Mr. B. was accustomed to read in the evening to his young folks some select story, and then ask them in turn what they thought of it. From the reflections they made on these occasions, he was enabled to form a judgment of their dispositions, and was led to throw in remarks of his own, by which their hearts and understandings might be improved. One night he read the following narrative from Churchill’s Voyages:—

“In some voyages of discovery made from Denmark to Greenland, the sailors were instructed to seize some of the natives by force or stratagem, and bring them away. In consequence of these orders, several Greenlanders were kidnapped and brought to Denmark. Though they were treated there with kindness, the poor wretches were always melancholy, and were observed frequently to turn their faces toward the north, and sigh bitterly. They made several attempts to escape, by putting out to sea in their little canoes, which had been brought with them. One of them had got as far as thirty leagues from land before he was overtaken. It was remarked that this poor man, whenever he met a woman with a child in her arms, used to utter a deep sigh; whence it was conjectured that he had left a wife and child behind him. They all pined away one after another, and died miserably.”

“Now, Edward,” said he, “what is your opinion of this story?”

Ed. Poor creatures! I think it was barbarous to take them from home.

Mr. B. It was, indeed!

Ed. Have civilized nations any right to behave so to savages?

Mr. B. I think you may readily answer that question yourself. Suppose you were a savage—what would be your opinion?

Ed. I dare say I should think it very wrong. But can savages think about right and wrong as we do?

Mr. B. Why not? are they not men?

Ed. Yes; but not like civilized men, sure?

Mr. B. I know no important difference between ourselves and those people we are pleased to call savage, but in the degree of knowledge and virtue possessed by each. And I believe many individuals among the Greenlanders as well as other unpolished people, exceed in these respects many among us. In the present case I am sure the Danish sailors showed themselves the greater savages.

Ed. But what did they take away the Greenlanders for?

Mr. B. The pretence was, that they might be brought to be instructed in a Christian country, and then sent back to civilize their countrymen.

Ed. And was not that a good thing?

Mr. B. Certainly, if it were done by proper means; but to attempt it by an act of violence and injustice could not be right: for they could teach them nothing so good as their example was bad; and the poor people were not likely to learn willingly from those who had begun with injuring them so cruelly.

Ed. I remember Captain Cook, brought over somebody from Otaheite; and poor Lee Boo was brought here from the Pelew islands. But I believe they both came of their own accord?

Mr. B. They did. And it is a great proof of the better way of thinking of modern voyagers than former ones, that they do not consider it as justifiable to use violence even for the supposed benefit of the people they visit.

Ed. I have read of taking possession of a newly-discovered country by setting up the king’s standard or some such ceremony, though it was full of inhabitants.

Mr. B. Such was formerly the custom; and a more impudent mockery of all right and justice can scarcely be conceived. Yet this, I am sorry to say, is the title by which European nations claim the greatest part of their foreign settlements.

Ed. And might not the natives drive them out again, if they were able?

Mr. B. I am sure I do not know why they might not; for force can never give right. Now, Harry, tell me what you think of the story.

Harry. I think it very strange that people should want to go back to such a cold dismal place as Greenland.

Mr. B. Why what country do you love best in the world?

Har. England, to be sure!

Mr. B. But England is by no means the warmest and finest country. Here are no grapes growing in the fields, nor oranges in the woods and hedges, as there are in more southern climates.

Har. I should like them very well, to be sure—but then England is my own native country, where you and mamma and all my friends live. Besides it is a very pleasant country, too.

Mr. B. As to your first reason, you must be sensible that the Greenlander can say just the same; and the poor fellow who left a wife and children behind, must have had the strongest of all ties to make him wish to return. Do you think I should be easy to be separated from all of you?

Har. No; and I am sure we should not be easy, neither.

Mr. B. Home, my dear, wherever it is, is the spot toward which a good heart is the most strongly drawn. Then, as for the pleasantness of a place, that all depends upon habit. The Greenlander, being accustomed to the way of living, and all the objects of his own country, could not relish any other so well. He loved whale-fat and seal as well as you can do pudding and beef. He thought rowing his little boat amid the boisterous waves pleasanter employment than driving a plough or a cart. He fenced himself against the winter’s cold by warm clothing; and the long night of many weeks, which you would think so gloomy, was to him a season of ease and festivity in his habitation underground. It is a very kind and wise dispensation of Providence, that every part of the world is rendered most agreeable to those who live in it.

Now little Mary what have you to say?

Mary. I have only to say, that if they were to offer to carry me away from home, I would scratch their eyes out!

Mr. B. Well said, my girl! stand up for yourself. Let nobody run away with you—against your will.

Mary. That I won’t.