"To being thrown out of the window at the George Inn, Andover—to my leg being thereby broken—to surgeon's bill, and loss of time and business—all in the service of Sir F. B. Delaval.—Five hundred pounds.
"When this curious item came to be explained, it appeared, that the attorney had, by way of promoting Sir Francis' interest in the borough, sent cards of invitation to the officers of a regiment in the town, in the name of the mayor and corporation, inviting them to dine and drink his Majesty's health on his birthday. He, at the same time, wrote a similar invitation to the mayor and corporation, in the name of the officers of the regiment. The two companies met, complimented each other, eat a good dinner, drank a hearty bottle of wine to his Majesty's health, and prepared to break up.—The commanding officer of the regiment, being the politest man in company, made a handsome speech to Mr. Mayor, thanking him for his hospitable invitation and entertainment. "No, Colonel," replied the mayor, "it is to you that thanks are due by me and by my brother aldermen for your generous treat to us." The colonel replied with as much warmth as good breeding would allow: the mayor retorted with downright anger, swearing that he would not be choused by the bravest colonel in his Majesty's service.—"Mr. Mayor," said the colonel, "there is no necessity for displaying any vulgar passion on this occasion. Permit me to show you, that I have here your obliging card of invitation."—"Nay, Mr. Colonel, here is no opportunity for bantering, there is your card."
Upon examining the cards, it was observed, that notwithstanding an attempt to disguise it, both cards were written in the same hand by some person, who had designed to make fools of them all. Every eye of the corporation turned spontaneously upon the attorney, who, of course, attended all public meetings. His impudence suddenly gave way, he faltered and betrayed himself so fully by his confusion, that the colonel, in a fit of summary justice, threw him out of the window. For this Sir Francis Delaval was charged five hundred pounds.—Whether he paid the money of not, I forget."
THE PROMPTER.
It will do for the present.
This common saying does as much mischief in society, as rum or a pestilence. If I hear a man, whether a farmer, a mechanic, or any other person, often repeat that saying, and appear to act from the opinion, that it will do for the present, I rely on it he is a sloven, a drone, or something worse. I never knew such a man thrive.
A young man setting out in life, is in haste to be married. He wants a house to live in, but is not fully able to build one. Yet his pride requires a large showy house. At last, between poverty and pride, he determines to build a large house, but not to finish it till he is more able. He sets up a large two story house, with four rooms in a story—he covers it and paints it: this is a showy house—his pride exults to see passengers stare at his elegant house: but though pride governs the outside, poverty reigns within—he can finish but two rooms, half finish one or two more—and lay a loose floor above, to spread his corn upon: this elegant mansion house then is a granary—a corn house: the man and a litter of children below—and rats and mice above: but the man says, it will do for the present. True, but the man has but twenty or thirty acres of land, or an indifferent trade—his family grows faster than his income—he is not able to finish his house—the covering soon decays and admits water—the house falls to pieces—the man is forced poor into the wilderness, or he and his children loiter about, dependant on the neighbours for subsistence by day labour.
I know one of these do-for-the-present-farmers, who never effectually repairs his fences; but when a breach is made, he fills it with a bush that a sheep may remove: if a rail is broke, and another is not at hand, he takes the next billet of wood, inserts one end into the post, and ties up the other with elm or hickory bark—he says, this will do for the present. His cattle learn to be unruly—to remedy the evil, fetters, shackles, clogs, yokes, and what he calls pokes, are invented—and his cattle and horses are doomed to hobble about their pasture with a hundred weight of wood or iron machines upon their feet and necks. The man himself, in two years, spends time enough in patching up his fences and making fetters, to make a good effectual fence round his whole farm, which would want very little repair in twenty years.
In family affairs, these do-for-the-present folks double their necessary labour. They labour hard to put things out of order, and then it requires nearly the same work to put them into order again. A man uses an axe, a hoe, a spade, and throws it down where he uses it; instead of putting it in its proper place, under cover. Exposed to the weather, tools do not last more than half so long, as when kept housed; but this is not all: a sloven leaves the tool where he last used it—or throws it down any where at random: in a few days he wants it again—he has forgot where he left it—he goes to look for it—he spends perhaps half an hour in search of it, or walks a distance to get it: this time is lost, for it breaks in upon some other business—the loss of this small portion of time appears trifling; but slovens and sluts incur such losses every day; and the loss of these little scraps of time determine a man's fortune. Let the Prompter make a little calculation: a farmer, whose family expends one hundred pounds a year, if he can clear ten pounds a year is a thriving man. In order to get his one hundred and ten pounds, suppose he labours ten hours a day: in this case, if he loses an hour every day, in repairing the carelessness of the day before (and every sloven and slut loses more time than this, every day, for want of care and order) he loses a tenth part of his time—a tenth part of his income—this is eleven pounds. Such a man cannot thrive—he must grow poorer, for want of care, of order, of method.