may walk erect under heaven in the god- | promise? "Thus far shalt thou go, and like consciousness of strength and re- no farther," saith the Creator. "But if sponsibility, so is he spared the restless we go no farther, we may go to the excraving for better things that waits on in- treme limit of this!" pleads the creature, tellectual power, so is he blessed in his and accepts the compromise. ignorance of that shame for his weaknesses and shortcomings, which stings and maddens one who knows himself to be but "a little lower than the angels," and yet feels how widely, how sadly different he is from them. Prometheus, too, has worn his chains for all these ages, and the vulture is still tearing at his heart. In the beautiful world of nature are there not twenty thorns to one rose? Ay! but how many hundred petals, each a very masterpiece of beauty and fragrance in itself, go to make up the queen of flowers? The very poisonous plants and minerals, skillfully subdivided and prepared, are but restorative and healing medicines, and every child knows that close to the vicious stinging-nettle grows the friendly soothing dock-leaf. So the beasts of prey reproduce their kind but sparingly, and at long intervals, whilst the lower animals, whose destiny it is to supply them with food, are abundantly 'prolific, and, as far as we can judge, specially adapted to the enjoyment of that life which they hold by so precarious a tenure. The wilder kinds, like the human savage, are subject to cold and exposure, constant dangers, and occasional short commons. Such is the price they pay for their liberty. The domestic animals, again, enjoy warmth, food, and comfort, but in consideration of these advantages they must work, or at least obey. All the way up the scale of inferior nature-from the snail carrying its house on its back, but unable to move faster than a yard or so in the hour, to the eagle soaring aloft in the blue empyrean for a whole afternoon, a theme for poets and romancers, the glorious child of air, the messenger of Jove, watching perhaps for some poor miserable rabbit, that goes to ground after all, and disappoints him-compro mise seems to be the very condition upon which each and all hold their existence. The very changes of the seasons, the very system that governs the universe, the very principle of attraction and repulsion, that keeps this old world rolling in its allotted orbit through the infinity of space, what are they all but extensions or modifications of the great rule of com VOL. L.-NO. 1 Ascending to the consideration of man, civilized man, his habits, his position, and his exigencies, we find the conduct of his whole life regulated by the proverb with which this article commences, or its corelative maxim-" Of two evils, choose the least ;" and in discussing this part of the question we must protest against the theory, to our own conviction utterly untenable, that ours is a life of unequal distribution, of constant misfortune, or of universal sorrow and woe. That it is, that it must be, a probationary state, we have every reason to believe from our own sensations and experiences, independent of the Divine assurance, to which every thoughtful man is so often fain to cling. That we were placed in this world for the express purpose of enjoying ourselves no one can maintain, unless he is at the same time prepared to admit that the whole scheme is a failure upon the grandest and most complete scale; but we can not coïncide with those despondent persons, excellent though they be, who take the Book of Job as their manual, not only of philosophy, but of devotion. To us there are many parts of the Scriptures more consolatory, more cheerful, and more edifying than that wondrous narrative, allegory, or fact, or whatever it may be, which ends indeed happily and satis. factorily to all parties, No! the world is not such an unhappy one, after all; and if any man will take the trouble to analyze his own sensations, he will be surprised to find how much his capabilities of suffering are exceeded by his powers of enjoyment. It has been well remarked, as we think all more sensitive natures will allow, that the memory of pain passes away with the cause, whilst pleasure remains indelibly fixed in our remembrance, and though its hues may become fainter and fainter, they are never entirely obliterated after the interval of years. Ask the old, the weary, way-worn travelers who have loved and lost, whether the smile that bade their heart leap is not present with them still, when the fixed pale features of that hour which well nigh broke it are forgotten. The frame itself can bear but a small amount of torture ere it sinks into insensibility; the 3 mind requires no great pressure of pain ere it takes refuge in insanity; but what an exquisite thrill must that be which would cause a healthy subject to faint away with pleasure! and how many people of our acquaintance can we enumerate who have gone mad for joy! If those who have known sorrow-and which of us has not?-will look back to the moment of their lives at which some dreadful blow fell, either stupefying and sudden, or long-feared and anticipated, will they not confess that their first sensation, even in the midst of agony, was a kind of vague astonishment that their sufferings were not greater, a sort of tacit self-condemnation for heartlessness, even while the heart was bleeding and aching from its wounds? There are griefs indeed, and sometimes such as must be concealed from all, meeting with no sympathy, as they admit of no cure, that strike and crush their victim to the earth; but these are happily rare. The sufferer covers his head like Cæsar when he falls. None know his pangs, none take warning from his fate. He drops out of the procession, and is soon put away and forgotten in his nameless grave. Like the precious metal which the skillful goldbeater pounds and spreads till it covers a considerable surface with a rich outside, there is a wide coating of happiness distributed over this world of ours, very thin, perhaps, and not calculated to endure much wear and tear, but still obvious to the vision of those who choose to acknowledge it. No sincere man can stand under a lime-tree, for instance, at noon on midsummer's day and declare that this is an unhappy world. Even if his own soul be dark as midnight within, external nature contradicts and confutes him by the evidence of his senses. He is fain to confess there is much enjoyment, much gratification going about, from the fore-horse in the wagon-team, lazily awaiting his work in the hay-field, to the bee humming and droning amongst the fragrant branches over his head. Ay! there is no lack of mirth, real hearty mirth, amongst the sun-burnt laborers taking their "nooning" yonder under the hedges, the men's white sleeves contrasting with their tawny arms and faces, as they raise them ever and anon with the grateful little beer-cask to the thirsty mouth; and this brings us to the consideration of a point on which we have always felt inclined to lay much stressnamely, the equal distribution of happiness amongst the poor and the rich. At first sight we confess such a position seems untenable. Granted, an income of so many thousands a year; a frame carefully nurtured in infancy so as to grow up into a manhood of health and strength; a mind educated and developed to appreciate and enjoy the many pleasures of intellectual refinement; a large circle of equals who instinctively and from habit "make things pleasant," at least before the faces of their associates; a larger of inferiors, whose interest it is to admire and applaud; a stable full of horses; a conservatory full of flowers; a cellar full of wine; perhaps a park and timber, at least a garden and lawn. All these advantages showered upon the head of one individual appear at first to militate against our argument. Observe on the other side honest John Strong, the daylaborer, of course giving him the same advantages of health and strength, which are indeed to John his daily bread. He is taking, we will say, thirteen or fourteen shillings a week, and this modest pittance must keep him and his wife, and perhaps half-a-dozen children, in food and clothing, fuel and necessaries. To earn it John must rise at daybreak and labor till dusk. He must never be sick or off work; he must keep a civil tongue in his head, at least towards his employer, and must be sober and decent in his general habits and demeanor. Also, his festivals must be few and far between. A club feast at Whitsuntide, a harvest-home in the autumn, perhaps a supplementary jollification about Christmas-these are John's amusements. All the other days, but Sunday, are devoted to work, good, hard, back-aching work. At first sight it seems that John has but an unfair portion of that happiness which appears so liberally showered upon his landlord. But we will reckon up John's pleasures and advantages. In the first place, he is in the enjoyment of the most perfect health, not what a fashionable doctor understands by the term, but that state of rude muscular vigor which can only be acquired by daily and continuous labor in the open air, and a moderate allowance of plain food; such a state as a gentleman can only arrive at by severe training. Any writer of the "muscular" school will tell us that the very sensation of "feeling as if one could knock down an ox" is a condition by no means to be despised. When John walks out of his cottagedoor, and lights his short pipe at sunrise, he feels a man all over, and depend upon it, he enjoys his smoke more than ever did Turkish pasha, squatted tailorwise on the cushions of his divan. Secondly, he is pretty sure to be blessed with a good wife. Those who have been much amongst the poor will bear us out in our assertion, that in nine cases out of ten the laborer's partner, homely though she be, possesses those qualities which make her sex so essentially the comfort of ours. Patient, kindly, frugal, and hard-working, a fond wife, an affectionate mother, a good neighbor, she has many a virtue to make amends for such trifling drawbacks as a tendency to gossip and a shrill, hard mode of enunciating her sentiments. All the trials of the humble household fall heaviest on her, and she bears them hope fully and without a murmur. It is a touching sight to see these good women working hard and bustling about in an advanced stage of an interesting state, which would have laid a fine lady weeks ago on her sofa, and up again cleaning their houses and looking after the other children long before the same fine lady would be in a condition to receive visitors. All the financial arrangements-no trifling cause of anxiety where necessity draws both ends to the utmost strain to make them meet-are in her department; she has the cooking to do, the children to wash and clothe, the house to tidy, and her husband's little comforts to provide. It is her frugality and forethought that supply him with the "bit of baccy," which constitutes indeed the poor man's only luxury, and all these duties she fulfills with a loving earnestness of which woman alone is capable. Reader! would you come down to thirteen shillings a week to own the woman you love? If so, you will not depreciate blessing No. 2. Another great addition to John's social enjoyments is the kindliness with which his neighbors and he interchange those good offices that in a poor community are continually necessitated by its very exigencies. They help one another far more willingly than do the rich, and live altogether upon terms of more sincere friendliness than their superiors. John does not quarrel with his neighbor about game, politics, or precedency. He does not sneer at the other's new wheelbarrow, nor hate him for sitting nearer the clergyman in church. When his neighbor is sick he goes to see him in person, and the basin of broth he bestows on him is hardly spared from his own dinner. Like the disciple's cup of cold water, it is not without its reward. John Strong can well afford to compromise for frugal fare, humble lodging, daily toil, and thirteen shillings a week, with a happy home, robust health, cheerfulness, content, and a good conscience. Now let us look at his landlord, who lives in the Hall among the old treeswho dresses richly, sleeps soft, and fares sumptuously every day. We are not going to assert or support such a paradox as that because a man is rich he must necessarily be unhappy. We will only enumerate some few of the drawbacks that render wealth and position far less enviable advantages than the poor are apt to believe: some of the thorns that lurk concealed about a bed of roses, and make the occupant start and wince again, when he would fain stretch himself comfortably to his repose. To begin with, wealth is a very relative term; and when a man's expenditure amounts to a trifle above his income, whether the latter be counted by hundreds or thousands, it needs not Mr. Micawber's comic demonstration to assure us that the result must be pecuniary embarrassment. Annoyances of this nature press heavily upon a cultivated mind. That absurd superstition which we dignify with the title of family pride, adds to the burthen people voluntarily impose on themselves; and many a gentleman leads a long life of perpetual struggle to keep up appearances, and retain about him a thousand fictitious necessities, with which in his heart he would willingly dispense, were Mrs. Grundy only out of the neighborhood. Do you think a man enjoys pines and champagne the more that his gardener's wages are unpaid, and his wine-merchant has sent him a lawyer's letter? John Strong, roaring out his uncouth songs over a pot of ale, for which the sixpence in payment lies already on the table, is the merrier convive of the two, and need not envy the squire smiling over his white neckcloth at the foot of his crowded board. This very morning perhaps he has quarreled with an old schoolfellow about a fox-covert. He has committed a poacher with whom he thinks he All ancient philosophy seems to have acknowledged this great condition of our existence. The heathen groping in the dark strives to reconcile the mingled yarn of which life's web is woven with the superintendence of a higher Power, by attributing every thing to the agency of blind fate, but the tendency of all such codes, from that of Socrates downwards, seems to have been but this, that we must "take the rough with the smooth." Experience and observation forbade them to deny that the sunshine must be too often obscured by clouds. What says Burton in his Anatomy of Melancholy, partly from his own reflections, partly quoting from some old Latin author, whose name we take shame to say we have forgotten? should have been more lenient. He has | best of it, but grudgingly, as a comprobeen disappointed by the lord-lieutenant, mise. whose interest he has always supported, and to further whose political views he is even now making the agreeable to five or six people whom he cordially detests, and who, he feels convinced, will tell their mutual friends to-morrow that the dinner was cold, the wine loaded, the decorations in bad taste, and their host himself "getting very prosy, poor man! and obviously breaking day by day!" When he goes to bed to-night, he will toss and tumble about, troubled with a thousand petty vexations, and attribute his want of rest to the Burgundy; and at breakfast tomorrow morning, when he has put his wife out of temper, and sent the children away, with rueful scared faces, to their lessons, he will curse his stars as the most unlucky fellow in Christendom, and lay the blame. of what is in reality encouraged worry to suppressed gout. We do not mean to say that his compromise is a bad one, but a compromise it is. If you would have a fine estate, you must accept with it the cares of a landed property; a house in London, you must go through the wearisome routine of what is called "society;" a stud of horses, many of them will be continually lame; a seat in Parliament, you must labor and truckle for it as the poor reduced tradesman does to part with his combs, or razors, or whatever other article it be, of which the sale seems to be the last resource of a ruined man. If you lie soft, you must be often sleepless; if you fare well, you can not escape indigestion; if you drink wine, you must compound for a headache. Dives has not so com pletely the best of it at all points, even in this world; and we forbear to follow him beyond the gate at which Lazarus sits, bruised and helpless, among the dogs. No position, then, is without its drawbacks; no station so humble but it has its advantages. We are apt in our own case to look at the first through a magnifying, the last through a diminishing glass. Perhaps this may be the reason: "Qui fit Mæcenas, ut nemo, quam sibi sortem, Seu ratio dederit, seu fors objecerit, illâ, Contentus vivat, laudet diversa sequentes; perhaps it is because of this that, instead of thankfully accepting the good as a boon, as so much gained, we make the "In general, as the heaven, so is our life, sometimes fair, sometimes overcast, tempestuous and serene in the year itself, a temperate summer some-as in a rose, flowers and prickles, times, a hard winter, a drouth, and then again, pleasant showers-so is our life intermixed with joys, hopes, fears, sorrows, calumnies. Invicem cedunt dolor et voluptas. There is a succession of pleasure and pain." And again: "There is no content in this life, but all is vanity and vexation of spirit: lame and imperfect. Haddest thou Samson's hair, Milo's strength, Scanderbegg's arm, Solomon's wisdom, Absolom's beauty, Croesus his wealth, Cæsar's valor, Alexander's spirit, Tullie's or Demosthenes' eloquence, Gyges' ring, Perseus' Pegasus, and Gorgon's head, Nestor's years to come-all this would not make thee absolute, give thee content, and true happiness in life, or so con tinue it. Even in the midst of all our mirth, there be true happiness amongst us 'tis but for jollity, and laughter, is sorrow and grief, or if a time. Desinit in piscem mulier formosa superne." How true and apposite the concluding quotation, though applied by Horace with such different meaning and to so different a subject! Who among us has not wooed the mermaiden on her strip of shining sand, combing her long locks yonder in the sun with her white waving arms? Who has not thrilled to the sweet, sad melody wafted athwart the sparkling waters, and ventured in, chin-deep, nay, swum with lusty strokes, to reach the winning seanymph? Ah! better to go down choked in the salt flood believing still in her divinity, than to turn, undeceived and Even jovial, light-hearted Horace, the epicurean philosopher par excellence, if philosopher he could be called, the man of all others who saw life through a rosy medium, who was disposed by inclination and principle "to daff the world aside and bid it pass," can not refrain in the sunniest of his moods from certain shadowy reflections on the ephemeral nature of even such physical enjoyments as he affected, on the policy of snatching at the amusement of to-day as a compromise for the uncertainty of to-morrow. Scarce an ode of his but has such a somber vein running throughout its sparkling numbers, like a dark thread in a cloth of gold. Take them even at random, and you can not fail to light upon an example. In these days, there are so many translations extant of the untranslatable bard, that whatever may be our own opinion of their success, we can not presume to quote him in the original. We will take Mr. Theodore Martin's, then, the latest and, to our fancy, with the exception, perhaps, of Lord Ravensworth's, the best of these versions. What does Horace tell Grosphus, through the mouthpiece of Mr. M-? "For hoarded treasure can not keep Nor can the consul's lictor drive away "Careless what lies beyond to know, And turning to the best, The present, meet life's bitters with a jest And smile them down; since nothing here below Is altogether blest." And although we can not agree with the Roman minstrel's opinion of the best remedy for "life's bitters," namely, to sit in the shade, with little on save a garland, and drink an unsound wine till it produces maudlin inebriety, we are fain to admit such testimony as the light-hearted friend of Maecenas offers, to that compromise which, in order to make life bearable, we are all of us constrained to accept. That" every man has his price," is a Machiavellian maxim, against which, as so set forth, we indignantly protest. Nay, notwithstanding the disclosures which every petition for bribery brings before a committee of the House of Commons, we are prepared to go a step further, and proclaim that we do not believe even every voter has his price! But although the garrison be stanch and true, fire-eaters and boot-eaters combined - every man of them another Sir Fenwick Williams-time and continuous pressuse will reduce it at last. They took ten years to do it, but still the Greeks did sack Troy before they returned to their ships; and many a heart, constant and indomitable, as that of "high-crested Hector," though it can be neither bought nor intimidated, is forced to accept of terms, when all is done, from the besieging myriads who never grant a moment's respite in the blockade. No! though "every man" may not "have his price," there are terms upon which, with few exceptions, every body surrenders. They march out indeed with all the honors of war, drums beating, colors flying, shouldered arms, and bayonets fixed. Officers retain their swords, the baggage and sick are in the center, the compliments of war are paid to them by the victorious foe, and the gaunt famine-wasted faces look prouder and more defiant than ever; but for all that they are beaten. They have held out gallantly, heroically, but they are men. they would have died, one by one, where they stood, rather than come to an unconditional surrender; but a compromise is a different matter altogether, and is accepted accordingly. We have said "with few exceptions." There are, indeed, natures on which neither force nor reason can prevail. Setting aside for the present the brutal and coarser disposition which opposes an inert and sluggish resistance to the one, and can not understand the other, we will analyze that temperament which most students of human nature will admit, though in common life pliant and gentle to the verge of weakness, becomes under peculiar pressure the most impracticable of all. Like the finest-tempered steel, though it will bend, as Falstaff says, "hilt to point," stretch but the fibers a hair'sbreadth too far, and lo! snap-the good Bilboa blade" flies in pieces, and all the armorers in Europe can never put it together and make a sword of it again. Had we but one child, the prop and stay of our old age, and that child betraying symptoms of such a disposition, sank into an early grave, we might sorrow indeed, |