―155―

THE SCRIBBLER. —No. 2.

Ah! Jenny! these are hard times,
but ours is no extraordinary lot. Heavy
as the burden is on us, there are thou-
sands on whom the load is heavier still,
while the shoulders on which it is laid
are far less able to sustain it than ours.

A feeble consolation, thou sayest, is
that, and feeble it is. To find comfort
in distress, from thinking on the great-
er distresses of others whose merits
are much less than ours, is but a selfish
way of judging, for why should we be
comforted by such reflections.

When I was a boy, a froward wretch,
whom I met on the highway, thought
proper to be angry at some jest that es-
caped me, and snatching up a pebble
about half the size of my fist, knocked
me down with it. My skull was fractur-
ed by the blow, and I was a long time in
getting well. While sick, an ideot that
strolled about the village, chanced to
stroll into my chamber. Somebody, in
answer to his questions, gave him an ac-
count of my mishap. The historian out-
did Tacitus in brevity, for the whole
tragedy was summed up in—Why, Dick,
the waggoner broke his head with a
brick-bat.

“Bless me, said the fool, what a mer-
cy that it was not a mill-stone.”

Jenny smiled and said, a remark truly
worthy of an ideot.

And yet, (resumed I) foolish as it was,
it struck me, as I listened, very forcibly.
Dick, the waggoner, to be sure was no
Ajax. Rocks were no missives to him,

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but my thoughts did not run upon the
possibility of the evil. I was really con-
soled by thinking that a larger stone or
a better aim might have doubled or tre-
bled the injury, or perhaps made it ut-
terly irreparable. And why, since I
was comforted, be very curious in
weighing its justice or wisdom. That
wisdom that lessens joy or enhances
sorrow, is not worth our praise. Cheer
up my dear girl, and if thou can'st find
no comforter but folly, think it only fol-
ly to be wise.”

Such was the dialogue that just now
passed between Jenny and me. Jenny,
you must know reader, is my sister, and
a good girl she is; the best in the world.
Abundant cause have I to say so, for
without her, long ago should I have
soundly slept in my grave: or have un-
dergone a much worse destiny. With-
out her healing tenderness or salutary
council, I should long ago have yielded
to the ill suggestions of poverly, and
have done that which is forbidden, or
have shared the debtor's portion in a
prison, or have sunk to my last deep in
a pestilential hospital.

My Jane is a sort of good angel to me,
never wanting at the point of utmost
need. What a sweet face is her's, and
what music was ever so heart cheering
as her “good morrow brother.”

Tired, drooping, almost lifeless after
the day's toil, to hear her sing, or ram-
ble with her, are my sweetest consola-
tions.

But, how am I run away with by this
bewitching theme! My own fortunes
and my sister's praise I do love to dwell
upon. Yet strange it is that I should
talk this publicly on such themes. I
that have my pride and my scruples,
like others, but my contrivance here
has saved my pride, and gratified my
darling passion; I can write about my-
self, and even publish what I write,
withont risqueing any exposure, for no-
body that reads this, will ever know the
[gap].

Perhaps, reader, you want to know
[gap]name and dwelling. Now these are
[gap] things that I am anxious to hide.
My character and history I have no ob-
jection to disclose; nay, is would give
me pleasure to tell them, but I do not
wish to be known[gap] name and abode.

Not likely, indeed, that my name
would be of service to you. You nev-
er heard it before. An obscure and
forlorn lad like me, was never noticed
in your pleasureable walks or social
circles. The meanness of my garb, in-
deed, and my boyish face conceal me
even from suspicion, and far—far distant
and different are the spheres in which
you and I move.

But what new suggestion of vanity is
this? To imagine that any curiosity
will be felt for him from whose pen these
crudities flow, or that any interest can
be awakened in enlightened bosoms for
the fortunes of the—Scribbler!

Yet why not! I have a little vanity,
that's certain. Not the most contempti-
ble of heaven's creatures, am I; good
parts in me, I verily believe; a toward-
ly, prompt spirit, to give myself my due,
that will expand as I grow older. As
yet I am a mere boy, for whose defi-
ciencies, as well as for whose vanity,
some allowances will not be withheld
by the charitably wise.

I have, at this moment, a great desire
to be known to thee, my friend; thou,
with thy benignant smiles, who art, just
now, perusing this page. I hope thou
art a woman, for if so, softness and com-
passion are interwoven with thy feel-
ings as intimately as bright threads in a
parti-coloured woof. Methinks I hear
thee sigh, and see thy eye glisten.
Would to heaven I was near enough to
testify my gratitude, and bid the compas-
sionate drop flow, to assure thee that
the writer of this is not unworthy thy
regard, but that must never be. I shall
never be to thee aught but a phantom,
A something ideally existent, and with-
out a name or local habitation.

Not that I should be averse to know
thee for my friend, but how to discover
my good will; how to bring myself with-
in thy ken, is the insuperable difficulty.

Perhaps, I might be somehow useful
to thee. I might run of thy errands,
might carry thy provision-basket on
market days, or harness thy pair of bays
to thy phæton. But no, for that I was
not born, I will never be a slave to fetch
and carry, to fatten upon fragments even
from thy plate; to sit upon the kitchen
hearth, with trencher on my lap, and
eat, full in the envious eyes of Towser,

who, the while, is squatted opposite, and
grudges me every vile morsel.

Perhaps, thou needest a more honour-
able service, art smitten with a passion
for some fashionable knowledge; to
prate a little French, or shew a pretty
finger on the harpsichord, or flourish off
a billet with a little more correctness of
spelling, more evenness of lines; and
with characters a little less like Arabic
may have awakened thy ambition. In
such a case I don't know but I might eat
thy bread and not be choked by it.
Otherwise, this pine board and this
black loaf are sweeter by far.

I gleaned a little Latin from a well
taught uncle, but he went to sea before
I had made much way, and I never saw
him more. Then Telemaque fell in my
way, and by aid of Dictionary, I and
Jane hammered out its meaning. Now
what little I know of these languages I
would gladly teach another.

But alas! I know too little of that or
any thing else, to pretend to teach them
to others. I myself am a learner, and
the lesson I have most need to study is,
that of being content with my lot.