at once of thy faith and of thy works.
“We have constantly on our lips the simple precept, ‘Do unto others as you would be done by.’ Why do we fail so often in the practice? Because we neglect to cultivate that SYMPATHY which nature implants as an instinct, and the Saviour exalts as a command. If thou wouldst do unto thy neighbour as thou wouldst be done by, ponder well how thy neighbour will regard the action thou art about to do to him. Put thyself into his place. If thou art strong and he is weak, descend from thy strength and enter into his weakness; lay aside thy burden for the while, and buckle on his own; let thy sight see as through his eyes, thy heart beat as in his bosom. Do this, and thou wilt often confess that what had seemed just to thy power will seem harsh to his weakness. For ‘as a zealous man hath not done his duty when he calls his brother drunkard and beast,’ even so an administrator of the law mistakes his object if he writes on the grand column of society only warnings that irritate the bold and terrify the timid; and a man will be no more in love with law than with virtue, ‘if he be forced to it with rudeness and incivilities.’ If, then, ye would bear the burden of the lowly, O ye great, feel not only for them, but with! Watch that your pride does not chafe them, your power does not wantonly gall. Your worldly inferior is of the class from which the Apostles were chosen, amidst which the Lord of Creation descended from a throne above the seraphs.”
The parson here paused a moment, and his eye glanced towards the pew near the pulpit, where sat the magnate of Hazeldean. The squire was leaning his chin thoughtfully on his hand, his brow inclined downwards, and the natural glow of his complexion much heightened.
“But,” resumed the parson, softly, without turning to his book, and rather as if prompted by the suggestion of the moment—“but he who has cultivated sympathy commits not these errors, or, if committing them, hastens to retract. So natural is sympathy to the good man that he obeys it mechanically when he suffers his heart to be the monitor of his conscience. In this sympathy, behold the bond between rich and poor! By this sympathy, whatever our varying worldly lots, they become what they were meant to be,—exercises for the virtues more peculiar to each; and thus, if in the body each man bear his own burden, yet in the fellowship of the soul all have common relief in bearing the burdens of each other. This is the law of Christ,—fulfil it, O my flock!”
Here the parson closed his sermon, and the congregation bowed their heads.
BOOK THIRD
INITIAL CHAPTER.
SHOWING HOW MY NOVEL CAME TO BE CALLED “MY NOVEL.”
“I am not displeased with your novel, so far as it has gone,” said my father, graciously; “though as for the Sermon—” Here I trembled; but the ladies, Heaven bless them! had taken Parson Dale under their special protection; and observing that my father was puckering up his brows critically, they rushed forward boldly in defence of The Sermon, and Mr. Caxton was forced to beat a retreat. However, like a skilful general, he renewed the assault upon outposts less gallantly guarded. But as it is not my business to betray my weak points, I leave it to the ingenuity of cavillers to discover the places at which the Author of “Human Error” directed his great guns.
“But,” said the captain, “you are a lad of too much spirit, Pisistratus, to keep us always in the obscure country quarters of Hazeldean,—you will march us out into open service before you have done with us?”
PISISTRATUS (magisterially, for he has been somewhat nettled by Mr. Caxton’s remarks, and he puts on an air of dignity in order to awe away minor assailants).—“Yes, Captain Roland; not yet a while, but all in good time. I have not stinted myself in canvas, and behind my foreground of the Hall and the Parsonage I propose hereafter to open some lengthened perspective of the varieties of English life—”
MR. CAXTON.—“Hum!”
BLANCHE (putting her hand on my father’s lip).—“We shall know better the design, perhaps, when we know the title. Pray, Mr. Author, what is the title?”
MY MOTHER (with more animation than usual).—“Ay, Sisty, the title!”
PISISTRATUS (startled).—“The title! By the soul of Cervantes! I have never yet thought of a title!”
CAPTAIN ROLAND (solemnly).—“There is a great deal in a good title. As a novel reader, I know that by experience.”
MR. SQUILLS.—“Certainly; there is not a catchpenny in the world but what goes down, if the title be apt and seductive. Witness ‘Old Parr’s Life Pills.’ Sell by the thousand, Sir, when my ‘Pills for Weak Stomachs,’ which I believe to be just the same compound, never paid for the advertising.”
MR. CAXTON.—“Parr’s Life Pills! a fine stroke of genius. It is not every one who has a weak stomach, or time to attend to it if he have. But who would not swallow a pill to live to a hundred and fifty-two?”
PISISTRATUS (stirring the fire in great excitement).—“My title! my title!—what shall be my title?”
MR. CAXTON (thrusting his hand into his waistcoat, and in his most didactic of tones).—“From a remote period, the choice of a title has perplexed the scribbling portion of mankind. We may guess how their invention has been racked by the strange contortions it has produced. To begin with the Hebrews. ‘The Lips of the Sleeping’ (Labia Dormientium)—what book did you suppose that title to designate?—A Catalogue of Rabbinical Writers! Again, imagine some young lady of old captivated by the sentimental title of ‘The Pomegranate with its Flower,’ and opening on a Treatise on the Jewish Ceremonials! Let us turn to the Romans. Aulus Gellius commences his pleasant gossipping ‘Noctes’ with a list of the titles in fashion in his day. For instance, ‘The Muses’ and ‘The Veil,’ ‘The Cornucopia,’ ‘The Beehive,’ and ‘The Meadow.’ Some titles, indeed, were more truculent, and promised food to those who love to sup upon horrors,—such as ‘The Torch,’ ‘The Poniard,’ ‘The Stiletto’—”
PISISTRATUS (impatiently).—“Yes, sir, but to come to My Novel.”
MR. CAXTON (unheeding the interruption).—“You see you have a fine choice here, and of a nature pleasing, and not unfamiliar, to a classical reader; or you may borrow a hint from the early dramatic writers.”
PISISTRATUS (more hopefully).—“Ay, there is something in the Drama akin to the Novel. Now, perhaps, I may catch an idea.”
MR. CAXTON.—“For instance, the author of the ‘Curiosities of Literature’ (from whom, by the way, I am plagiarizing much of the information I bestow upon you) tells us of a Spanish gentleman who wrote a Comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for Moral Philosophy.”
PISISTRATUS (eagerly).—“Well, sir?”
MR. CAXTON.—“And called it ‘The Pain of the Sleep of the World.’”
PISISTRATUS.—“Very comic, indeed, sir.”
MR. CAXTON.—“Grave things were then called Comedies, as old things are now called Novels. Then there are all the titles of early Romance itself at your disposal,—‘Theagenes and Chariclea’ or ‘The Ass’ of Longus, or ‘The Golden Ass’ of Apuleius, or the titles of Gothic Romance, such as ‘The most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and delightful History of Perceforest, King of Great Britain.’” And therewith my father ran over a list of names as long as the Directory, and about as amusing.
“Well,
