TOO MUCH FOR THE WHISTLE.

WHEN I was a child about seven years of age, my friends, on a holiday, filled my pocket with halfpence. I went directly towards a shop where toys were sold for children; and being charmed with the sound of a whistle, that I met by the way, in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of the money; and they laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation. My reflections on the subject gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure. This little event, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind: so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Do not give too much for the whistle; and so I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.

When I saw any one too ambitious of court favour, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose,

222

TOO MUCH FOR THE WHISTLE.

his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect; He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his whistle.

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth: Poor man! said I, you indeed pay too much for your whistle.

When I met a man of pleasure, sacrificing every laudable improvement of mind, or of fortune, to mere sensual gratification; Mistaken man! said I, you are providing pain for yourself, instead of pleasure; you give too much for your whistle.

If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipage, all above his fortune, for which he contracted debts, and ended his career in prison; Alas! said I, he has paid dear, very dear for his whistle.

In short, I conceived that great part of the miseries of mankind are brought upon them by the false estimate they make of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.-Dr. Franklin.

REVENGE.

THE man who supposes that he appears great by returning an injury, and who, from a mistaken pride, does it at the expense of pain to himself, would assuredly act otherwise, could he be convinced that true greatness of mind consists in despising an injury, and that no man is too weak to revenge one.

The Roman nation, one of the wisest as well as the greatest in the world, would not condescend to destroy a vanquished enemy, lest it should be suspected that they feared him; and they were too proud to revenge an injury, since that would convince the world that they felt it. The opinion of truly great men has ever countenanced that system, by declaring cruelty to be the genuine effects of cowardice; and revenge, the legitimate offspring of fear.

Revenge, indeed, is but cruelty under a certain form, and is as constant an attendant on a contemptible and abject disposition, as that passion is: we always find the weakest minds the most malicious and revengeful; the great avoid a torment which cheats. those who embrace it, by bearing the name of plea

sure.

It is one of those crimes which nature has made its own avenger: it is never harboured in any breast, but it gnaws the heart that fosters it; nor is it ever exerted, but it gives more pain to the person who employs it, than to him who is the object of it. Many uneasy

days and many watchful nights does he suffer who meditates revenge, while he against whom it is levelled goes free; and, when the scheme is laid, the execution is always attended with guilt, and often with immediate danger. The mischief often retorts with fatal fury on the head that designed it; and if it succeeds, the eye of justice views the act without entering into the consideration of the cause, and the offender will find, that ignominy of character, a wounded conscience, and a testimony written in the heart that what he endures is not a misfortune, but the punishment of a crime, are the inevitable attendants of the vengeful passions.

While revenge is difficult, dangerous, and painful, the opposite quality of forgiveness is easy, peaceful, and secure. Nothing is so easy as to resent, nothing so noble as to pardon. To be above the reach of offence is great; but to feel and afterwards to forgive it, is still greater. The man who despises, can never be hurt by injuries; nor can there be a severer punishment inflicted on him who makes the world a witness to his attempt of giving pain to another, than the showing that same world that he is too inconsiderable to effect it.

The generality of injuries call for contempt instead of resentment, and there is more triumph in baffling, than possibly can attend the returning them. Would we arrive at real greatness of soul, we should consider that the greater the wrong is, the nobler it is to pardon it; and the more justifiable revenge would prove, so much the more honour is there in clemency.

SUPERSTITION.

DURING the last war between Austria and Turkey, a Baron was sent with recruits to the Austrian army, which was then near Orsowa. Close to the camp, in а village on the road, lived a gipsey suttler, to whom the soldiers applied to have their fortunes told, and the baron, ridiculing their superstition, in a jeering manner held out his hand to the oracular sybil. "The twentieth of August!" said she, and in a manner so peculiar and impressive, that she was urged to explain what was meant; but she would only repeat the same words, bawling after the baron, "the twentieth of August!"

About a week before the twentieth of August, the gipsey dame entered the baron's tent, and begged he would leave her a legacy, in case he should take his departure from the world on the day mentioned; offering, on the contrary, that should he live to claim it, she would compliment him with a hamper of tokay, with which to drink his kind remembrance to her. "The gipsey," said the baron, in his after relation of the adventure, "seemed to me to be mad; for though a soldier is always in danger of dissolution, I certainly had not supposed mine so near as the twentieth of the current month. I therefore consented to the bargain; I pledged two horses, and two hundred ducats against the old woman's tokay; and the paymaster of the regiment laughed heartily while writing the contract, which was regularly signed, sealed, and delivered."