"And, granting this," said Margaret, "it was next inquired whether this same philosophy would have been considered equally admirable, equally a matter of congratulation, if Miss Young had not wanted it for solace." "A question as old as the brigg at Stirling," replied Mr Hope; "older, older than any bridges of man's making." "Why Stirling brigg? What do you mean?" "I mean--do not you know the story?--that an old woman wanted to cross the Forth, and some ferrymen would have persuaded her to go in their boat when she was confident that a tempest was coming on, which would have made the ferry unsafe. They told her at last that she must trust to Providence. `Na, na,' said she, `I will ne'er trust to Providence while there is a brigg at Stirling.' The common practice is, you know, with the old woman.--We will not trust to the highest support we profess to have, till nothing else is left us. We worship philosophy, but never think of making use of it while we have prosperity as well." "The question is whether such practice is wise," said Margaret: "we all know it is common." "For my part," said Mr Enderby, "I think the old Scotchwoman was right; Providence helps those that help themselves, and takes care of those who take care of themselves." "Just so," said Hope. "Her error was in supposing that the one course was an alternative from the other,--that she would not be trusting in Providence as much in going by the bridge as in braving the tempest. I think we are in the same error when we set up philosophy and prosperity in opposition to each other, taking up with the one when we cannot get the other, as if philosophy were not over all, compassing our life as the blue sky overarches the earth, brightening, vivifying, harmonising all, whether we look up to see whence the light comes or not." "You think it a mistake, then," said Margaret, "not to look up to it till all is night below, and there is no light to be seen but by gazing overhead?" "I do not see why we should miss seeing the white clouds and blue depths at noon because we may reckon upon moon and stars at midnight. Then again, what is life at its best without philosophy?" "I can tell you, as well as anybody," said Mr Enderby, "for I never had any philosophy,--no, neither wisdom, nor the love of wisdom, nor patience, nor any of the things that philosophy is understood to mean." "Oh, Mr Enderby!" cried Sydney, "what pains you took to teach me to fish, and to make me wait patiently for a bite! _You_ say you are not patient!" "My account of life without philosophy," said Mr Enderby, proceeding as if he did not hear the children testifying to his patience with them,--"my account of life without philosophy is, that it slips away mighty easily, till it is gone, you scarcely know where or how." "And when you call upon philosophy at last to give an account of it, what does she say?" asked Margaret.