thy of our exertions; and insensibly restores a portion of
that energy of soul, which appeared to be irretrievably
lost. A man who has no employment may find it ut-
terly impossible to divest himself of vitious habits; but
surely he may resolutely determine to engage in active,
pursuits; and then he will find it more easy to curb
those morbid inclinations, which have been nurtured by
inaction of body and vacancy of mind. The great ex-
cellence of active employment consists in this: it diverts
our attention from the allurements of evil; and turns us
aside from a conflict in which we are sure to be vanquished.

Let us give an example: An immoderate indulgence
in the use of inebriating liquors is productive of conse-
quences the most deplorable and distressing: men of the
mostshining abilities and virtuous dispositions fall, every
day, sorrowful victims to the seductive power of this
deleterious vice: yet it is observable that indolence al-
ways precedes and accompanies this pernicious indul-
gence. A man may resolve a thousand times to refrain
from the intoxicating draught; but all in vain as long as
he continues in a state of inaction. But should he begin
to exercise the faculties of his mind or labor with his
hands, this bodily or mental exertion will give energy
to his resolution; and he will stand a chance to succeed
in his projects of reformation.
K2



114 THE SAVAGE.

To conclude: there are a multitude of destructive
habits; but the habit of idleness is the most pernicious
of an}\ It relaxes the body and the mind; it engenders
and fosters every species of vice, and makes existence a
burthen too heavy to be borne. Happy is the man, who
never experienced that lassitude, that listlessness, that
torpidity, that incapability of every species of mental
exertion which — we now feel! We must lay aside our
pen, and take our tobacco tube to "puff a way care." Five
minutes ago, we resolved never to smoke any more. So
much for habits.



COMPLAINT.

When we find any thing that appears to stand alone
in nature, without bearing any relation to any other thing
in existence, we are much more surprised than we are by
tracing those wonderful aptitudes and relations that exist
among the multitude of objects which we denominate the
universe. Judicious philosophers have drawn their most
powerful arguments for the existence of a great intelli-
gent first cause from this consideration. The sun sends
not in vain his rays through the immensity of space:
they encounter other substances, and are reflected from
them^and convey, through the medium of the eye, to the
sentient principle of the human mind, the images of the
objects they have visited. Thus, however remote may
be the situation of things, they are bound together by
certain relations, which show the care and power of
some mighty intelligence.

The eye bears a relation to visible objects; our ears
have formed a connexion with things which are not per-
ceptible by the eye; our feeling enables us to understand
those properties of bodies which are neither discovera-
ble by the eye nor the ear; and by the smell, we are
assured of the existence, and made acquainted with the
nature of those minute parts of bodies that fly off in every
direction. Indeed the senses of man are so exactly cal-
culated to give information concerning the objects by
which he is surrounded, that it is fully evident that na-



THE SAVAGE. 115

ture had produced and furnished the place of his resi-
dence, before she gave existence to man and the other
animated inhabitants of the universe. Also the faculties
which she has given to every different species of animals
are exactly such as are rendered necessary by the mode,
or place, of their existence: some inhabit the waters;
some dwell on the earth; while others wing their way
through the regions of the air: the construction of their
bodies and their powers of perception being universally
suited to the necessities of their several situations. And
we have been so long accustomed to the observation of
these existing relations not only between animals and
substances inanimate, but also between one animal and
another, and between one lifeless substance and another
equally lifeless withitself, that we are filled with astonish-
ment when we think we discover any departure from
these established regulations in the operations of nature.
Should we see a shark grazing in the fields, or the tiger
chasing the fish through the bosom of the deep; should
we find a carnivorous animal with the teeth and feet of
an ox, or a graminivorous beast with the claws and teeth
of a panther; should a granivorous bird have the talons
and beak of an eagle, or a bird of prey have the broad
bill and webbed feet of a goose or a mallard; how great
would be our amazement? If there were no sounds,
what would be the use of the ear? or, to speak more phi-
losophically, if the collision or movement of bodies oc-
casioned no agitation in the air, or any other fluid, is it
reasonable to suppose that nature would have given us
an apparatus for hearing? If there were no odors, would
she have placed the nose, that mighty promontory, in the
most conspicuous part of the countenance? Yet, we
think we have discovered something as wonderful as a
nose without odors, an ear without sounds, an eye without
light, or any of the rest of those wonderful things, we
have mentioned. We have observed in man a propensity
to complain, but no disposition to listen to complaints.
Why did nature, when she gave him that ardent desire
of awakening sympathy, render the means he employs,



116 THE SAVAGE.

for that purpose, totally nugatory by denying him a dis-
position to listen to complaints of distress? Arewetosup-
pose that man, in the morning of time, being more vir-
tuous than the man now existing, had the same inclina-
tion to listen to the complaints of others as to give utter-
ance to his own; but that, in progress of time, when
personal interests became paramount to every moral
disposition, he ceased to be affected by the misfortunes
of others, although, to promote his private purposes, he
still continued to claim their attention to his own tragi-
cal details? How this maybe, we cannot tell: but we are
satisfied that the disposition of the human mind, under
affliction, to bewail its fate, and to endeavor to awaken
sympathy is still found to exist, although it certainly an-
swers not the purpose for which it appears to have been
originally designed. Men still continue to relate their
sorrows, wants, and desires, to every one that has com-
plaisance enough to pretend to listen to their mournful
effusions ; but they ought to know that this is not the way
to find consolation in their sorrows, or to effect any other
purpose they may have in view. The only way to ar-
rive at the completion of their desires is to conceal care-
fully the existence of their wants: men, with true ser-
vility, will fly to gratify all the desires of those who, they
suppose, stand in no need of th^ir assistance.

Thisproneness to complain, however natural, is only
excusable in a youth or in a fool: a man of good sense,
who has completed his sixth lustrum, yet still is inclined
to whine when any little misfortune assails him, de-
serves the contempt he will experience. The character
of Cicero is lessened by the complaints he suffered to
escape him: and who can read the sad things that were
written by the banished Ovid, without despising the man
whose misfortunes debased, whereas they should have ex-
alted his mind. Men, who have experienced evils which
are really of a trivial nature, should be in haste to for-
get them. These things may appear important to them-
selves; but why should they suppose them sufficiently
interesting to engage the attention of others! But if



THE SAVAGE. 117

the misfortunes be irremediable, the only thing that
then remains is to suffer with dignity.

Such were the observation we once made to Elmore,
when he seemed disposed to complain of the severity of
his lot.

"These are the reasonings of a mind of ease," said
Elmore; "did I occupy a conspicuous station, I could
suffer with dignity; but when I patiently submit to griev-
ous and almost intolerable evils, who will look on and
applaud my persevering fortitude? Socrates might suf-
fer persecution, imprisonment, death: he was sure of an
immortal reward. A monument to his name will be
found in the breast of every good man till time shall be
no more. But what hope can support an obscure in-
dividual under the pressure of calamities?" And what
will he gain, we replied, by useless repinings? If he
have a high opinion of his own intellectual importance,
why should he not endeavor to preserve his own esteem?
That is a matter of no small consequence. He cannot
even esteem himself so highly, after having given way
to unmanly complaints, as he would have done had he
supported his misfortunes with stoical coolness and re-
solution. If he have any regard for the sanctity of his
feelings, why should he be solicitous to expose his sor-
rows to vulgar minds who are alike incapable of justly
appreciatinghis confidence, and of judging of theacute-
ness of his sensations? But if he must complain, "ve-
rily he shall have his reward:" "Poor Elmore!" the easy
fat foolish world will observe, "Poor Elmore! he had
some good qualities,^"- — —for the contemptuous"^"
is sure to succeed every expression of — = — "Damn the
world!" cried Elmore, in a transport of fury, "I want
not its pity nor condolence. If I complain, it is owing
to the weakness of human nature, and not with the
hopes of exciting commiseration. The wretch who
dies alone in a dungeon, or in the wilderness a thousand
miles from the haunts of men, where there is no eye to
pity nor hand to succor, may utter groans of anguish,
but he cannot look for pity from the trees of the forest,



118 THE SAVAGE.

or from beasts of prey." Elmore departed: we had touch-
ed his pride; but he was not cured of his error.
Elmore was scarcely gone before we received a visit from
Tom Rattle. Tom may truly be called an odd king of
an animal; for we are inclined to believe that nature
never formed but one of the kind. He came in singing:
and having danced several times round us and put eve-
ry thing out of order he suddenly stopped, and staring di-
rectly in our face, exclaimed, "Well, here I am, thank
God, safe and sound, after all my hairbreath 'scapes and
marvellous adventures! Do you remember the labors of
Hercules? I have forgot them all but one — no matter —
He went down to hell, (whether by the way of Avernus
or not, I cannot tell) for the threeheaded dog Cerberus.
The snarling cur saw him approach, raised his three
heads, and barked tremendously: all hell resounded
with his yelping. Hercules raised his club. The dog
retreated, and took refuge under the iron throne of Pluto.
Hercules approached — Cerberus snarled — Pluto raised
his rusty bident. Let the dog alone, said Pluto. You
be damned, said Hercules; and reaching out his hand,
he dragged the howling monster forth, and bore him in
triumph to the earth. Was that heroic? I have done
something greater than that! Samson slew a thousand
men ; I have done something greater than that. It was
not I that shot Python, slew the Hydra, or killed the
boar of Calydonia; but I have done greater things than
these! It was not 1 that slew the Minotaur, cut off Me-
dusa's head or cleaned the stables of Augeas; but I have
done greater things than these ! It was not I that robbed
the Hesperian gardens, brought away the golden fleece,
or heaped Pelionon Olympus, and Ossaon Pelion; no:
but I have done greater things than these! Yet I much
fear" continued he, assuming a sorrowful countenance,
"that I shall not be deified neither before nor after my
death. I shall never become a new star in the tail of
Aries; nor shall Cancer draw in his claws for me. No
new planet will be christened Tom Rattle; nor shall I
drink nectar,with apwrjo/e moi^A, among the gods above.



THE SAVAGE. 119

This morning I was the happiest of mortals; and pro-
mised myself a whole day of felicity. 1 was all life and
hilarity; nor did I feel one gloomy presentiment of ap-
proaching evil. But now, my spirits have fled, and my
joys have vanished forever!

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my laughter!
Such was the fate of Tom; first he put forth
The tender leaves of hope; and soon he blossom'd
And bore his smiles and graces thick about him;
But, ah! there came a frost, a killing frost,
And— when he thought, good easy soul, full surely,
His pleasures were eternal,— nipped his root,
And then he fell—

But my soul shudders at the depth of my misfortunes!
Thesecurityof my mind on the very brink of destruction
is truly astonishing: no flitting bird, no gloomy cloud, no
muttering thunders excited any apprehension of the ca-
lamity that was about tooverwhelm me! Iwalked,Isang;
in the gaity of my he;irt, I danced through the streets;
when, whom should I meet but — my aunt Sarah Poorly !
Had I encountered a giant or a lion — had I met the dog
of hell, or the triform Chimera, my valor might have
been serviceable; but here — what was to be done?

— As one who sees a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer's ray,
Disordered stops, to shun the danger near, —
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear —

So did poor Tom!

But all in vain: at once my highblown pride
Broke under me; and all my pleasures ieft me,
Sullen and sad and angry, to the mercy
Of a long tongue, that must forever haunt me.
Vain idle praters of this world, I hate ye,
With everlasting hatred! O how wretched
Is that poor man, who sits and gapes, and listens
To never ending stories!"

Tom had proceeded thus far before we gave him any
interruption; but as we saw no prospect of his bringing
his story to a conclusion, we laid aside our papers, and
desired him to sit down and let us hear the "story of his
woes," adding, that we would endeavor to sympathize
with him under his afflictions. "Alas!" said Tom, "1
am afraid you can afford me but little consolation ; but I
shall at least enjoy the mournful pleasure of pouring my
sorrows into the bosom of a friend.



120 THE SAVAGE.

It is pleasant to look back on troubles that are past;
but we contemplate the difficulties, with which we are
surrounded, with the utmost impatience. I have already
performed wonders, as I told you; but I am yet involved
in the greatest misfortunes: hence, these tears. I sat
three hours, three long hours, 'like Patience on a monu-
ment smiling at grief,' and listened to the complaints of
aunt Sarah Poorly. 1 knew that when evils are unavoid-
able, there nothing remains for a philosopher, like me,
but patient endurance; I therefore summoned my forti-
tude, heroism, and stoicism, to my assistance, and deter-
mined to suffer, without a murmur, all the rigors of my
destiny. I have escaped for once, as you see; but new
trials await me. My aunt Sarah Poorly is rich, and she
is old. She has been so kind as to flatter me with the
hopes of succeeding to her estate, when she shall leave
the vanities of this transitory world to partake of the
joys of the next. But, though she speaks with rapture
of the pleasures that await her when time shall be no
more, still she seems inclined to linger in this 'vale of
tears' as long as she possibly can. And as long as she
favors the world with her presence, she must talk: and
ehe must have an auditor. I have neglected her for some
time past, and was really apprehensive that I had in-
curred her displeasure; but now she has laid her com-
mands on me to see her often. What shall I do? If I of-
fend her, I know the consequence; and as I am a poor
devil, her fortune would be very convenient. If I humor
her propensity for talking, alas, I shall never live to
enjoy the good things she has promised me!

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped:

A foe, she'll starve— a friend, she'll talk me dead!

My brother Sam was her first favorite. He listened to
her complaints for eighteen months; but could stand it
no longer. He ran away, and went to sea. After he had
enjoyed the pleasures of navigation for some time, he
concluded to pay his court again to my aunt; but in vain :
•he was seriously offended, and would never be recon-
ciled to him any more.



THE SAVAGE. 121

Your humble servant has, of late, found grace in her
sight: and if 1 attend to her complaints, she is kind and
generous beyond measure; but if I show the least im-
patience, or even yawn, while she expatiates on her sor-
rows, I am sure to awaken her displeasure.

Would she permit me to join in the conversation, I
think that, in time, custom would render my situation
tolerable; (for you know, Piomingo, that I am a little ad-
dicted to talking myself;) but the only thing she will per-
mit is the occasional interjection of groans, assents, and
expressions of surprise. Thus you see I am subjected to
a double misfortune: I am denied the gratification of
talking myself, and compelled to listen to the dull unin-
teresting complaints of a whining old woman. Some-
times, indeed, when she talks of an obstinate cough, or
of an acute pain in the side, I feel myself roused by a
momentary attention to the subject of herdiscourse. On
such occasions, a faint hope (shall I acknowledge it?) a
faint hope, that death will speedily remove her from this
troublesome world to those delights that await her be-
yond the grave, makes me listen with something like
pleasure to her dolorous effusions."

We had now permitted Tom to go on with his story
for a considerable time; and we began to think that we
were condemned to listen as long to his complaints, as
he was compelled to attend to his aunt's; we therefore
thought proper to make an attempt to partake of the
discourse. We made several wise observations concern-
ing the intermixture of good and evil in this transitory
world; mentioned many maxims of the ancient philoso-
phers and poets, which inculcate the necessity of submit-
ting to fate; dwelt, for a considerable time, on some ob-
servations of Seneca, which we thought might be useful
to a man in Rattle's situation; strongly recommended that
philosophical panacea, patience, as an unfailing remedy
for every disease; and concluded bydesiringtobeinform-
ep of the particulars of his late rencounterwithhis aunt.

Tom leaned back on his chair, and stretching out his
arm, exclaimed in a theatrical tone,
L



1



122 THE SAVAGE.

"My friend, what you command me to relate
Renews the sad remembrance of my fate:
My pleasures from their old foundations rent,
And every wo that Rattle underwent.

No sooner had my aunt espied me, than she exclaimed,
"My dear cousin, I'm rejoiced to see you. I was just
thinking of you. How can you absent yourself so long,
when you know I delight in your company? I have been
up to see poor Caty Cackle — her husband sick — five or
six poor half starved children — nobody to do any thing
— a distressed family, cousin. I did what I could; but
there isso much distress in the world — Bless me! don't
let us stand here* No: not that way — let us go by Third
street. What a full market! Well, how they do push
and elbow each other! — every one for himself. Did you
observe that man, who just now passed us? I think I
should know him. I begin to feel fatigued. We shall
soon be home. Ah that wheelbarrow ! — take care of
the wheelbarrow, cousin! — there's no walking for
wheelbarrows! That's Mr. Zany. Here before us.
Well: I have seen his father wheel oisters — a strange
world this! such upsand downs! Thank God, no rela-
tion of mine Home at last — quite exhausted — no

place like home. Besey, has Dr. Sanative been here?
Cousin, take a chair — sit nigh the fire — the morning is
cool. Cold weather is my aversion. How strangely I'm
altered: a few years ago, no cold could affect me; but
now, if I stir out, I 'm sure to catch cold. All the cloth-
ing don't seem to keep me warm ; but my feet get damp :
and then I 'm sure of a fresh attack on my breast — hem
hem. I hope this walk will do me no injury; but I'm
strangely altered of late — I begin to feel the infirmities
of old age. A walk used always to revive me; but now
— I can't tell how — I think it's rather a disadvantage.
Would you believe it cousin? the other day I was taken
with akind of dizziness — a singing in my ears — a loss of
sight — and if I had not leaned on something (I forget
what it was) I should have fallen. Well: I hope these
warnings will not be lost on me. Death is a friend to the
afflicted ; and I have had, God knows, my share of afflic



THE SAVAGE. 123

tion. I shall attend the summons with joy — I hope I'm
prepared for the change. The doctor says my giddiness
was owing to an empty stomach. Indeed 1 had eaten
nothing that morning. I have a very poor appetite —
sometimes I don't eat an ounce in twenty four hours.
Cousin, I can't stand it long. Such a complication of
diseases: rheumatism — pain in my side — hacking cough
— flatulencies — dizziness — general debility — and then
old age. I'm now in my sixty ninth year — no, I shall
be sixty eight next christmas. How time slips away ! it
seems but yesterday that I was a child — what a romp I
was! — my poor old mother used to call me a perfect
hoiden. What a change has taken place in a few years!
Ithink,somehowor other, I'm very unfortunate. There's
old John Stout — he's almost eighty years of age; and
walks without a cane. But we must submit to our lot —
ay, the Lord teach us submission! Dr. Sanative saysthat
mysymptomsare not dangerous. He tells me they are
owing to indigestion; and. that the crudities — but I can-
not remember now what he said they were owing to;
however he made it perfectly plain at the time. He says
that nourishing diet and gentle exercise will restore my
health — the Lord's will be done! You cant think, cou-
sin, how my sight has failed of late! In a few years, at
this rate, I shall be quite blind. Lord bless me! it would

be a great trial to lose my sight; but the doctor "

Here, as the gods would have it, there was a cry of lire
in the street; and I started up and made my escape.
She called after me, however, and said that she must see
me every other day at the least. You are not to suppose,
Piomingo, that I have related the one hundredth part of
her discourse. No; I have only mentioned some of her
observations: She talked three full hours — what an eter-
nity! And during the whole course of the harangue, it
is expected that I should sit perfectly still, keeping my
eyes fixed continually on the speaker, without taking
any other part in the conversation than barely giving the
requisite assents and negations; and judiciously inter-
posing such expressions of admiration as the following:



124 THE SAVAGE.

if

so! indeed! is it posible? strange 1 ! surprising! amazing!
good God! who would have thought it? And these in
terjectory exclamations are not to be thrown in at ran-
dom. No: very far from it; they are to be suited to the
changes of the discourse and the emotions of the speak-
er. Should I at any time give a nod of assent instead of
a sigh of regret, the mistake would be fatal. What shall
I do, Piomingo? shall I live or die? shall I have recourse
to the bowl or dagger? or shall I precipitate myself into
the river? You would not surely have me, in the heyday
of youth, to sit, 'with serious sadness,' and listen to the
everlasting croakings of this^sorrowbringing raven!"

Piomingo^ Levius fit patientia, quickquid corrigere
esnefas.

Tom Rattle. Curse your heathen lingo! let us have
plain English; but I believe you recommend patience.
O yes, it is very easy to give advice, and talk about pa-
tience! but if you were in my place I fancy

Piomingo. Dear Tom, I give you example, as well as
precept.

Tom Rattle. How so?

Piomingo. Have I not listened to your doleful com-
plaints, as long as you did to your aunt's?

Tom Rattle. Good by.

Piomingo. Good by, Tom.



THE SAVAGE— NO. X.
SLAVERY.

Slavery, as established in the West Indies and the
southern parts of the union, is only a kind of premature,
or forced, civilization. Men who had a taste for the luxu-
rious enjoyments of the old world were dissatisfied with
the state of society in which they were placed: there
was so much savage equality among the people, that they
were unable to procure laborers. What was to be done?
Must every man work for himself? "Horrible idea!" said
an orator, on the foregoing question being asked in one