a year older than the latter.

On the day that the second son was born, the husbandman set in his orchard two young apple-trees of an equal size, on which he bestowed the same care in cultivating, and they throve so much alike, that it was a difficult matter to say which claimed the preference.

As soon as the children were capable of using garden implements, their father took them, on a fine day, early in the spring, to see the two plants he had reared for them, and called after their names. William and Thomas having admired the beauty of these trees, now filled with blossoms, their father told them that he made them a present of them in good condition, and that they would continue to thrive or decay, in proportion to the labour or neglect they received.

Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his attention to the improvement of his tree, by clearing it of insects as soon as he discovered them, and propping up the stem, that it might grow perfectly upright. He dug all round it, to loosen the earth, that the root might receive nourishment from the warmth of the sun and the moisture of the dews. No mother could nurse a child more tenderly in its infancy, than Thomas did his tree.

His brother William, however, pursued a very different conduct; for he loitered away all his time in the most idle and mischievous manner, one of his principal amusements being to throw stones at people as they passed. He kept company with all the idle boys in the neighbourhood, with whom he was continually fighting, and was seldom without either a black eye or a broken shin. His poor tree was neglected, and never thought of, till one day in the autumn, when, by chance, seeing his brother's tree loaded with the finest apples, and almost ready to break down with the weight, he ran to his own tree, not doubting but he should find it in the same pleasing condition.

Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise, when, instead of finding the tree loaded with excellent fruit, he beheld nothing but a few withered leaves, and branches covered with moss. He instantly went to his father, and complained of his partiality in giving him a tree that was worthless and barren, while his brother's produced the most luxuriant fruit. He therefore thought that his brother should at least give him one half of his apples.

His father told him, that it was by no means reasonable, that the industrious should give up part of their labour to feed the idle. "If your tree," said he, "has produced you nothing, it is but a just reward of your indolence, since you see what the industry of your brother has gained him. Your tree was equally full of blossoms, and grew in the same soil; but you paid no attention to the culture of it. Your brother suffered no visible insect to remain on his tree; but you neglected that caution, and left them even to eat up the very buds. As I cannot bear to see even plants perish through neglect, I must now take this tree from you, and give it to your brother, whose care and attention may possibly restore it to its former vigour. The fruit it shall produce must be his property, and you must no longer consider yourself as having any right therein. However, you may go to my nursery, and there choose any other which you may like better, and try what you can do with it; but, if you neglect to take proper care of it, I shall also take that from you, and give it to your brother, as a reward for his superior industry and attention."

This had the desired effect on William, who clearly perceived the justice and propriety of his father's reasoning, and instantly got into the nursery, to choose the most thriving apple-tree he could there meet with. His brother Thomas assisted him in the culture of his tree, advising him in what manner to proceed; and William made the best use of his time, and the instructions he received from his brother. He left off all his mischievous tricks, forsook the company of idle boys, and applied himself cheerfully to work; and in autumn received the reward of his labour, his tree being then loaded with fruit.

From this happy change in his conduct, he derived the advantage, not only of enriching himself with a plentiful crop of fruit, but also of getting rid of bad and pernicious habits. His father was so perfectly satisfied with his reformation, that the following season he gave him and his brother the produce of a small orchard, which they shared equally between them.

MISCHIEF ITS OWN PUNISHMENT, EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF WILLIAM AND HARRY

Mr. Stevenson and his little son Richard, as they were one fine day walking in the fields together, passed by the side of a garden, in which they saw a beautiful pear-tree loaded with fruit. Richard cast a longing eye at it, and complained to his papa that he was very dry. On Mr. Stevenson's saying that he was dry also, but they must bear it with patience till they got home, Richard pointed to the pear-tree, and begged his papa would let him go and get one; for, as the hedge was not very thick, he said he could easily get through, without being seen by any one.

Richard's father reminded him, that the garden and fruit were private property, and to take any thing from thence, without permission, was nothing less than being guilty of a robbery. He allowed that there might be a possibility of getting into the garden without being seen by the owner of it; but such a wicked action could not be concealed from Him who sees every action of our lives, and who penetrates even to the very secrets of our hearts; and that is God.

His son shook his head, and said, he was sensible of his error, and would no more think of committing what might be called a robbery. He recollected that parson Jackson had told him the same thing before, but he had then forgotten it.

At this instant a man started up from behind the hedge, which had before concealed him from their sight. This was an old man, the owner of the garden, who had heard every thing that had passed between Mr. Stevenson and his son. "Be thankful to God, my child," said the old man, "that your father prevented you from getting into my garden with a view to deprive me of that which does not belong to you. You little thought, that at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catch thieves, which you could not have escaped, and which might have lamed you for the rest of your life. I am, however, happy to find that you so readily listen to the first admonition of your father, and show such a fear of offending God. As you have behaved in so just and sensible a manner, you shall now, without any danger or trouble, partake of the fruit of my garden." He then went to the finest pear-tree, gave it a shake, and brought down near a hatful of fruit, which he immediately gave to Richard.

This civil old man could not be prevailed on to accept of any thing in return, though Mr. Stevenson pulled out his purse for that purpose. "I am sufficiently satisfied, Sir," said he, "in thus obliging your son, and were I to accept of any thing, that satisfaction would be lost." Mr. Stevenson thanked him very kindly, and having shaken hands over the hedge, they parted; Richard at the same time taking leave of the old man in a polite manner.

Little Richard, having finished several of the pears, began to find himself at leisure to talk to his papa. "This is a very good old man," said he; "but would God have punished me, had I taken these pears without his leave?" "He certainly would," replied Mr. Stevenson; "for he never fails to reward good actions, and chastise those who commit evil. The good old man fully explained to you this matter, in telling you of the traps laid for thieves, into which you must have inevitably fallen, had you entered his garden in a clandestine manner. God orders every thing that passes upon earth, and directs events so as to reward good people for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their crimes. In order to make this more clear to you, I will relate to you an affair which happened when I was a boy, and which I shall never forget." Richard seemed very attentive to his father; and having said he should be very glad to hear his story, Mr. Stevenson thus proceeded: —

"When I lived with my father, and was much about your age, we had two neighbours, between whose houses ours was situated, and their names were Davis and Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son named William, and Mr. Johnson one also of the name of Harry. Our gardens were at that time separated only by quickset hedges, so that it was easy to see into each others grounds.

"It was too often the practice with William, when he found himself alone in his father's garden, to take pleasure in throwing stones over the hedges, without paying the least regard to the mischief they might do. Mr. Davis had frequently caught him at this dangerous sport, and never failed severely to reprimand him for it, threatening him with severe punishment, if he did not desist.

"This child, unhappily, either knew not, or would not take the trouble to reflect, that we are not to do amiss, even when we are alone, for reasons I have already mentioned to you. His father being one day gone out, and therefore thinking that nobody could see him, or bring him to punishment, he filled his pockets with stones, and then began to fling them about at random.

"Mr. Johnson happened to be in his garden at the same time, and his son Harry with him. This boy was of much the same disposition as William, thinking there was no crime in committing any mischief, provided he were not discovered. His father had a gun charged, which he brought into the garden, in order to shoot the sparrows that made sad havoc among his cherries, and was sitting in a summer-house to watch them.

"At this instant a servant came to acquaint him that a strange gentleman desired to speak with him, and was waiting in the parlour. He therefore put down the gun in the summer-house, and strictly ordered Harry by no means to touch it; but he was no sooner gone, than this naughty son said to himself, that he could see no harm in playing a little with the gun; and therefore took it on his shoulder, and endeavoured to act the part of a soldier.

"The muzzle of the gun happened to be pointed towards Mr. Davis's garden; and, just as he was in the midst of his military exercises, a stone thrown by William hit him directly in one of his eyes. The fright and pain together made Harry drop the gun, which went off, and in a moment both gardens resounded with the most dismal shrieks and lamentations. Harry had received a blow in the eye with a stone, and the whole charge had entered William's leg; the sad consequences of which were, the one lost his eye, and the other a leg."

Richard could not help pitying poor William and Harry for their terrible misfortune; and Mr. Stevenson was not angry with his son for his tenderness. "It is true," said he "they were much to be pitied, and their parents still more, for having such vicious and disobedient children. Yet it is probable, if God had not early punished these boys, they would have continued their mischievous practices as often as they should find themselves alone; but by this misfortune they learned to know that God publicly punishes all wickedness done in secret. This had the desired effect, as both ever after left off all kinds of mischief, and became prudent and sedate. Certain it is, that an all-wise Creator never chastises us but with a view to add to our happiness."