Lessons in elocution: or, A selection of pieces in prose and verse, for the improvement of youth in reading and speaking, as well as for the perusal of persons of taste. : With an appendix, containing examples of the principal figures of speech and emotions of the mind. / By William Scott, teacher of English reading, and author of A new spelling and pronouncing dictionary, &c.

PART I. LESSONS IN READING.

SECTION I * 1.1.

SELECT SENTENCES.

I.

MAN's chief good is an upright mind; which no earthly power can bestow, nor take from him.

We ought to distrust our passions, even when they ap|pear the most reasonable.

It is idle, as well as absurd, to impose our opinions upon others. The same ground of conviction operates differently on the same man in different circumstances, and on different men in the same circumstances.

Choose what is most fit; custom will make it the most agreeable.

A cheerful countenance betokens an good heart.

Hypocrisy is an homage that vice pays to virtue.

Anxiety and constraint are the constant attendants of pride.

Men make themselves ridiculous, not so much by the qualities they have, as by the affectation of those they have not.

Nothing blunts the edge of ridicule so effectually as good humor.

To say little and perform much, is the characteristic of a great mind.

A man who gives his children a habit of industry, provides for them better than by giving them a stock of money.

II.

OUR good or bad fortune depends greatly on the choice we make of our friends.

The young are slaves to novelty, the old to custom.

No preacher is so successful as time. It gives a turn of thought to the aged, which it was impossible to inspire while they were young.

Every man, however little, makes a figure in his own eyes.

Self-partiality hides from us those very faults in our|selves which we see and blame in others.

The injuries we do, and those we suffer are seldom weighed in the same balance.

Men generally put a greater value upon the favors they bestow, than upon those they receive.

He who is puffed up with the first gale of prosperity, will bend beneath the first blast of adversity.

Adversity borrows its sharpest sting from our impa|tience.

Men commonly owe their virtue or their vice to edu|cation as much as to nature.

There is no such fop as my young master of his lady-mother's making. She blows him up with self-conceit, and there he stops. She makes a man of him at twelve, and a boy all his life after.

An infallible way to make your child miserable, is to satisfy all his demands. Passion swells by gratification; and the impossibility of satisfying every one of his de|mands, will oblige you to stop short at last, after he has become headstrong.

III.

WE esteem most things according to their intrinsic merit: it is strange MAN should be an exception. We prize a horse for his strength and courage, not for his fur|niture. We prize a man for his sumptuous palace, his great train, his vast revenue; yet these are his furniture, not his mind.

The true conveniences of life are common to the king, with his meanest subject. The king's sleep is not sweeter, nor his appetite better.

The pomp which distinguishes the great man from the mob, defends him not from the fever nor from grief. Give a prince all the names of majesty that are found in a folio dictionary, the first attack of the gout will make him forget his palace and his guards. If he be in choler, will his princedom prevent him from turning pale, and gnashing his teeth like a fool? The smallest prick of a nail, the slightest passion of the soul, is capable of ren|dering insipid the monarchy of the world.

Narrow minds think nothing right that is above their own capacity.

Those who are the most faulty, are the most prone to find faults in others.

The first and most important female quality is sweet|ness of temper. Heaven did not give to the female sex insinuation and persuasion, in order to be surly: it did not make them weak, in order to be imperious: it did not give them a sweet voice, in order to be employed in scolding: it did not provide them with delicate features, in order to be disfigured with anger.

Let fame be regarded, but conscience much more. It is an empty joy to appear better than you are; but a great blessing to be what you ought to be.

Let your conduct be the result of deliberation, never of impatience.

In the conduct of life, let it be one great aim, to show that every thing you do proceeds from yourself, not from your passions. Chrysippus rewards in joy, chastises in wrath, doth every thing in passion. No person stands in awe of Chrysippus, no person is grateful to him. Why? because it is not Chrysippus who acts, but his passions. We shun him in wrath as we shun a wild beast; and this is all the authority he hath over us.

Indulge not desire at the expence of the slightest ar|ticle of virtue: pass once its limits, and you fall head|long into vice.

Examine well the counsel that favors your desires.

The gratification of desire is sometimes the worst thing that can befal us.

IV.

To be angry is to punish myself for the fault of ano|ther.

A word dropt by chance from your friend offends your delicacy. Avoid a hasty reply; and beware of opening your discontent to the first person you meet. When you are cool, it will vanish, and leave no impres|sion.

The most profitable revenge, the most rational, and the most pleasant, is to make it the interest of the inju|rious person not to hurt you a second time.

It was a saying of Socrates, that we should eat and drink in order to live; instead of living, as many do, in order to eat and drink.

Be moderate in your pleasures, that your relish for them may continue.

Time is requisite to bring great projects to maturity. Precipitation ruins the best contrived plan; patience ripens the most difficult.

When we sum up the miseries of life, the grief be|stowed on trifles makes a great part of the account; trifles which, neglected, are nothing. How shameful such a weakness!

The pensionary De Wit being asked how he could transact such variety of business without confusion, an|swered, That he never did but one thing at a time.

Guard your weak side from being known. If it be attacked, the best way is to join in the attack.

Francis I. consulting with his generals how to lead his army over the Alps into Italy, Amarel his fool sprung from a corner, and advised him to consult rather how to bring it back.

The best practical rule of morality is, Never to do but what you are willing all the world should know.

Solicitude in hiding failings make them appear the greater. It is a safer and easier course frankly to ac|knowledge them. A man owns that he is ignorant: we admire his modesty. He says he is old: we scarce think him so. He declares himself poor: we do not believe it.

When you discant on the faults of others, consider

whether you be not guilty of the same. To gain know|ledge of ourselves, the best way is to convert the imper|fections of others into a mirror for discovering our own.

Apply yourself more to acquire knowledge than to show it. Men commonly take great pains to put off the little stock they have; but they take little pains to ac|quire more.

Never suffer your courage to be fierce, your resolu|tion obstinate, your wisdom cunning, nor your patience sullen.

To measure all reason by our own, is a plain act of injustice: it is an encroachment on the common rights of mankind.

If you would teach secresy to others, begin with yourself. How can you expect another will keep your secret, when you yourself cannot?

A man's fortune is more frequently made by his tongue than by his virtues; and more frequently crushed by it than by his vices.

V.

EVEN self-interest is a motive for benevolence. There are none so low but may have it in their power to re|turn a good office.

To deal with a man, you must know his temper, by which you can lead him; or his ends, by which you can persuade him; or his friends, by which you can go|vern him.

The first ingredient in conversation is truth; the next, good sense; the third, good humor; the last, wit.

The great error in conversation is, to be fonder of speaking than of hearing. Few show more complaisance than to pretend to hearken, intent all the while upon what they themselves have to say; not considering, that to seek one's own pleasure so passionately is not the way to please others.

To be an Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Paris, a Spaniard in Madrid, is no easy matter; and yet it is necessary.

A man entirely without ceremony has need of great merit.

He who cannot bear a jest ought never to make one.

In the deepest distress, virtue is more illustrious than vice in its highest prosperity.

No man is so foolish, but he may give good counsel at a time: no man so wise, but he may err, if he take no counsel but his own.

He whose ruling passion is love of praise, is a slave to every one who has a tongue for detraction.

Alw••ys to indulge our appetites is to extinguish them. Abstain, that you may enjoy.

To have your enemy in your power, and yet to do him good, is the greatest heroism.

Modesty, were it to be recommended for nothing else, leaves a man at ease, by pretending to little: whereas vain-glory requires perpetual labor to appear what one is not. If we have sense, modesty best sets it off; if not, best hides the want.

When, even in the heat of dispute, I yield to my an|tagonist, my victory over myself is more illustrious than over him had be yielded to me.

The refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the body, poison that very pleasure they are intended to promote: for, by soliciting the appetite, they ex|clude the greatest pleasure of taste, that which arises from the gratification of hunger.

VI. THE FOX AND THE GOAT.

A Fox and a Goat, travelling together in a very sul|try day, found themselves exceedingly thirsty; when, looking round the country in order to discover a place where they might probably meet with water, they at length descried a clear spring at the bottom of a well. They both eagerly descended; and, having sufficiently al|layed their thirst, began to consider how they should get out. Many expedients for that purpose were mutually proposed and rejected. At last the crafty Fox cried out with great joy—I have a thought just struck into my mind, which, I am confident, will extricate us out of our difficulty: Do you, said he to the Goat, only rear your|self up upon your hinder-legs, and rest your fore feet against the side of the well. In this posture I will climb up to your head, from whence I shall be able, with a spring, to reach the top: and when I am once there,

you are sensible it will be very easy for me to pull you out by the horns. The simple Goat liked the proposal well, and immediately placed himself as directed; by means of which, the Fox, without much difficulty, gain|ed the top. And now, said the goat, give me the assist|ance you promised. Thou old fool, replied the Fox, hadst thou but half as much brains as beard, thou wouldst never have believed that I would hazard my own life to save thine. However, I will leave with thee a piece of advice, which may be of service to thee hereafter, if thou shouldst have the good fortune to make thy escape: —Never venture into a well again, before thou hast well considered how to get out of it.

VII. THE FOX AND THE STORK.

THE Fox, though in general more inclined to roguery than wit, had once a strong inclination to play the wag with his neighbor the Stork. He accordingly invited her to dinner in great form; but, when it came up|on the table, the Stork found it consisted entirely of dif|ferent soups, served up in broad shallow dishes, so that she could only dip in the end of her bill, but could not possibly sati••fy her hunger. The Fox lapped it up very readily; and, every now and then addressing himself to his guest, desired to know how she liked her entertain|ment; hoped that every thing was seasoned to her mind; and protested he was very sorry to see her eat so spar|ingly. The Stork, perceiving she was played upon, took no notice of it, but pretended to like every dish ex|tremely; and, at parting, pressed the Fox so earnestly to return her visit, that he could not in civility refuse. The day arrived, and he repaired to his appointment; but, to his great mortification, when dinner appeared, he found it composed of minced meat, served up in long narrow-necked glasses; so that he was only tantalized with the sight of what it was impossible for him to taste. The Stork thrust in her long bill, and helped herself very plentifully; then, turning to Reynard, who was eagerly licking the outside of a jar where some sauce had been spilled—I am very glad, said she; smiling, that you seem to have so good an appetite; I hope you will make as hearty a dinner at my table as I did the

other day at yours. Reynard hung down his head, and looked very much displeased. Nay, nay, said the Stork, don't pretend to be out of humor about the matter; they that cannot take a jest should never make one.

VIII. THE COURT OF DEATH.

DEATH, the king of terrors, was determined to choose a prime minister; and his pale courtiers, the ghastly train of diseases, were all summoned to at|tend; when each preferred his claim to the honor of this illustrious office. Fever urged the numbers he de|stroyed; cold Palsey set forth his pretensions by shaking all his limbs; and Dropsy, by his swelled unwieldy car|case. Gout hobbled up, and alledged his great power in racking every joint; and Asthma's inability to speak was a strong, though silent, argument in favor of his claim. Stone and Cholic pleaded their violence; Plague, his rapid progress in destruction; and Consumption, though slow, insisted that he was sure. In the midst of this contention, the court was disturbed with the noise of music, dancing, feasting and revelry; when immedi|ately entered a lady, with a bold lascivious air, and a flushed and jovial countenance: she was attended on one hand by a troop of cooks and Bacchanals; and, on the other, by a train of wanton youths and damsels, who danced half-naked to the softest musical instruments: her name was INTEMPERANCE. She waved her hand, and thus addressed the crowd of Diseases; Give way, ye sickly band of pretenders, nor dare to vie with my superior merits in the service of this great monarch. Am not I your parent? the author of your beings? Do ye not derive the power of shortening human life almost wholly from me? Who then so fit as myself for this important office?—The grisly monarch grinned a smile of approbation, placed her at his right hand, and she immediately became his prime favorite and principal minister.

IX. THE PARTIAL JUDGE.

A FARMER came to a neighboring lawyer, expressing great concern for an accident which he said had

just happpened. One of your oxen, continued he, has been gored by an unlucky bull of mine: and I should be glad to know how I am to make you reparation. Thou art a very honest fellow, replied the Lawyer, and wilt not think it unreasonable that I expect one of thy oxen in return. It is no more than justice, quoth the Farmer, to be sure: but what did I say? I mistake. It is your bull that has killed one of may oxen. Indeed! says the Lawyer; that alters the case: I must inquire into the affair; and if—And IF! said the Farmer—the business I find would have been concluded without an IF, had you been as ready to do justice to others as to exact it from them.

X. THE SICK LION, THE FOX, AND THE WOLF.

A LION having surfeited himself with seasting too lu|xuriously on the carcase of a wild boar, was seized with a violent and dangerous disorder. The beasts of the forest flocked in great numbers to pay their respects to him upon the occasion, and scarce one was absent ex|cept the Fox. The Wolf, an ill-natured and malicious beast, seized this opportunity to accuse the Fox of pride, ingratitude, and dissaffection to his majesty. In the midst of this invective the Fox entered: who, having heard part of the Wolf's accusation, and observing the Lion's countenance to be kindled into wrath, thus ad|ro••tly excused himself, and retorted upon his accuser: I see many here, who, with mere lip service, have pre|tended to show you their loyalty; but, for my part, from the moment I heard of your majesty's illness, neglecting useless compliments, I employed myself day and night to inquire among the most learned physicians an infallible remedy for your disease, and have at length happily been informed of one. It is a plaister made of part of a Wolf's skin, taken warm from his back, and laid to your majesty's stomach. This remedy was no sooner proposed, than it was determined that the experiment should be tried: and, whilst the operation was performing, the Fox, with a sarcastic smile, whispered this useful maxim in the Wolf's ear— If you would be safe from harm yourself, learn for the future not to meditate mischief against others.

XI. DISHONESTY PUNISHED.

AN usurer, having lost an hundred pounds in a bag, promised a reward of ten pounds to the person who should restore it. A man having brought it to him, de|manded the reward. The usurer loath to give the re|ward now that he had got the bag, alleged, after the bag was opened, that there were an hundred and ten pounds in it when he lost it. The usurer being called before the judge, unwarily acknowledged that the seal was broke open in his presence, and that there were no more at that time but a hundred pounds in the bag. "You say," says the judge, "that the bag you lost had a hundred and ten pounds in it." "Yes, my lord," "Then," replied the judge, "this cannot be your bag, as it contained but a hundred pounds: therefore the plaintiff must keep it till the true owner appears; and you must look for your bag where you can find it."

XII. THE PICTURE.

SIR WILLIAM LELY, a famous painter in the reign of Charles I. agreed before-hand for the price of a pic|ture he was to draw for a rich London Alderman, who was not indebted to nature either for shape or face. The picture being finished, the alderman endeavored to beat down the price, alleging, that if he did not pur|chase it, it would ••ie on the painter's hand. "That's your mistake," says Sir William; "for I can sell it at double the price I demand." "How can that be," says the alderman, "for 'tis like nobody but myself?" "True," replied Sir William; "but I will draw a tail to it, and then it will be an excellent monkey." Mr Alderman, to prevent being exposed, paid down the money demanded, and carried off the picture.

XIII. THE TWO BEES.

ON a fine morning in May, two bees set forward in quest of honey; the one wise and temperate, the other careless and extravagant. They soon arrived at a garden enriched with aromatic herbs, the most fragrant flowers, and the most delicious fruits. They regaled themselves for a time on the various dainties that were

spread before them; the one loading his thigh at inter|vals with provisions for the hive against the distant win|ter; the other revelling in sweets, without regard to any thing but his present gratification. At length they found a wide-mouthed phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach-tree, filled with honey ready temper|ed, and exposed to their taste in the most alluring man|ner. The thoughtless epicure, spite of all his friend's re|monstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, resolving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality. The philosopher, on the other hand, sipped a little with cau|tion; but, being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flowers; where, by the moderation of his meals, he improved his relish for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to in|quire whether he would return to the hive; but found him surfeited in sweets, which he was as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clogged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament with his latest breath, that though a taste of pleasure might quicken the relish of life, an unrestrained indulgence is inevitable destruction.

XIV. BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY.

A YOUTH, who lived in the country, and who had not acquired, either by reading or conversation, any knowledge of the animals which inhabit foreign regions, came to Manchester to see an exhib••••ion of wild beasts. The size and figure of the elephant struck him with awe; and he viewed the rhinoceros with astonishment. But his attention was soon drawn from these animals, and directed to another of the most elegant and beauti|ful form; and he stood contemplating with silent admi|ration the glossy smoothness of his hair; the blackness and regularity of the streaks with which he was marked, the symmetry of his limbs, and, above all, the placid sweetness of his countenance. What is the name of this lovely animal, said he to the keeper, which you have placed near one of the ugliest beasts in your collection, as if you meant to contrast beauty with deformity? Be|ware, young man, replied the intelligent keeper, of be|ing

so easily captivated with external appearance. The animal which you admire is called a tyger; and, notwith|standing the meekness of his looks, he is fierce and sa|vage beyond description: I can neither terrify him by correction, nor ••ame him by indulgence. But the other beast, which you despise, is in the highest degree docile, affectionate, and useful. For the benefit of man, he tra|verses the sandy deserts of Arabia, where drink and pa|sture are seldom to be sound; and will continue six or se|v•• d••ys without sustenance, yet still patient of labor. Hi•• ••ir is manufactured into cloathing; his flesh is deemed wholesome nourishment; and the milk of the female is much valued by the Arabs. The camel, there|fore, for ••uch is the name given to this animal, is more worthy of your admiration than the tyger; notwith|standing the ineleg••nce of his make, and the two bunch|es upon his back. For mere external beauty is of little estimation; and deformity, when associated with ami|able dispositions and useful qualities, does not preclude our respect and approbation.

XV. REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF FRIENDSHIP.

DAMON and Pythias, of the Pythagorean sect in philosophy, lived in the time of Dionysius the tyrant of Sicily. Their mutual friendship was so strong, that they were ready to die for one another. One of the two (for it is not known which) being condemned to death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go into his own country to settle his affairs, on condition that the other should consent to be imprisoned in his stead, and put to death for him, if be did not return before the day of execution. The attention of every one, and especially of the tyrant himself, was excited to the highest pitch, as every body was curious to see what should be the event of so strange an affair. When the time was almost clapsed, and he who was gone did not appear, the rash|ness of the other, whose sanguine friendship had put him upon running so seemingly desperate a hazard, was universally blamed. But he still declared, that he had not the least shadow of doubt in his mind of his friend's ••ity. The event ••wed how well he knew him. He 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in due time, and surrendered himself to that

fate which he had no reason to think he should escape; and which he did not desire to escape by leaving his friend to suffer it in his place. Such fidelity softened even the savage heart of Dionysius himself. He pardon|ed the condemned; he gave the two friends to one ano|ther, and begged that they would take himself in for a third.

XVI. DIONYSIUS AND DAMOCLES.

DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, showed how far he was from being happy, even whilst he abounded in riches, and all the pleasures which riches can procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, was complimenting him upon his power, his treasures, and the magnificence of his royal state, and affirming that no monarch ever was greater or happier than he. "Have you a mind, Da|mocles," says the king, "to taste this happiness, and know by experience what my enjoyments are, of which you have so high an idea?" Damocles gladly accepted the offer. Upon which the king ordered, that a royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded couch placed for him, covered with rich embroidery, and side-boards loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value. Pa|ges of extraordinary beauty were ordered to wait on him at table, and to obey his commands with the great|est readiness and the most profound submission. Neither ointments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes were wanting. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles fancied himself a|mongst the gods. In the midst of all his happiness, he sees let down from the roof, exactly over his neck, as he lay indulging himself in state, a glittering sword hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction thus threatening him from on high, soon put a stop to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, and the glitter of the carved plate, gave him no longer any pleasure. He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table; he throws off the chaplet of roses; he hastens to remove from his dangerous situation; and at last begs the king to restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer such a dreadful kind of happiness.

XVII. CHARACTER OF CATILINE.

LUCIUS CATILINE, by birth a Patrician, was by na|ture endowed with superior advantages both bodily and mental; but his dispositions were corrupt and wick|ed. From his youth, his supreme delight was in vio|lence, slaughter, rapine, and intestine confusions; and such works were the employment of his earliest years. His constitution qualified him for bearing hunger, cold, and want of sleep, to a degree exceeding belief. His mind was daring, subtle, unsteady. There was no cha|racter which he could not assume and put off at plea|sure. Rapacious of what belonged to others, prodigal of his own, violently bent on whatever became the ob|ject of his pursuit. He possessed a considerable share of eloquence, but little solid knowledge. His insatiable temper was ever pushing him to grasp at what was im|moderate, romantic, and out of his reach.

About the time of the disturbances raised by Sylla, Catiline was seized with a violent lust of power; nor did he at all hesitate about the means, so he could but at|tain his purpose of raising himself to supreme dominion. His restless spirit was in a continual ferment, occasion|ed by the confusion of his own private affairs, and by the horrors of his guilty conscience; both which he had brought upon himself by living the life above described. He was encouraged in his ambitious projects by the ge|neral corruption of manners which then prevailed a|mongst a people infected with two vices, not less oppo|site to one another in their natures than mischievous in their tendencies; I mean, Luxury and Avarice.

XVIII. AVARICE AND LUXURY.

THERE were two very powerful tyrants engaged in a perpetual war against each other: the name of the first was Luxury, and of the second Avarice. The aim of each of them was no less than universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury had many gen|erals under him, who did him great service; as Plea|sure, Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Avarice was like|wise very strong in his officers, being faithfully served by Hunger, Industry, Care, and Watchfulness: he had

likewise a privy-counsellor who was always at his elbow, and whispering something or other in his ear: the name of this privy-counsellor was Poverty. As Avarice con|ducted himself by the counsels of Poverty, his antago|nist was entirely guided by the dictates and advice of Plenty, who was his first counsellor and minister of state, that concerted all his measures for him, and ne|ver departed out of his sight. While these two great rivals were thus contending for empire, their conquests were very various. Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. The father of a family would often range himself under the banners of Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury. The wife and husband would often declare themselves on the two different parties; nay, the same person would very often side with one in his youth, and revolt to the other in his old age. Indeed the wise men of the world stood neuter; but, alas! their numbers were not considerable. At length, when these two potentates had wearied them|selves with waging war upon one another, they agreed upon an interview, at which neither of their counsellors were to be present. It is said that Luxury began the parley; and, after having represented the endless state of war in which they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart which is natural to him, that he believed they two should be very good friends, were it not for the instigations of Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this Avarice replied, that he looked upon Plenty (the first minister of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive counsellor than Poverty; for that he was perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the necessary cautions against want, and, consequently, undermining those principles on which the government of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they a|greed upon this preliminary; that each of them should immediately dismiss his privy-counsellor. When things were thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other dif|ferences were soon accommodated; insomuch that for the future they resolved to live as good friends and con|federates, and to share between them whatever con|quests

were made on either side. For this reason, we now find Luxury and Avarice taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the same person between them. To which I shall only add, that since the dis|carding of the counsellors above mentioned, Avarice supplies Luxury in the room of Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice in the place of Poverty.

XIX. HERCULES's CHOICE.

WHEN Hercules was in that part of his youth in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and solitude of the place very much favored his meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed in himself on the state of life he should choose, he saw two women of a larger stature than ordinary approaching towards him. One of them had a very noble air and graceful deportment; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her eyes cast towards the ground with an agreeable reserve, her motion and behavior full of modesty, and her raiment as white as snow. The other had a great deal of health and flo|ridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red; and she endeavored to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confidence and assurance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress that she thought were the most proper to shew her complexion to ad|vantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on those that were present, to see how they liked her; and often looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon her nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped before the other lady, who came forward with a regular composed carriage; and, running up to him, accosted him after the following manner:

"My dear Hercules," says she, "I find you are very much divided in your thoughts upon the way of life that you ought to choose: be my friend, and fol|low me; I will lead you into the possession of pleasure, and o••t of the reach of pain, and remove you from all

the noise and disquietude of business. The affairs of either war or peace shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employment shall be to make your life ea|sy, and to entertain every sense with its proper gratifi|cations. Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewel for ever to care, to pain, to business."

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, de|sired to know her name; to which she answered, "My friends, and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness; but my enemies, and those who would injure my reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure."

By this time the other lady was come up, who ad|dressed herself to the young hero in a very different manner.

"Hercules," says she, "I offer myself to you, be|cause I know your are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent by your love to virtue, and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will gain, both for yourself and me, an immortal reputation. But, before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sin|cere with you, and must lay down this as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and labor. The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favor of the Deity, you must be at the pains of worshipping him; if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them; if you would be honored by your country, you must take care to serve it. In short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are the only terms and condi|tions upon which I can propose happiness." The god|dess of Pleasure here broke in upon her discourse: "You see," said she, "Hercules, by her own confes|sion, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult; whereas that which I propose is short and easy." "A|las." said the other lady, whose visage glowed with

passion, made up of scorn and pity, "what are the pleasures you propose? To eat before you are hungry, drink before you are athrist, sleep before your are tired; to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard the most delicious music, which is the praise of one's self; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of one's own hands. Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, torment, and remorse, for old age.

"As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good men, an agreeable companion to the artizan, an house|hold guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, an associate in all true and gene|rous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are ne|ver costly, but always delicious; for none eat and drink at them who are not invited by hunger and thirst. Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those who are in years; and those who are in years, of being honored by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favored by the gods, be|loved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and, after the close of their labors, honored by po|sterity."

We know, by the life of this memorable hero, to which of these two ladies he gave up his heart; and I believe every one who reads this, will do him the ju|stice to approve his choice.

XX. WILL HONEYCOMB's SPECTATOR.

MY friend Will Honeycomb has told me, for above this half year, that he had a great mind to try his hand at a Spectator, and that he would fain have one of his writing in my works. This morning I received from him the following letter; which, after having rec|tified some little orthographical mistakes, I shall make a present of to the public.

"Dear Spec,—I was about two nights ago in compa|ny which very agreeable young people of both sexes,

••ere, talking of some of your papers which are writ|••n conjugal love, there arose a dispute among us, ••er there were not more bad husbands in the world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was advocate for the ladies, took this occasion to tell us the story of a famous siege in Germany; which I have since found re|lated in my historical dictionary after the following manner. When the Emperor Conrade III. had besieg|ed Guelphus, Duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hens|berg, the women, finding that the town could not pos|sibly hold out long, petitioned the Emperor that they might depart out of it with so much as each of them could carry. The Emperor, knowing they could not convey away many of their effects, granted them their petition; when the women, to his great surprise, came out of the place with every one her husband upon her back. The Emperor was so moved at the sight, that he burst into tears; and after having very much extol|led the women for their conjugal affection, gave the men to their wives, and received the Duke into his fa|vor.

"The ladies did not a little triumph at this story; asking us at the same time, whether in our consciences we believed that the men in any town of Great Britain would, upon the same offer, and at the same conjunc|ture, have loaded themselves with their wives? or ra|ther, whether they would not have been glad of such an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my very good friend Tom Dapperwit, who took upon him to be the mouth of our sex, replied, that they would be very much to blame if they would not do the same good of|fice for the women, considering that their strength would be greater, and their burdens lighter. As we were amu|sing ourselves with discourses of this nature, in order to pass away the evening, which now begins to grow te|dious, we fell into that laudable and primitive diversion of questions and commands. I was no sooner vested with the regal authority, but I enjoined all the ladies, under pain of my displeasure, to tell the company in|genuously, in case they had been in the siege above|mentioned, and had the same offers made them as the

good women of that place, what every one of t•• would have brought off with her, and have thoug•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 worth the saving? There were several merry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 made to my question, which entertained us till bed-time. This filled my mind with such a huddle of ideas, that upon my going to sleep I fell into the following dream.

"I saw a town of this island, which shall be name|less, invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so straitened as to cry for quarter. The general refused any other terms than those granted to the above men|tioned town of Hensberg, namely, that the married wo|men might come out with what they could bring along with them. Immediately the city gates flew open, and a female procession appeared, multitudes of the sex fol|lowing one another in a row, and staggering under their respective burdens. I took my stand upon an eminence in the enemy's camp, which was appointed for the ge|neral rendezvous of these female carriers, being very desirous to look into their several ladings. The first of them had a huge sack upon her shoulders, which she set down with great care: upon the opening of it, when I expected to have seen her husband shot out of it, I found it was filled with china-ware. The next appear|ed in a more decent figure, carrying a handsome young fellow upon her back: I could not forbear commending the young woman for her conjugal affection, when to my great surprise, I found that she had left the good man at home, and brought away her gallant. I saw the third, at some distance, with a little withered face peeping over her shoulder, whom I could not suspect for any but her spouse, till, upon her setting him down, I heard her call him dear pug, and found him to be her favorite monkey. A fourth brought a huge bale of cards along with her; and the fifth a Bologna lap|dog; for her husband, it seems, being a very bulky man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to bring away little cupid. The next was the wife of a rich userer loaden with a bag of gold; she told us that her spouse was very old, and by the course of nature could not expect to live long; and that to show her tender regard for him, she had saved that which the

p••••r man loved better than his life. The next came 〈◊〉〈◊〉 us with her son upon her back, who, we were 〈…〉〈…〉 ••s the greatest rake in the place, but so much the mother's darling, that she left her husband behind, with a large family of hopeful sons and daughters, for the sake of this graceless youth.

"It would be endless to mention the several persons, with their several loads, that appeared to me in this strange vision. All the place about me was covered with packs of ribbands, brocades, embroidery, and ten thou|sand other materials, sufficient to have furnished a whole street of toy-shops. One of the women, having an husband who was none of the heaviest, was bringing him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her arm; but finding herself so overloaden that she could not save both of them, she dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle. In short, I found but one husband among this great mountain of baggage, who was a lively cobler, that kicked and spurred all the while his wife was carrying him on, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a day in his life without giving her the discipline of the strap.

"I cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without telling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I saw, methought, a dozen women employed in bringing off one man: I could not guess who it should be, till upon his nearer approach I discovered thy short phiz. The women all declared that it was for the sake of thy works, and not thy person, that they brought thee off, and that it was on condition that thou shouldst continue the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will make a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, dear Spec,

Thine sleeping and waking, WILL HONEYCOMB."

The ladies will see by this letter, what have I often told them, that Will is one of those old-fashioned men of wit and pleasure of the town, that shows his parts by raillery on marriage, and one who has often tried his fortune that way without success. I cannot however dismiss this letter, without observing that the true story on which it is built does honor to the sex; and that in

order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 course to dream and fiction.

XXI. ON GOOD BREEDING.

A FRIEND of yours and mine has very justly defined good breeding to be, "the result of much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial for the sake of others, and with a view to obtain the same indul|gence from them." Taking this for granted, (as I think it cannot be disputed) it is astonishing to me, that any body, who has good sense and good nature, can es|sentially fail in good breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary according to persons, places, and cir|cumstances, and are only to be acquired by observation and experience; but the substance of it is every where and eternally the same. Good manners are, to particu|lar societies, what good morals are to society in gene|ral; their cement, and their security. And, as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent the ill effects of bad ones; so there are certain rules of civility, universally implied and received, to enforce good manners and punish bad ones. And, indeed, there seems to me to be less difference, both between the crimes and punishments, than at first one would imagine. The immoral man, who invades another's property, is justly hanged for it; and the ill-bred man, who, by his ill manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of private life, is by common consent as justly banished so|ciety. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little conveniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized people, as protection and obedience are between kings and subjects; whoever, in either case, violates that compact, justly forfeits all advantages ari|sing from it. For my own part, I really think that, next to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is the most pleasing: and the epithet which I should covet the most, next to to that of Aristi|des, would be that of well-bred. Thus much for good-breeding in general: I will now consider some of the various modes and degrees of it.

Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which they should show to those whom they acknow|ledge

to be highly their superiors; such as crowned heads, princes, and public persons of distinguished and eminent posts. It is the manner of showing that respect which is different. The man of fashion and of the world, expresses it in its fullest extent; but naturally, easily, and without concern: whereas a man who is not used to keep good company, expresses it awkwardly; one sees that he is not used to it, and that it costs him a great deal; but I never saw the worst-bred man li|ving, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and such like indecencies, in company that he respected. In such companies, therefore, the only point to be at|tended to is, to show that respect, which every body means to show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and grace|ful manner. This is what observation and experience must teach you.

In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make part of them, is, for the time at least, supposed to be upon a footing of equality with the rest; and, conse|quently, as there is no one principal object of awe and respect, people are apt to take a greater latitude in their behavior, and to be less upon their guard; and so they may, provided it be within certain bounds, which are upon no occasion to be transgressed. But upon these occasions, though no one is entitled to distinguished marks of respect, every one claims, and very justly, every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is al|lowed, carelessness and negligence are strictly for|bidden. If a man accosts you, and talk to you ever so dully or frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is brutality, to show him, by a manifest inattention to what he says, that you think him a fool or a block|head, and not worth hearing. It is much more so with regard to women; who, of whatever rank they are, are intitled, in consideration of their sex, not only to an attentive, but an officious, good breeding from men. Their little wants, likings, dislikes, preferences, anti|pathies, and fancies, must be officiously attended to, and, if possible, guessed at and anticipated, by a well-bred man. You must never usurp to yourself those con|veniencies and gratifications which are of common right; such as the best places, the best dishes, &c. but, on the

contrary, always decline them yourself, and offer them to others; who, in their turns, will offer them to you; so that, upon the whole, you will, in your turn, enjoy your share of the common right. It would be endless for me to enumerate all the particular instances in which a well-bred man shows his good breeding in good com|pany; and it would be injurious to you to suppose, that your own good sense will not point them ••ut to you, and then your own good nature will recommend, and your self-interest enforce, the practice.

There is a third sort of good breeding, in which people are the most apt to fail, from a very mistaken notion that they cannot fail at all. I mean with re|gard to one's most familiar friends and acquaintances, or those who really are our inferiors; a••d there, undoubt|edly, a greater degree of ease is not only allowable but proper, and contributes much to the comforts of a pri|vate social life. But ease and freedom have their bounds, which must by no means be violated. A cer|tain degree of neglience and carelessness becomes in|jurious and insulting, from the real or supposed inferio|rity of the persons; and that delightful liberty of con|versation among a few friends, is soon destroyed, as li|berty often has been, by being carried to licentiousness. But example explains things best; and I will put a pretty strong case. Suppose you and me alone toge|ther; I believe you will allow that I have as good a right to unlimited freedom in your company, as either you or I can possibly have in any other; and I am apt to believe, too, that you would indulge me in that free|dom as far as any body would. But, notwithstanding this, do you imagine that I should think there were no bounds to that freedom? I assure you I should not think so; and I take myself to be as much tied down by a certain degree of good manners to you, as by other degrees of them to other people. The most familiar and intimate habitudes, connections, and friendships, require a degree of good breeding both to preserve and cement them. The best of us have our bad sides; and it is as imprudent as it is ill-bred, to exhibit them. I shall not use ceremony with you; it would be misplaced between us; but I shall certainly observe that degree of

good breeding with you which is, in the first place, de|cent, and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary to make us like one another's company long.

XXII. ADDRESS TO A YOUNG STUDENT.

YOUR parents have watched over your helpless in|fancy, and conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which your mind is capable of manly improve|ment. Their solicitude still continues, and no trouble nor expence is spared in giving you all the instructions and accomplishments which may enable you to act your part in life, as a man of polished sense and confirmed virtue. You have, then, already contracted a great debt of gratitude to them. You can pay it by no other method but by using the advantages which their good|ness has afforded you.

If your own endeavors are deficient, it is in vain that you have tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary pursuits. You must love learning, if you would possess it. In order to love it, you must feel its delights; in order to feel its delights, you must apply to it, however irksome at first, closely, constantly, and for a considerable time. If you have resolution enough to do this, you cannot but love learning; for the mind al|ways loves that to which it has been long, steadily, and voluntarily attached. Habits are formed, which render what was at first disagreeable, not only pleasant, but necessary.

Pleasant, indeed, are all the paths which lead to po|lite and elegant literature. Yours, then, is surely a lot particularly happy. Your education is of such a sort, that its principal scope is to prepare you to receive a refined pleasure during your life. Elegance, or delicacy of taste, is one of the first objects of a classical discipline; and it is this fine quality which opens a new world to the scholar's view. Elegance of taste has a connection with many virtues, and all of them virtues of the most amiable kind. It tends to render you at once good and agreeable. You must therefore be an enemy to your own enjoyments, if you enter on the discipline which leads to the attainment of a classical and liberal educa|tion, with reluctance. Value duly the opportunities you

enjoy, and which are denied to thousands of your fellow creatures.

Without exemplary diligence you will make but a con|temptible proficiency. You may, indeed, pass through the forms of schools and universities, but you will bring nothing away from them of real value. The proper sort and degree of diligence you cannot possess, but by the effects of your own resolution. Your instructor may indeed, confine you within the walls of a school a cer|tain number of hours. He may place books before you, and compel you to fix your eyes upon them; but no authority can chain down your mind. Your thoughts will escape from every external restraint, and, amidst the most serious lectures, may be ranging in the wild pur|suit of trifles or vice. Rules, restraints, commands, and punishments, may, indeed, assist in strengthening your ••••solution; but, without your own voluntary choice y••••r diligence will not often conduce to your pleasure or advantage. Though this truth is obvious, yet it seems to be a secret to those parents who expect to find their son's improvement increase in proportion to the number of tutors and external assistances which their opulence has enabled them to provide. These assistances, indeed, are sometimes afforded, chiefly that the young heir to a title or estate may indulge himself in idleness and nomi|nal pleasures. The lesson is construed to him, and the exercise written for him by the private tutor, while the hapless youth is engaged in some ruinous pleasure, which, at the same time, prevents him from learning any thing desireable, and leads to the formation of destructive ha|bits, which can seldom be removed.

But the principal obstacle to your improvement at school, especially if you are too plentifully supplied with money, is a perverse ambition of being distinguished as a body of spirit in mischievous pranks, in neglecting the tasks and lessons, and for every vice and irregularity which the puerile age can admit. You will have sense enough, I hope, to discover, beneath the mask of gaiety and good-nature, that malignant spirit of detraction, which endeavors to render the boy who applies to books, and to all the duties and proper business of the school, ridiculous. You will see, by the light of your

reason, that the ridicule is misapplied. You will dis|cover, that the boys who have recourse to ridicule, are, for the most part, stupid, unfeeling, ignorant, and vi|cious. Their noisy folly, their bold confidence, their contempt of learning, and their defiance of authority, are, for the most part, the genuine effects of hardened insensibility. Let not their insults and ill-treatment dispirit you. If you yield to them with a tame and ab|ject submission, they will not fail to triumph over you with additional insolence. Display a fortitude in your pursuits, equal in degree to the obstinacy in which they persist in theirs. Your fortitude will soon overcome theirs, which is, indeed, seldom any thing more than the audacity of a bully. Indeed, you cannot go through a school with ease to yourself, and with success, without a considerable share of courage. I do not mean that sort of courage which leads to battles and contentions, but which enables you to have a will of your own, and to pursue what is right, amidst all the persecutions of surrounding enviers, dunces, and detractors. Ridicule is the weapon made use of at school, as well as in the world, when the fortresses of virtue are to be assailed. You will effectually repel the attack by a dauntless spi|rit and unyielding perseverance. Though numbers are against you, yet, with truth and rectitude on your side, you may, though alone, be equal to an army.

By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning your mind with elegant literature, improving and esta|blishing your conduct by virtuous principles, you cannot fail of being a comfort to those friends who have sup|ported you, of being happy within yourself, and of be|ing well received by mankind. Honor and success in life will probably attend you. Under all circumstances you will have an internal source of consolation and en|tertainment, of which no sublunary vicissitude can de|prive you. Time will show how much wiser has been your choice than that of your idle companions, who would gladly have drawn you into their association, or rather into their conspiracy, as it has been called, against good manners, and against all that is honorable and useful. While you appear in society as a respectable and va|luable member of it, they will, perhaps, have sacrificed,

at the shrine of vanity, pride, extravagance, and false pleasure, their health and their sense, their fortunes and their characters.

XXIII. ADVANTAGES OF, AND MOTIVES TO, CHEERFULNESS.

CHEERFULNESS is, in the first place, the best pro|moter of health. Repining•• and secret murmurs of heart give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed, and wear out the machine insensibly; not to mention those violent fer|ments which they stir up in the blood, and those irre|gular disturbed motions which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce remember, in my own observation, to have met with many old men, or with such who (to use our English phrase) 'wear well,' that had not at least a certain indolence in their humor, if not a more than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutually beget each other; with this difference, that we seldom meet with a great degree of health which is not attended with a certain cheerfulness, but very often see cheerfulness where there is no great degree of health.

Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the mind as to the body: it banishes all anxious care and discontent, soothes and composes the passions, and keeps the soul in a perpetual calm.

If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one would think it was made for our use; but if we consider it in its natural beauty and harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was made for our pleasure. The sun, which is as the great soul of the universe, and pro|duces all the necessaries of life, has a particular influence in cheering the mind of man, and making the heart glad.

Those several living creatures which are made for our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods with their music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the delightfulness of their ap|pearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as refresh|ing to the imagination, as to the soil through which they pass.

There are writers of great distinction, who have made it an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is covered with green, rather than with any other color, as being such a right mixture of light and shade, that it comforts and strengthens the eye instead of weakening or grieving it. For this reason, several painters have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye upon, after too great an application to their coloring. A famous modern philosopher accounts for it in the fol|lowing manner: All colors that are more luminous, overpower and dissipate the animal spirits which are em|ployed in sight; on the contrary, those that are more obscure do not give the animal spirits a sufficient exer|cise: whereas the rays that produce in us the idea of green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion, that they give the animal spirits their proper play, and by keeping up the struggle in a just balance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect is certain; for which reason the poets ascribe to this particular color the epithet of Cheerful.

To consider further this double end in the works of nature, and how they are at the same time both useful and entertaining, we find that the most important parts in the vegetable world are those which are the most beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several races of plants are propagated and continued, and which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in making the earth gay and delightful, while she is car|rying on her great work, and intent upon her own pre|servation. The husbandman, after the same manner, is employed in laying out the whole country into a kind of garden or landscape, and making everything smile about him, whilst, in reality, he thinks of nothing but of the harvest, and increase which is to arise from it.

We may further observe how Providence has taken care to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having formed it after such a manner, as to make it ca|pable of conceiving delight from several objects which seem to have very little use in them; as from the wild|ness of rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those who are versed in philosophy may still

carry this consideration higher, by observing, that, if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those real qualities which it actually possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and uncomfortable figure; and why has Providence given it a power of producing in us such imaginary qualities, as tastes and colors, sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is conver|sant in the lower stations of nature, might have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensations? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre filled with ob|jects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement, or ad|miration.

The reader's own thoughts will suggest to him the vicissitude of day and night, the change of seasons, with all that variety of scenes which diversify the face of na|ture, and fill the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleasing images.

I shall not here mention the several entertainments of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversa|tion, and other accidental diversions of life, because I would only take notice of such enticements to a cheer|ful temper, as offer themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently show us, that Providence did not design the world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy.

I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it is a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to be more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a kind of demon that haunts our island, and often conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French novelist, in opposition to those who begin their romances with the flowery seasons of the year, enters on his story thus:

In the gloomy month of November, when the people of England hang and drown themselves, a dis|consolate lover walked out into the fields, &c.

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his climate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in him|self those considerations which may give him a serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheerfully against those little evils and misfortunes which are common to human nature, and which, by a right improvement of

them, will produce a satiety of joy, and uninterrupted happiness.

At the same time that I would engage my reader to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must own there are many evils which naturally spring up a|midst the entertainments that are provided for us; but these if rightly considered, should be far from overcast|ing the mind with sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommending. This in|terspersion of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly ascribed by Mr. Locke, in his essay on human understanding, to a moral reason, in the following words:

Beyond all this, we may find another reason why God hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and affect us, and blended them together in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to do with; that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete happiness in all the enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of Him, 'with whom there is fulness of joy, and at whose right-hand are pleasures for ever|more.

SECTION II.

I. THE BAD READER.

JULIUS had acquired great credit at Cambridge by his compositions. They were elegant, animated, and judicious; and several prizes, at different times, had been adjudged to him. An oration, which he delivered the week before he left the university, had been honor|ed with particular applause; and, on his return home, he was impatient to gratify his vanity, and to extend his reputation, by having it read to a number of his father's literary friends.

A party was therefore collected; and, after dinner, the manuscript was produced. Julius declined the office of reader, because he had contracted a hoarseness on his journey; and a conceited young man, with great for|wardness, offered his services. Whilst he was settling himself on his seat, licking his lips, adjusting his mouth, hawking, hemming, and making other ridiculous prepa|rations for the performance which he had undertaken, a profound silence reigned through the company, the uni|ted effect of attention and expectation. The reader at length began; but his tone of voice was so shrill and dis|sonant, his utterance so vehement, his pronunciation so affected, his emphasis so injudicious, and his accents were so improperly placed, that good manners alone restrained the laughter of the audience. Julius was all this while upon the rack, and his arm was more than once extend|ed to snatch his composition from the coxcomb who de|livered it. But he proceeded, with full confidence in his own elocution; uniformly overstepping, as Shakespeare expresses it, the modesty of nature.

When the oration was concluded, the gentlemen re|turned their thanks to the author; but the compliments which they paid him were more expressive of politeness and civility, than of a conviction of his merit. Indeed, The beauties of his composition had been converted, by bad reading, into blemishes; and the sense of it rendered

obscure, and even unintelligible. Julius and his father could not conceal their vexation and disappointment; and the guests, perceiving that they laid them under a painful restraint, withdrew, as soon as decency permit|ted, to their respective habitations.

II. RESPECT DUE TO OLD AGE.

IT happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in honor of the commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the difficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they would accommodate him if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd accordingly: but when he came to the seats to which he was invited, the jest was, to sit close, and expose him as he stood out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions there where also par|ticular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked towards the boxes appointed for the Lace|demonians, that honest people, more virtuous than po|lite, rose up all to a man, and with greatest respect received him among them. The Athenians being sud|denly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, "The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacedemonians practise it."

III. PIETY TO GOD RECOMMENDED TO THE YOUNG.

WHAT I shall first recommend, is piety to God. With this I begin, both as the foundation of good morals, and as a disposition particularly graceful and becoming in youth. To be void of it, argues a cold heart, desti|tute of some of the best affections which belong to that age. Youth is the season of warm and generous emotions. The heart should then spontaneously rise into the ad|miration of what is great; glow with the love of what is fair and excellent; and melt at the discovery of tenderness and goodness. Where can any object be found so proper to kindle those affections as the Father of the universe, and the Author of all felicity? Un|moved

by veneration, can you contemplate that gran|deur and majesty which His works every where display? Untouched by gratitude, can you view that profusion of good which, in this pleasing season of life, His bene|ficent hand pours around you? Happy in the love and affection of those with whom you are connected, look up to the Supreme Being, as the inspirer of all the friendship which has ever been shown you by others; himself your best and your first friend: formerly, the supporter of your infancy, and the guide of your child|hood; now, the guardian of your youth, and the hope of your coming years. View religious homage as a natural expression of gratitude to him for all his goodness. Consider it as the service of the God of your fathers; of him to whom your parents devoted you; of him whom, in former ages, your ancestors honored; and by whom they are now rewarded and blessed in hea|ven. Connected with so many tender sensibilities of soul, let religion be with you, not the cold and barren offspring of speculation, but the warm and vigorous dic|tate of the heart.

IV. MODESTY AND DOCILITY.

To piety, join modesty and docility, reverence of your parents, and submission to those who are your su|periors in knowledge, in station, and in years. De|pendence and obedience belong to youth. Modesty is one of its chief ornaments; and has ever been esteemed a presage of rising merit. When entering on the career of life, it is your part not to assume the reins as yet into your hands; but to commit yourselves to the guidance of the more experienced, and to become wise by the wisdom of those who have gone before you. Of all the follies incident to youth, there are none which either de|form its present appearance, or blast the prospect of its future prosperity, more than self-conceit, presumption, and obstinacy. By checking its natural progress in im|provement, they fix it in long immaturity; and fre|quently produce mischiefs which can never be repaired. Yet these are vices too commonly found among the young. Big with enterprise, and elated by hope, they resolve to trust for success to none but themselves. Full

of their own abilities, they deride the admonitions which are given them by their friends, as the timorous sugge|stions of age. Too wise to learn, too impatient to deli|berate, too forward to be restrained, they plunge, with precipitant indiscretion, into the midst of all the dan|gers with which life abounds.

V. SINCERITY.

IT is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and truth. These are the basis of every virtue. That dark|ness of character, where we can see no heart; those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If, at an age when the heart is warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is expected to show herself free and open, you can already smile and deceive, what are we to look for when you shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of men; when interest shall have completed the obduration of your heart, and experience shall have improved you in all the arts of guile? Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age. Its first appearance is the fatal omen of growing depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and si••ks you into contempt with God and man. As you value, therefore, the approbation of heaven or the esteem of the world, cultivate the love of truth. In all your proceedings be direct and consistent. Ingenuity and candor possess the most powerful charm; they bespeak universal favor, and carry an apology for almost every failing. The path of truth is a plain and safe path; that of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from since|rity, it is not in your power to stop. One artifice una|voidably leads on to another; till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, you are left entangled in your own snare. Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays, at the same time, a da|stardly spirit. It is the resource of one who wants cou|rage to avow his designs, or to rest upon himself. Where|as openness of character displays that genero•• boldness

which ought to distinguish youth. To set out in the world with no other principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life: but to give an early preference to honor above gain, when they stand in competition; to despise every advantage which cannot be attained without dishonest arts; to brook no mean|ness, and to stoop to no dissimulation; are the indications of a great mind, the presages of future eminence and distinction in life. At the same time, this virtuous sincerity is perfectly consistent with the most prudent vigilance and caution. It is opposed to cunning, not to true wisdom. It is not the simplicity of a weak and im|provident, but the candor of an enlarged a noble mind; of one who scorns deceit, because he accounts it both base and unprofitable; and who seeks no disguise, be|cause he needs none to hide him.

VI. BENEVOLENCE AND HUMANITY.

YOUTH is the proper season for cultivating the be|nevolent and humane affections. As a great part of your happiness is to depend on the connections which you form with others, it is of high importance that you acquire betimes the temper and the manners which will render such connections comfortable. Let a sense of justice be the foundation of all your social qualities. In your most early intercourse with the world, and even in your youthful amusements, let no unfairness be found. Engrave on your mind that sacred rule, of "doing in all things to others according as you wish that they should do unto you." For this end, impress yourselves with a deep sense of the original and natural equality of men. Whatever advantages of birth or fortune you possess, never display them with an ostentatious superiority. Leave the subordinations of rank, to regulate the inter|course of more advanced years. At present it becomes you to act among your companions as man with man. Remember how unknown to you are the vicissitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years. Com|passion is an emotion of which you ought never to be

ashamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of sympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of woe. Let not ease and indulgence contract your affections, and wrap you up in selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of the distresses of human life; of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Never sport with pain and distress in any of your amuse|ments, nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty.

VII. INDUSTRY AND APPLICATION.

DILIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement of time, are material duties of the young. To no pur|pose are they endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. Unavailing, in this case, will be every direction that can be given them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth, the habits of industry are most easily acquired: in youth, the incentives to it are strongest, from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the pro|spects which the beginning of life affords. If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inaction, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish current of ad|vancing years? Industry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is so opposite to the true enjoyment of life as the relaxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is labor only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the appointed vehicle of every good to man. It is the indispensable ••tion of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to determine whether it be a greater foe to virtue, or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects are fatally powerful. Though it appear a slowly-flowing stream, yet it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only saps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge of crimes and evils. It is like water, which first putrifies by stagnation, and then sends up no••ious vapors, and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and of ruin. And under idleness I

include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter away their youth; perpetually engaged in frivolous society, or public amusements; in the labors of dress, or the ostentation of their persons.—Is this the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem? By such accomplishments do you hope to recommend yourselves to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the ex|pectation of your friends and your country?—Amuse|ments youth requires; it were vain, it were cruel, to prohibit them. But, though allowable as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business, of the young. For they then become the gulph of time and the poison of the mind. They foment bad passions. They weaken the manly powers. They sink the native vigor of youth into contemptible effeminacy.

VIII. PROPER EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.

REDEEMING your time from such dangeros waste, seek to fill it with employments which you may review with satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honorable occupations of youth. The desire of it discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many accomplishments and many virtues. But, though your train of life should not lead you to study, the course of education always furnishes proper employments to a well-disposed mind. Whatever you pursue, be emulos to excel. Generous ambition, and sensibility to praise, are, especially at your age, among the marks of virtue. Think not that any affluence of fortune, or any eleva|tion of rank, exempts you from the duties of applica|tion and industry. Industry is the law of our being; it is the demand of nature, of reason, and of God. Re|member always, that the years which now pass over your heads leave permanent memorials behind them. From your thoughtless minds they may escape; but they remain in the remembrance of God. They form an important part of the register of your life. They will hereafter bear testimony, either for or against you, at that day, when, for all your actions, but particularly for the employments of youth, you most give an account to God.—Whether your future course is destined to be-

long or short, after this manner it should commence; and, if it continue to be thus conducted, its conclusion, at what time soever it arrives, will not be inglorious or unhappy.

IX. THE TRUE PATRIOT.

ANDREW DORIA of Genoa, the greatest sea-captain of the age he lived in, set his country free from the yoke of France. Beloved by his fellow-citizens, and sup|ported by the emperor Charles V. it was in his power to assume sovereignty without the least struggle. But he preferred the virtuous satisfaction of giving liberty to his countrymen. He declared in public assembly, that the happiness of seeing them once more restored to li|berty, was to him a full reward for all his services: that he claimed no pre-eminence above his equals, but remit|ted to them absolutely to settle a proper form of govern|ment. Doria's magnanimity put an end to factions that had long vexed the state: and a form of government was established with great unanimity, the same that, with very little alteration, subsists at present. Doria lived to a great age, beloved and honored by his countrymen; and, without ever making a single step out of his rank as a private citizen, he retained to his dying hour great in|fluence in the republic. Power, founded on love and gratitude, was to him more pleasant than what is found|ed on sovereignty. His memory is reverenced by the Genoese; and, in their histories and public monuments, there is bestowed on him the most honorable of all titles —FATHER of his COUNTRY, and RESTORER of its LIBERTY.

X. ON CONTENTMENT.

CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the PHILOSOPHER'S STONE; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising out of a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and in|gratitude

towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate am|bition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts.

Among the many methods which may be made use of for the acquiring of this virtue. I shall only mention the two following. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants; and se|condly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is.

First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one who con|doled him upon the loss of a farm: "Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you, than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost than what they possess; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, ra|ther than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniencies of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is the humor of mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honor. For this reason, as there is none can be properly called rich, who have not more than they want; there are few rich men in any of the politer nations but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid poverty; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavor to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld with a great deal of mirth this silly game that is playing over their heads; and, by contract|ing their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridicu|lous chace after imaginary pleasures cannot be sufficient|ly exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it

wil••, he is a poor man if he does not live within it, and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In short, con|tent is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty; or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, "Con|tent is natural wealth," says Socrates; to which I shall add, Luxury is artificial poverty. I shall therefore re|commend to the consideration of those who are always aiming after superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, namely, "That no man has so much care, as he who endeavors af|ter the most happiness."

In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. The former consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided with the means to make themselves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or mis|fortune. These may receive great alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between himself and others, or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater mi••fortunes which might have befal|len him.

I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main-mast, told the standers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. To which, since I have got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was r••led by his wife that came into the room in a pas|sion, and threw down the table that stood before them: "Every one," says he, "has his calamity, and he is a happy man that has no greater than this." We find an instance to the same purpose in the life of Doctor Ham|mond, written by Bishop Fell. As this good man was troubled with a complication of distempers, when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was

not the stone; and when he had the stone, that he had not both these distempers on him at the same time.

I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there was never any system besides that of Christianity, which could effectually produce in the mind of man, the virtue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented with our condition, many of the professed philosophers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being able to make any altera|tion in our circumstances; others, that whatever evil be|fals us, is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which the gods themselves are subject; while others very gravely tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so to keep up the harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and per|verted were he otherwise. These and the like considera|tions rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him again: "It is for that very reason," said the emperor, "that I grieve."

On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bettering his condition; nay, it shows him, that the bearing of his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, b••cause it can make him happy hereafter.

XI. TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A MONKEY.

WILL HONEYCOMB, who loves to show upon occa|sion all the little learning he has picked up, told us yes|terday at the club, that he thought there might be a great deal said for the transmigration of souls, and that the eastern parts of the world believed in that doctrine to this day. Sir Paul Rycaut, says he, gives us an account of several well-disposed Mahometans that pur|chase the freedom of any little bird they see confined to a cage; and think they merit as much by it, as we

should do here by ransoming any of our countrymen from their captivity at Algiers. You must know, says Will, the reason is, because they consider every animal as a brother or sister in disguise; and therefore think themselves obliged to extend their charity to them, though under such mean circumstances. They will tell you, says Will, that the soul of a man, when he dies, immediately passes into the body of another man, or of some brute, which he resembled in his humor, or his fortune, when he was one of us.

As I was wondering what this profusion of learning would end in, Will told us that Jack Freelove, who was a fellow of whim, made love to one of those ladies who throw away all their fondness on parrots, monkeys, and l••••-dogs. Upon going to pay her a visit one morning, he write a very pretty epistle upon this hint. Jack, says he, was conducted into the parlor, where he diverted himself for some time with her favorite monkey, which was chained in one of the windows; till at length ob|serving a pen and ink lie by him, he writ the following letter to his mistress, in the person of the monkey; and upon her not coming down so soon as he expected, le••t it in the window, and went about his business.

The lady, soon after coming into the parlor, and seeing her monkey look upon a paper with great ear|nestness, took it up, and to this day is in some doubt, says Will, whether it was written by Jack or the mon|key.

"Madam,—Not having the gift of speech, I have a long time waited in vain for an opportunity of making myself known to you; and having at present the con|venience of pen, ink, and paper by me, I gladly take the occasion of giving you my history in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth. You must know, Madam, that about a thousand years ago I was an In|dian Bramin, and versed in all those mysterious se|crets which your European philosopher, called Pytha|goras, is said to have learned from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated myself by my great skill in the occult sciences with a demon whom I used to converse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask of him. I desired that my soul might never pass into the

body of a brute creature; but this, he told me, was not in his power to grant me. I then begged, that into whatever creature I should chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my memory, and be conscious that I was the same person who lived in different animals. This he told me was within his power; and according|ly promised, on the word of a demon, that he would grant me what I desired. From that time forth I lived so very unblameably, that I was made president of a college of Bramins; an office which I discharged with great integrity till the day of my death.

"I was then shuffled into another human body, and acted my part so very well in it, that I became first mi|nister to a prince who reigned upon the banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honor for several years, but by degrees lost all the innocence of the Bramin, being obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I became so odious, that my master, to recover his credit with his subjects, shot me through the heart with an arrow, as I was one day addressing myself to him at the head of his army.

"Upon my next remove, I found myself in the woods, under the shape of a jackall, and soon listed myself in the service of a lion; I used to yelp near his den about midnight, which was his time of rousing and seeking after his prey. He always followed me in the rear; and when I had run down a fair buck, a wild goat, or a hare, after he had feasted very plentifully upon it him|self, would now and then throw me a bone that was but half picked for my encouragement; but upon my being unsuccessful in two or three chaces, he gave me such a confounded gripe in his anger that I died of it.

"In my next transmigration I was again set upon two legs, and become an Indian tax-gatherer; but having been guilty of great extravagancies, and being married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran so cursed|ly in debt, that I durst not show my head. I could no sooner step out of my house, but I was arrested by some body or other that lay in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one night in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up and hurried into a dungeon, where I died a few months after.

"My soul then entered into a flying fish; and in that state led a most melancholy life for the space of six years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I was in the water; and if I betook myself to my wings, it was ten to one but I had a flock of birds aiming at me. As I was one day flying amidst a fleet of English ships, I observed a huge sea-gull whetting his bill, and hovering just over my head: upon my dipping into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth of a monstrous shark that swallowed me down in an instant.

"I was, some years afterwards to my great surprise, an eminent banker in Lombard-street; and remember|ing how I had formerly suffered for want of money, be|come so very sordid and avaricious, that the whole town cried Shame on me. I was a miserable little old fellow to look upon; for I had in a manner starved myself, and was nothing but skin and bone when I died.

"I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed to find myself dwindled into an e••met. I was heartily concerned to make so insignificant a figure; and did not know but, some time or other, I might be reduced to a mite, if I did not mend my manners. I therefore applied myself with great diligence to the offices that were allotted me, and was generally looked upon as the notablest ant in the whole molehill. I was at last pick|ed up, as I was groaning under a burden, by an unluc|ky cock sparrow that lived in the neighborhood, and had before made great depredations upon our common-wealth.

"I then bettered my condition a little, and lived a whole summer in the shape of a bee; but, being tired with the painful aad penurious life I had undergone in my two last transmigrations, I fell into the other ex|treme, and turned drone. As I one day headed a party to plunder a hive, we were received so warmly by the swarm which defended it, that we were most of us left dead upon the spot.

"I might tell you of many other transmigrations which I went through: how I was a town rake, and afterwards did penance in a bay gelding for ten years; as also how I was a taylor, a shrimp, and a tom-••it. In the last of these my shapes, I was shot in the Christmas

holidays by a young jac••anapes, who would needs try his new gun upon me••

"But I shall pass 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••hese and several other stages of life, to remind you of the young bean who made love to you about six years since. You may remember, Ma|dam, how he masked and danced, and sung and played a thousand tricks to gain you; and how he was at last carried off by a cold that he got under your window one night in a serenade. I was that unfortunate young fel|low, whom you were then so cruel to. Not long after my shifting that unlucky body, I found myself upon a hill in Aethiopia, where I lived in my present grotesque shape, till I was caught by a servant of the English factory, and sent over into Great Britain: I need not inform you how I came into your hands. You see, Madam, this is not the first time that you have had me in a chain: I am, however, very happy in this my cap|tivity, as you often bestow on me those kisses and ca|resses which I would have given the world for when I was a man. I hope this discovery of my person will not tend to my disadvantage, but that you will still conti|nue your accustomed favors to your most devoted hum|ble servant,

PUG.

"P. S. I would advise your little shock-dog to keep out of my way; for as I looked upon him to be the most formidable of my rivals, I may chance one time or other to give him such a snap as he will not like."

XII. JOURNAL of the LIFE of ALEXANDER SEVERUS.

ALEXANDER rose early. The first moments of the day were consecrated to private devotion: but, as he deemed the service of mankind the most acceptable wor|ship of the gods, the greatest part of his morning hours was employed in council; where he discussed public af|fairs, and determined private causes, with a patience and discretion above his years. The dryness of business was enlivened by the charms of literature; and a por|tion of time was always set apart for his favorite stu|dies of poetry, history, and philosophy. The works of Virgil and Horace, the republics of Plato and Cicero, formed his taste, enlarged his understanding, and gave him the noblest ideas of man and of government. The

exercises of the body succeeded to those of the mind; and Alexander, who was tall, active, and robust, sur|passed most of his equals in the gymnastic arts. Re|freshed by the use of the bath, and a slight dinner, he resumed, with new vigor, the business of the day; and, till the hour of supper, the principal meal of the Romans, ••e was attended by his secretaries, with whom he read and answered the multitude of letters, memo|rials, and petitions, that must have been addressed to the master of the greatest part of the world. His table was served with the most frugal simplicity; and when|ever he was at liberty to consult his own inclination, the company consisted of a few select friends, men of learn|ing and virtue. His dress was plain and modest; his demeanor courteous and affable. At the proper hours, his palace was open to all his subjects: but the voice of a crier was heard, as in the Eleusinian mysteries, pro|nouncing the same salutary admonition,—"Let none enter these holy walls, unless he is conscious of a pure and innocent mind."

XIII. CHARACTER OF JULIUS CAESAR.

CAESAR was endowed with every great and noble quality that could exalt human nature, and give a man the ascendant in society: formed to excel in peace as well as war, provident in council, fearless in action, and executing what he had resolved with an amazing cele|rity; generous beyond measure to his friends, placable to his enemies; and for parts, learning, eloquence, scarce inferior to any man. His orations were admired for two qualities, which are seldom found together, strength and elegance. Cicero ranks him among the greatest orators that Rome ever bred: and Quintilian says, that he spoke with the same force with which he fought; and if he had devoted himself to the bar, would have been the only man capable of rivaling Cicero. Nor was he a master only of the politer arts, but conversant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learning; and a|mong other works which he published, addressed two books to Cicero on the analogy of language, or the art of speaking and writing correctly. He was a most li|beral patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were

found; and out of his love of those talents, would rea|dily pardon those who had employed them against him|self; rightly adjudging, that by making such men his friends, he should draw praises from the same fountain from which he had been aspersed. His capital passions were ambition and love of pleasure; which he indulged in their turns to the greatest excess: yet the first was always predominant; to which he could easily sacrifice all the charms of the second, and draw pleasure even from toils and dangers, when they ministered to his glory. For he thought Tyranny, as Cicero says, the greatest of goddesses; and had freque••tly in his mouth a verse of Euripides, which expressed the image of his soul, That if right and virtue were ever to be violated, they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. This was the chief end and purpose of his life; the scheme that he had formed from his early youth: so that, as Cato truly declared of him, he came with sobriety and meditation to the subversion of the republic. He used to say, that there were two things necessary to acquire and to support power—soldiers and money; which yet depend mutually 〈◊〉〈◊〉 each ••ther: with money, there|fore, he provided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money; and was, of all men, the most rapacious in plun|dering both friends and foes; sparing neither prince nor state, nor temple, nor even private persons, who were known to possess any share of treasure. His great abi|lities would necessarily have made him one of the first citizens of Rome; but disdaining the condition of a subject, he could never rest till he had made himself a monarch. In acting this last part, his usual prudence seemed to fail him; as if the height to which he was mounted had turned his head, and made him giddy: for, by a vain ostentation of his power, he destroyed the stability of it; and, as men shorten life by living too fast, so, by an intemperance of reigning, he brought his reign to a violent end.

XIV. ON MISPENT TIME.

I WAS yesterday comparing the industry of man with that of other creatures; in which I could not but ob|serve, that, notwithstanding we are obliged by duty to

keep ourselves in constant employ, after the same man|ner as inferior animals are prompted to it by instinct, we fall very short of them in this particular. We are here the more inexcusable, because there is a greater variety of business to which we may apply ourselves. Reason opens to us a large field of affairs, which other creatures are not capable of. Beasts of prey, and, I be|lieve, of all other kinds in their natural state of being, divide their time between action and rest. They are always at work or sleep. In short, their waking hours are wholly taken up in seeking after their food, or in consuming it. The human species only, to the great reproach of our natures, are filled with complaints, that "the day hangs heavy or them," that "they do not know what to do with themselves," that "they are at a loss how to pass away their time;" with many of the like shameful murmurs, which we often find in the mouths of those who are styled reasonable beings. How monstrous are such expressions among creatures who have the labors of the mind, as well as those of the body, to furnish them with proper employments; who, besides the business of their proper callings and profes|sions, can apply themselves to the duties of religion, to meditation, to the reading of useful books, to dis|course; in a word, who may exercise themselves in the unbounded pursuits of knowledge and virtue, and every hour of their lives make themselves wiser or better than they were before!

After having been taken up for some time in this course of thought, I diverted myself with a book, ac|cording to my usual custom, in order to unbend my mind before I went to sleep. The book I made use of on this occasion was Lucian, where I amused my thoughts for about an hour among the dialogues of the dead; which in all probability produced the following dream:

I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the infernal regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus, one of the judges of the dead, seated on his tribunal. On his left hand stood the keeper of Erebus, on his right the keeper of Elysium. I was told he sat upon women that day, there being several of the sex lately arrived, who

had not yet their mansions assigned them. I was sur|prised to hear him ask every one of them the same ques|tion, namely, What they had been doing? Upon this question being proposed to the whole assembly, they stared one upon another, as not knowing what to an|swer. He then interrogated each of them separately. Madam, says he to the first of them, you have been up|on the earth about fifty years: what have you been do|ing there all this while? Doing, says she; really I do not know what I have been doing; I desire I may have time given me to recollect. After about half an hour's pause, she told him that she had been playing at crimp; upon which Rhadamanthus beckoned to the keeper on his left hand to take her into custody. And you, Ma|dam, says the judge, that look with such a soft and lan|guishing air: I think you set out for this place in your nine-and-twentieth year, what have you been doing all this while? I had a great deal of business on my hands, says she, being taken up the first twelve years of my life in dressing a jointed baby, and all the remaining part of it in reading plays and romances. Very well, says he, you have employed your time to good purpose. Away with her. The next was a plain country-woman: Well, mistress, says Rhadamanthus, and what have you been doing? An't please your worship, says she, I did not live quite forty years; and in that time brought my husband seven daughters, made him nine thousand cheeses, and left my eldest girl with him to look af|ter his house in my absence; and who, I may venture to say, is as pretty a housewife as any in the country. Rhadamanthus smiled at the simplicity of the good wo|man, and ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her in|to his care. And you, fair lady, says he, what have you been doing these five-and-thirty years? I have been doing no hurt, I assure you, Sir, said she. That is well, said he; but what good have you been doing? The lady was in great confusion at this question; and not knowing what to answer, the two keepers leaped out to seize her at the same time; the one took her by the hand to convey her to Elysium, the other caught hold of her to carry her away to Erebus. But Rhada|manthus observing an ingenuous modesty in her counte|nance

and behavior, bid them both let her loose, and set her aside for re-examination when he was more at leisure. An old woman, of a proud and sure look, presented herself next at the bar; and being asked what she had been doing? Truly, said she, I lived three|score and ten years in a very wicked world, and was so angry at the behavior of a parcel young flirts, that I passed most of my last years in condemning the follies of the times. I was every day blaming the silly conduct of people about me, in order to deter those I conversed with from falling into the like errors and miscarriages. Very well, says Rhadamanthus, but did you keep the same watchful eye over your own actions? Why truly, says she, I was so taken up with publishing the faults of others, that I had no time to consider my own. Ma|dam, says Rhadamathus, be pleased to file off to the left, and make room for the venerable matron that stands behind you. Old gentlewoman, says he, I think you are fourscore; you have heard the question; what have you been doing so long in the world? Ah, Sir, says she, I have been doing what I should not have done; but I had made a firm resolution to have changed my life, if I had not been snatched off by an untimely end. Madam, says he, you will please to follow your leader: and, spying another of the same age, interroga|ted her in the same form. To which the matron re|plied, I have been the wife of a husband who was as dear to me in his old age as in his youth. I have been a mother, and very happy in my children, whom I en|deavored to bring up in every thing that is good. My eldest son is blest by the poor, and beloved by every one that knows him. I lived within my own family, and left it much more wealthy than I found it. Rhada|manthus, who knew the value of the old lady, smiled upon her in such a manner, that the keeper of Elysium, who knew his office, reached out his hand to her. He no sooner touched her, but her wrinkles vanished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with blushes, and she appeared in full bloom and beauty. A young wo|man, observing that this officer who conducted the happy to Elysium, was so great a beautifier, longed to be in his hands; so that, pressing through the crowd,

she was the next that appeared at the bar: and being asked what she had been doing the five and twenty years that she had passed in the world? I have endeavored, says she, ever since I came to years of discretion, to make myself lovely, and gain admirers. In order to it, I past my time in bottling up May-dew, inventing white|washes, mixing colors, cutting out patches, consulting my glass, suiting my complexion—Rhadamanthus, with|out hearing her out, gave the sign to take her off. Upon the approach of the keeper of Erebus, her color faded, herface was puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person lost in deformity.

I was then surprised with a distant sound of a whole troop of females that came forward, laughing, singing, and dancing. I was very desirous to know the recep|tion they would meet with, and withal was very ap|prehensive that Rhadamanthus would spoil their mirth: but at their nearer approach, the noise grew so very great that it awakened me.

I lay some time reflecting in myself on the oddness of this dream; and could not forbear asking my own heart, what I was doing? I answered myself that I was writing GUARDIANS. If my readers make as good a use of this work as I design they should, I hope it will never be imputed to me as work that is vain and unprofitable.

I shall conclude this paper with recommending to them the same short self-examination. If every one of them frequently lays his hand upon his heart, and con|siders what he is doing, it will check him in all the idle, or, what is worse, the vicious, moments of life; lift up his mind when it is running on in a series of indifferent actions, and encourage him when he is engaged in those which are virtuous and laudable. In a word, it will very much alleviate that guilt which the best of men have reason to acknowledge in their daily confessions, of "leaving undone those things which they ought to have done, and of doing those things which they ought not to have done."

XV. CHARACTER OF FRANCIS I.

FRANCIS died at Rambouillet, on the last day of March, in the fifty-third year of his age, and the thirty-third of his reign.—During twenty-eight years of that time, an avowed rivalship subsisted between him and the Em|peror: which involved, not only their own dominions, but the greater part of Europe, in wars, prosecuted with more violent animosity, and drawn out to a greater length, than had been known in any former period. Many circumstances contributed to both. Their ani|mosity was founded in opposition of interest, heightened by personal emulation, and exasperated, not only by mutual injuries, but by reciprocal insults. At the same time, whatever advantage one seemed to possess towards gaining the ascendant, was wonderfully ballanced by some favorable circumstance peculiar to the other. The Emperor's dominions were of great extent; the French King's lay more compact: Francis governed his king|dom with absolute power; that of Charles was limited, but he supplied the want of authority by address: the troops of the former were more impetuous and enter|prising; those of the latter, better disciplined, and more patient of fatigue.

The talents and abilities of the two monarchs were as different as the advantages which they possessed, and contributed no less to prolong the contest between them. Francis took his resolutions suddenly; prosecuted them, at first, with warmth; and pushed them into execution with a most adventurous courage: but, being destitute of the perseverance necessary to surmount difficulties, he often abandoned his designs, or relaxed the vigor of pursuit, from impatience, and sometimes from levity. Charles deliberated long, and determined with coolness: but, having once fixed his plan, he adhered to it with inflexible obstinacy; and neither danger, nor discourage|ment, could turn him aside from the execution of it.

The success of their enterprises was as different as their characters, and was uniformly influenced by them. Francis, by his impetuous activity, often disconcerted the Emperor's best-laid schemes; Charles, by a more calm, but steady prosecution of his designs, checked the

rapidity of his rival's career, and baffled or repulsed his most vigorous efforts. The former, at the opening of a war or of a campaign, broke in upon his enemy with the violence of a torrent, and carried all before him; the latter, waiting until he saw the force of his rival be|gan to abate, recovered, in the end, not only all that he had lost, but made new acquisitions. Few of the French monarch's attempts towards conquest, whatever promi|sing aspect they might wear at first, were conducted to an happy issue; many of the Emperor's enterprises even after they appeared desperate and impracticable, termi|nated in the most prosperous manner.

The degree, however, of their comparative merit and reputation, has not been fixed, either by a strict scrutiny into their abilities for government, or by an impartial consideration of the greatness and success of their under|takings; and Francis is one of those monarchs, who occupy a higher rank in the temple of fame, than ei|ther their talents or performances intitle them to hold. This pre-eminence he owed to many different circum|stances. The superiority which Charles acquired by the victory of Pavia, and which, from that period, he pre|served through the remainder of his reign, and was so ma|nifest, that Francis's struggle against his exorbitant and growing dominion, was viewed by most of the other powers, not only with the partiality which naturally arises from those who gallantly maintain an unequal con|test, but with the favor due to one, who was resisting a common enemy, and endeavoring to set bounds to a monarch equally formidable to them all. The charac|ters of princes, too, especially among the cotempo|raries, depend, not only upon their talents for govern|ment, but upon their qualities as men. Francis, not|withstanding the many errors conspicuous in his foreign policy and domestic administration, was, nevertheless, humane, beneficent, generous. He possessed dignity without pride, affability free from meanness, and cour|tesy exempt from deceit. All who had access to know him, and no man of merit was ever denied that privilege, respected and loved him. Captivated with his personal qualities, his subjects forgot his defects as a monarch; and, admiring him as the most accomplished and amiable

gentleman in his dominions, they hardly murmured at acts of mal-administration, which, in a prince of less en|gaging dispositions, would have been deemed unpardon|able.

This admiration, however, must have been temporary only, and would have died away with the courtiers who bestowed it; the illusion arising from his private virtues must have ceased, and posterity would have judged of his public conduct with its usual impartiality; but ano|ther circumstance prevented this; and his name hath been transmitted to posterity with increasing reputation. Science, and the arts, had, at that time, made little pro|gress in France. They were just beginning to advance beyond the limits of Italy, where they had revived, and which had hitherto been their only seat. Francis took them immediately under his protection, and vied with Leo himself in the zeal and munificence with which he encouraged them. He invited learned men to his court, he conversed with them familiarly, he em|ployed them in business, he raised them to offices of dignity, and honored them with his confidence. That race of men, not more prone to complain when denied the respect to which they fancy themselves intitled, than apt to be pleased when treated with the distinction which they consider as their due, thought they could not exceed in gratitude to such a benefactor, and strained their invention, and employed all their ingenuity, in panegyric.

Succeeding authors, warmed with their descriptions of Francis's bounty, adopted their encomiums, and re|fined upon them. The appellation of FATHER OF LET|TERS, bestowed upon Francis, hath rendered his memory sacred among historians; and they seem to have regard|ed it as a sort of impiety, to uncover his infirmities, or to point out his defects. Thus Francis, notwithstanding his inferior abilities, and want of success, hath more than equalled the fame of Charles. The virtues which he possessed as a man, have intitled him to greater admira|tion and praise, than have been bestowed upon the ex|tensive genius, and fortunate arts, of a more capable, but less amiable rival.

XVI. THE SUPPER AND GRACE.

A SHOE coming loose from the fore-foot of the thill-horse, at the beginning of the ascent of mount Taurira, the postillion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it in his pocket: as the ascent was of five or six miles, and that horse our main dependence, I made a point of having the shoe fastened on again, as well as we could; but the postillion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaise-box being of no great use without them, I submitted to go on.

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when, coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil lost a second shoe, and from off his other fore-foot. I then got out of the chaise in good earnest; and, seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left-hand, with a great deal to do I prevailed upon the postilion to turn up to it. The look of the house, and every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. It was a little farm-house, surrounded with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn; and close to the house, on one side, was a potagerie of an acre and a half, full of every thing which could make plenty in a French peasant's house: and, on the other side, was a little wood which furnished wherewithal to dress it. It was about eight in the evening when I got to the house: so I left the postillion to manage his point as he could; and, for mine, I walked directly into the house.

The family consisted of an old gray-headed man and his wife, with five or six sons and sons-in-law and their several wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them.

They were all sitting down together to their lentil-soup; a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flagon of wine at each end of it promised joy through the stages of the repast—'twas a feast of love.

The old man rose up to meet me, and, with a respect|ful cordiality, would have me sit down at the table. My heart was set down the moment I entered the room: so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and to in|vest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I in|stantly borrowed the old man's knife, and taking up the

loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mixed with thanks that I had not seemed to doubt it.

Was it this; or tell me, Nature, what else it was that made this morsel so sweet—and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their flagon was so de|licious with it, that it remains upon my palate to this hour?

If the supper was to my taste, the grace which fol|lowed was much more so.

When supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance. The moment the signal was gi|ven, the women and girls ran altogether into the back apartment to tie up their hair, and the young men to the door to wash their faces, and change their sabots, (WOODEN SHOES;) and in three minutes every soul was ready, upon a little esplanade before the house, to begin. The old man and his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sopha of turf by the door.

The old man had some fifty years ago been no mean performer upon the vielle; and at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife sung now-and-then a little to the tune, then intermitted, and joined her old man again, as their children and grandchildren danced before them.

It was not till the middle of the second dance, when, for some pauses in the movement wherein they all seem|ed to look up, I fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit different from that which is the cause or the effect of simple jollity. In a word, I thought I beheld religion mixing in the dance; but, as I had never seen her so engaged, I should have looked upon it now as one of the illusions of an imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the old man, as soon as the dance ended, said, that this was their constant way; and that all his life long, he made it a rule, after supper was over, to call out his family to dance and rejoice; be|lieving, he said, that a cheerful and contented mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an illiterate pea|sant could pay.—Or a learned prelate either, said I.

XVII. RUSTIC FELICITY.

MANY are the silent pleasures of the honest peasant, who rises cheerfully to his labor.—Look into his dwell|ing,—where the scene of every man's happiness chiefly lies:—he has the same domestic endearments,—as much joy and comfort in his children, and as flatter|ing hopes of their doing well,—to enliven his hours and glad his heart, as you could conceive in the most afflu|ent station.—And I make no doubt, in general, but if the true account of his joys and sufferings were to be balanced with those of his betters,—that the upshot would prove to be little more than this;—that the rich man had the more meat,—but the poor man the better stomach;—the one had more luxury,—more able physi|cians to attend and set him to rights;—the other, more health and soundness in his bones, and less occasion for their help;—that after these two articles betwixt them were balanced,—in all other things they stood upon a level:—that the sun shines as warm,— the air blows as fresh,—and the earth breathes as fragrant upon the one as the other; and that they have an equal share in all the beauties and real benefits of nature.

XVIII. HOUSE OF MOURNING.

LET us go into the house of mourning, made so by such afflictions as have been brought in merely by the common cross accidents and disasters to which our con|dition is exposed,—where, perhaps, the aged parents sit broken hearted, pierced to their souls with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless child—the child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations cen|tered:—perhaps a more affecting scene—a virtuous fa|mily lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it having long struggled with a train of mis|fortunes, and bravely sought up against them,—is now piteously borne down at the last—overwhelmed with a cruel blow which no forecast or frugality could have prevented.—O God! look upon his afflictons—Behold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares

—without bread to give them; unable, from the remem|brance of better days, to dig—to beg, ashamed.

When we enter into the house of mourning such as this —it is impossible to insult the unfortunate even with an improper look—Under whatever levity and dissipation of heart such objects catch our eyes,—they catch like|wise our attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts, and exercise them with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, such as is here sketched, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work? how neces|sarily does it engage it to the consideration of the mi|series and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities, to which the life of man is subject? By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanity—the perishing condition and uncertain tenure, of every thing in this world. From reflections of this serious cast, how insensibly do the thoughts carry us farther?—and from considering what we are,—what kind of world we live in, and what evil befals us in it, how naturally do they set us to look forward at what possibly we shall be?—for what kind of world we are intended—what evils may befal us there—and what provision we should make against them here whilst we have time and opportunity? If these lessons are so inseper|able from the house of mourning here supposed—we shall find it a still more instructive school of wisdom when we take a view of the place in that more affecting light in which the wise man seems to confine it in the text; in which, by the house of mourning, I believe he means that particular scene of sorrow, where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hi|ther, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mo|ther, and she a widow. Perhaps a still more affecting spectacle, a kind and indulgent father of a numerous family lies breathless—snatched away in the strength of his age—torn in an evil hour from his children and the bosom of a disconsolate wife. Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with set|tled sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to perform that last melancholy of|fice, which, when the debt of nature is paid, we are

called upon to pay to each other. If this sad occasion which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice, to what a serious and devout frame of mind e|very man is reduced the moment he enters THIS gate of affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits, which in the house of mirth were wont to transport him from one di|verting object to another—see how they are fallen! how peaceably they are laid! In this gloomy mansion, full of shades and uncomfortable damps to seize the soul— see, the light and easy heart, which never knew what it was to think before, how pensive it is now, how soft, how susceptible, how full of religious impressions, how deeply it is smitten with a sense and with a love of vir|tue! Could we, in this crisis, whilst this empire of rea|son and religion lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom and busied with heavenly contemplations— could we see it naked as it is—stripped of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its pleasures —we might then safely rest our cause upon this single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual, whether Solo|mon has not made a just determination here, in favor of the house of mourning? not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. Without this end, sorrow, I own, has no use but to shorten man's days—nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and im|pose upon the other.

SECTION III.

I. THE HONOR AND ADVANTAGE OF A CONSTANT ADHERENCE TO TRUTH.

PETRARCH, a celebrated Italian poet, who flourished about four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the confidence and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose family he resided, by his candor and strict regard to truth. A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this nobleman; which was carried so far, that recourse was had to arms. The Cardinal wished to know the foundation of this affair; and, that he might be able to decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obli|ged them to bind themselves, by a most solemn oath on the Gospels, to declare the whole truth. Every one, without exception, submitted to this determination; even the bishop of Luna, brother to the Cardinal, was not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, presenting himself to take the oath, the cardinal closed the book, and said, AS TO YOU, PETRARCH, YOUR WORD IS SUFFICIENT.

II. IMPERTINENCE IN DISCOURSE.

THIS kind of impertinence is a habit of talking much without thinking.

A man who has this distemper in his tongue shall en|tertain you, though he never saw you before, with a long story in praise of his own wife; give you the par|ticulars of his last night's dream, or the description of a feast he has been at, without letting a single dish escape him. When he is thus entered into conversation, he grows very wise; descants upon the corruption of the times and the degeneracy of the age we live in; from which, as his transitions are somewhat sudden, he falls upon the price of corn, and the number of strangers that are in town. He undertakes to prove, that it is better putting to sea in summer than in winter, and that rain is neces|sary to produce a good crop of corn; telling you, in the same breath, that he intends to plough up such a

part of his estate next year, that the times are hard, and that a man has much ado to get through the world. His whole discourse is nothing but hurry and incohe|rence. He acquaints you, that Demippus had the lar|gest torch at the feast of Ceres; asks you, if you re|member how many pillars are in the music-theatre; tells you that he took physic yesterday; and desires to know what day of the month it is. If you have patience to hear him, he will inform you what festivals are kept in August, what in October, and what in December.

When you see such a fellow as this coming towards you, run for your life. A man had much better be vi|sited by a fever; so painful is it to be fastened upon by one of this make, who takes it for granted that you have nothing else to do but to give him a hearing.

III. CHARACTER OF ADDISON AS A WRITER.

As a describer of life and manners, Mr Addison must be allowed to stand perhaps the first in the first rank. His humor is peculiar to himself; and is so happily dif|fused, as to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences. He never O'ERSTEPS THE MO|DESTY OF NATURE, nor raises merriment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by dis|tortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently fol|lowed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious; he appears neither weakly credulous nor wantonly sceptical; his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably rigid. All the enchantments of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown some|times as the phantom of a vision, sometimes appears half-veiled in an allegory, sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the con|fidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing.

His prose in the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal, on light occasions not groveling; pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elaboration; always equable, and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. His page is al|ways luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splen|dor. It seems to have been his principal endeavor to avoid all harshness and severity of diction; he is there|fore sometimes verbose in his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation; yet, if his language had been less idioma|tical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine Angli|cism. What he attempted he performed: he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic; he is never rapid, and he never stagnates. His sentences have nei|ther studied amplitude nor affected brevity; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy.— Who ever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.

IV. PLEASURE AND PAIN.

THERE were two families, which, from the beginning of the world, were as opposite to each other as light and darkness. The one of them lived in heaven, and the other in hell. The youngest descendant of the first fa|mily was Pleasure; who was the daughter of Hap|piness, who was the child of Virtue, who was the off|spring of the Gods. These, as I said before, had their habitation in heaven. The youngest of the opposite fa|mily was Pain; who was the son of Misery, who wa•• the child of Vice, who was the offspring of the Furies. The habitation of this race of beings was in hell.

The middle station of nature between these two op|posite extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by creatures of a middle kind; neither so virtuous as the one, nor so vicious as the other, but partaking of the good and bad qualities of these two opposite families. Jupiter, considering that this species, commonly called MAN, was too virtuous to be miserable, and too vicious to be happy, that he might make a distinction between the good and the bad, ordered the two youngest of the

above mentioned families (Pleasure, who was the daugh|ter of Happiness; and Pain, who was the son of Mise|ry) to meet one another upon this part of nature; ha|ving promised to settle it upon them both, provided they could agree upon the division of it, so as to share man|kind between them.

Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new habitation, but they immediately agreed upon this point. That Pleasure should take possession of the virtuous, and Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given up to them. But, upon examining to which of them any individual they met with belonged, they found each of them had a right to him; for that, contrary to what they had seen in their old places of residence, there was no person so vicious who had not some good in him, nor any person so virtuous who had not in him some evil. The truth of it is, they generally found, upon search, that in the most vicious man, Pleasure might lay claim to an hundredth part, and that in the most virtuous man Pain might come in for at least two thirds.. This they saw would occasion endless disputes between them, unless they could come to some accommodation. To this end, there was a marriage proposed between them, and at length concluded. Hence it is that we find Pleasure and Pain are such constant yoke-fellows, and that they either make their visits together, or are never far asunder. If Pain comes into a heart, he is quickly followed by Pleasure; and if Pleasure enters, you may be sure Pain is not far off.

But notwithstanding this marriage was very conve|nient for the two parties, it did not seem to answer the intention of Jupiter in sending them among mankind. To remedy, therefore, this inconvenience, it was sti|pulated between them by article, and confirmed by the consent of each family, that, notwithstanding they here possessed the place indifferently, upon the death of every person, if he were fond to have in him a certain pro|portion of evil, he should be dispatched into the infernal regions by a passport from Pain, there to dwell with Mi|sery, Vice, and the Furies; or, on the contrary, if he had in him a certain proportion of good, he should be

dispatched into heaven by a passport from Pleasure, there to dwell with happiness, Virtue, and the Gods.

V. SIR ROGER DE COVERLY'S FAMILY.

HAVING often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverly to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thi|ther, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my en|suing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well ac|quainted with my humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in the chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them steal|ing a sight of me over the hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at.

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober and staedy persons; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his ser|vants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his ser|vants never care for leaving him; by which means his do|mestics are all in years, and grown old with their ma|ster. You would take his valet-de-chambre for his bro|ther, his butler is gray-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy-counsellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has been use|less for several years.

I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these an|cient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed for|ward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own af|fairs

with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good-nature engages every body to him; so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with: on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by, to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.

My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desi|rous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend.

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house, in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learn|ing, of a very regular life and obliging conversation: he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem; so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependant.

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is some|thing of a humorist; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by a certain extra|vagance, which makes them particularly HIS, and dis|tinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more de|lightful than the same degre of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colors. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I li|ked the good man whom I have just now mentioned? and, without staying for my answer, told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university to find him out a clergy|man rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper; and, if pos|sible, a man that understood a little of back-gammon. My friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentle|man;

who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit in the parish since he has lived among them. If any dispute arises, they apply them|selves to him for the decision: if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in English; and only begged of him, that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity.

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentle|man we were talking of came up to us; and upon the Knight's asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night,) told us the Bishop of St Asaph in the morning, and Dr South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year; where I saw, with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr Barrow, Dr Calamy, with several living authors who have published discour|ses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the grace|fulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor.

VI. THE FOLLY OF INCONSISTENT EXPECTATIONS.

THIS world may be considered as a great mart of commerce, where fortune exposes to our view va|rious commodities, riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, in|tegrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so much ready money which we are to lay out to the best advan|tage. Examine, compare, choose, reject: but stand to your own judgment; and do not, like children, when you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to one end, will ge|nerally insure success. Would you, for instance, be rich? Do you think that single point worth the sacrificing every thing else to? You may then be rich. Thou|sands have become so from the lowest beginnings, by toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the minutest ar|ticles of expence and profit. But you must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspi|cious temper. If you preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from the schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded pru|dence. You must learn to do hard, if not unjust things; and, for the nice embarrassments of a delicate and inge|nuous spirit, it is necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the muses, and be content to feed your understanding with plain household truth. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten track, with|out turning aside either to the right hand or to the left.— "But I cannot submit to drudgery like this—I feel a spirit above it." 'Tis well: be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich.

Is knowledge the pearl of price? That, too, may be purchased—by steady application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be learned. "But," say the man of letters, "what a hard|ship

is it, that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot con|strue the motto of the arms of his coach, shall raise a for|tune and make a figure, while I have little more than the common conveniences of life!" Was it in order to rais•• a fortune that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and retirement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the midnight-lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring? You have then mistaken your path, and ill employed your indu|stry. "What reward have I then for all my labors?" What reward! A large comprehensive soul, well pur|ged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to comprehend and interpret the works of man— of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the consciou•• dig|nity of superior intelligence. Good Heaven! and what reward can you ask besides?

"But is it not some reproach upon the oeconomy of Providence that such a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation?" Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his con|science, his liberty, for it; and will you envy his bar|gain? Will you hang your head and blush in his pre|sence, because he outshines you in equipage and show? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and say to yourself, "I have not these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because I have not desired them; it is because I possess something better: I have chosen my lot; I am content and satisfied."

You are a modest man—you love quiet and indepen|dence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be content, then, with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate ingenuous spirit; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to those who can bet|ter scramble for them.

The man whose tender sensibility of conscience and strict regard to the rules of morality make him scrupu|lous

and fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disadvantages he lies under in every path of ho|nor and profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why can you not? What hinders you from discarding this troublesome scru|pulosity of yours, which stands so grievously in your way? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful mind, (sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the keenest inspection; inward freedom from remorse and pertur|bation; unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity,

Pure in the last recesses of the mind;

if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a slave-merchant, a director—or what you please.

VII. DESCRIPTION OF THE VALE OF KESWICK IN CUMBERLAND.

THIS delightful vale is thus elegantly described by the late ingenious Dr Brown, in a letter to a friend.

In my way to the north from Hagley, I passed through Dovedale; and, to say the truth, was disap|pointed in it. When I came to Buxton, I visited ano|ther or two of their romantic scenes; but these are infe|rior to Dovedale. They are all but poor miniatures of Keswick; which exceeds them more in grandeur than you can imagine; and more, if possible, in beauty than in grandeur.

Instead of the narrow slip of valley which is seen at Dovedale, you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in circumference above twenty miles. Instead of a meagre rivulet, a noble living-lake, ten miles round, of an ob|long form, adorned with a variety of wooded islands. The rocks indeed of Dovedale are finely wild, pointed, and irregular; but the hills are both little and unanima|ted; and the margin of the brook is poorly edged with weeds, morass, and brushwood. But at Keswick, you will, on one side of the lake, see a rich and beautiful landscape of cultivated fields, rising to the eye in fine in|equalities, with noble groves of oak, happily dispersed,

and climbing the adjacent hills, shade above shade, in the most various and picturesque forms. On the opposite shore, you will find rocks and cliffs of stupendous height, hanging broken over the lake in horrible grandeur, some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep and shaggy sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests; a variety of water-falls are seen pouring from their summits, and tumbling in vast sheets from rock to rock in a rude and terrible magnificence: while on all sides of this immense amphitheatre the lofty moun|tains rise round; piercing the clouds in shapes as spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of Dovedale. To this I must add the frequent and bold projection of the cliffs into the lake, forming noble bays and promontories: in other parts they finely retire from it, and often open in ab|rupt chasms or clefts, through which at hand you see rich and uncultivated vales; and beyond these, at va|rious distance, mountain rising over mountain; among which, new prospects presents themselves in mist, till the eye is lost in an agreeable perplexity;

Where active fancy travels beyond sense, And pictures things unseen.—

Were I to analyse the two places in their constituent principles, I should tell you, that the full perfection of Keswick consists of three circumstances; beauty, horror, and immensity, united; the second of which alone is found in Dovedale. Of beauty it hath little, nature having left it almost a desert: neither its small extent, nor the diminutive and lifeless form of the hills, admit magnificence; but to give you a complete idea of these three perfections, as they are joined in Keswick, would require the united powers of Claude, Salvator, and Pous|sin. The first should throw his delicate sunshine over the cultivated vales, the scattered cots, the groves, the lake, and wooded islands▪ the second should dash out the horror of the rugged cliffs, the steeps, the hanging woods, and foaming water-falls; while the grand pencil of Poussin should crown the whole with the majesty of the impending mountains.

So much for what I would call the permanent beau|ties of this astonishing scene. Were I not afraid of be|ing

tiresome, I could now dwell as long on its varying or accidental beauties. I would sail round the lake, an|chor in every bay, and land you in every promontory and island. I would point out the perpetual change of prospect; the woods, rocks, cliffs, and mountains, by turns vanishing or rising into view: now gaining on the sight, hanging over our heads in their full dimensions, beautifully dreadful: and now, by a change of situation, assuming new romantic shapes; retiring and lessening on the eye, and insensibly losing themselves in an azure mist. I would remark the contrast of light and shade, produced by the morning and evening sun; the one gilding the western, the other the eastern, side of this immense amphitheatre; while the vast shadow projected by the mountains buries the opposite part in a deep and purple gloom, which the eye can hardly penetrate. The natural variety of coloring which the several objects produce, is no less wonderful and pleasing: the ruling tints in the valley being those of azure, green, and gold; yet ever various, arising from an intermixture of the lake, the woods, the grass, and corn-fields: these are finely contrasted by the gray rocks and cliffs; and the whole heightened by the yellow streams of light, the purple hues and misty azure of the mountains. Some|times a serene air and clear sky disclose the tops of the highest hills; at other times, you see the clouds involving their summits, resting on their sides, or descending to their base, and rolling among the valleys, as in a vast furnace. When the winds are high, they roar among the cliffs and caverns like peals of thunder; then, too, the clouds are seen in vast bodies sweeping along the hills in gloomy greatness, while the lake joins the tumult, and tosses like a sea. But, in calm weather, the whole scen•• becomes new: the lake is a perfect mirror, and the land|scape in all its beauty: islands, fields, woods, rocks, and mountains, are seen inverted, and floating on its surface. I will now carry you to the top of a cliff, where, if you dare approach the ridge, a new scene of astonishment presents itself; where the valley, lake, and islands, seem lying at your feet; where this expanse of water appears diminished to a little pool, amidst the vast and immeasurable objects that surround it; for here the

summits of more distant hills appear beyond those you have already seen; and, rising behind each other in suc|cessive ranges and azure groups of craggy and broken steeps, form an immense and awful picture, which can only be expressed by the image of a tempestuous sea of mountains. Let me now conduct you down again to the valley, and conclude with one circumstance more; which is, that a walk by still moon-light (at which time the distant water-falls are heard in all their variety of sound) among these enchanting dales, opens such scenes of de|licate beauty, repose, and solemnity, as exceed all de|scription.

VIII. PITY, AN ALLEGORY.

IN the happy period of the golden age, when all the celestial inhabitants descended to the earth, and convers|ed familiarly with mortals, among the most cherished of the heavenly powers, were twins, the offspring of Jupiter, LOVE and JOY. Wherever they appeared, the flowers sprung up beneath their feet, the sun shone with a brighter radiance, and all nature seemed embellished by their presence.

They were inseparable companions; and their grow|ing attachment was favored by Jupiter, who had de|creed, that a lasting union should be solemnized between them so soon as they were arrived at maturer years. But, in the mean time, the sons of men deviated from their native innocence; vice and ruin over-ran the earth with giant strides; and Astrea, with her train of cele|stial visitants, forsook their polluted abodes. Love alone remained, having been stolen away by Hope, who was his nurse, and conveyed by her to the forests of Arca|dia, where he was brought up among the shepherds. But Jupiter assigned him a different partner, and com|manded him to espouse SORROW the daughter of Atè. He complied with reluctance; for her features were harsh and disagreeable, her eyes sunk, her forehead con|tracted into perpetual wrinkles, and her temples were covered with a wreath of cypress and wormwood.

From this union sprung a virgin, in whom might be traced a strong resemblance to both her parents; but the sullen and unamiable features of her mother were so

mixed and blended with the sweetness of her father, that her countenance, though mournful, was highly pleasing. The maids and shepherds of the neighboring plains gathered round, and called her PITY. A red-breast was observed to build in the cabin where she was born: and, while she was yet an infant, a dove, pur|sued by a hawk, flew into her bosom. This nymph had a dejected appearance; but so soft and gentle a mien, that she was beloved to a degree of enthusiasm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but inexpressibly sweet; and she loved to lie, for hours together, on the banks of some wild and melancholy stream, singing to her lute. She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight in tears; and often, when the virgins of the hamlet were assembled at their evening sports, she would steal in amongst them, and captivate their hearts by her tales, full of a charming sadness. She wore on her head a garland, composed of her father's myrtles, twisted with her mother's cypress.

One day, as she sat musing by the waters of Heli|con, her tears by chance fell into the fountain; and ever since, the Muse's spring has retained a strong taste of the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter to fol|low the steps of her mother through the world, drop|ping balm into the wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by the briars, and her feet bleeding with the roughness of the path. The nymph is mortal, for her mother is so; and when she hes fulfilled her destined course upon the earth, they shall both expire together, and LOVE be again united to JOY, his immortal and long-betrothed bride.

IX. ADVANTAGES OF COMMERCE.

THERE is no place in town which I so much love to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my va|nity as an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of my countrymen and foreigners consulting together upon the private business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. I must con|fess,

I look upon High Change to be a grand council, in which all considerable nations have their representatives. Factors, in the trading world, are what ambassadors are in the politic world. They negociate affairs, conclude treaties, and maintain a good correspondence between those wealthy societies of men that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or live on the different ex|tremities of a continent. I have often been pleased to hear disputes adjusted between an inhabitant of Japan and an alderman of London, or to see a subject of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one of the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several ministers of commerce, as they are dis|tinguished by their different walks and different lan|guages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Ar|menians; sometimes I am lost in a crowd of Jews; and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a Dane, a Swede, or Frenchman, at different times; or rather fancy myself like the old philosopher, who, upon being asked what countryman he was, replied, That he was a citizen of the world.

Nature seemes to have taken a particular care to disse|minate her blessings among the different regions of the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse and traf|fic among mankind, that the natives of the several parts of the globe might have a kind of dependence upon one another, and be united together by their common inte|rests. Almost every degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often grows in one country and the sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes; the infusion of a China plant sweetened with the pith of an Indian cane. The Philippine islands give a flavor to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality is often the pro|duct of an hundred climates. The muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole. The brocade petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of Ind••stan.

If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, without any of the benefits and advantages of commerce,

what a barren uncomfortable spot of earth falls to our share? Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows ori|ginally among us besides hips and haws, acorns and pig-nuts, with other delicacies of the like nature: that our climate, of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make no farther advances towards a plum than a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater perfection than a crab: that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apri|cots, and our cherries, are strangers among us, import|ed in different ages, and naturalized in our English gar|dens; and that they would all degenerate and fall away into the trash of our own country, if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun and soil.

Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world than it has improved the whole face of nature among us. Our ships are laden with the harvest of every climate; our tables are stored with spices, and oils, and wines; our rooms are filled with pyramids of china, and adorn|ed with the workmanship of Japan; our morning's draught comes from the remotest corners of the earth: we repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repose ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend Sir Andrew calls the vineyards of France our gardens; the spice-islands, our hot-beds; the Persians, our silk-weavers; and the Chinese, our potters. Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries of life; but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, and at the same time supplies us with every thing that is convenient and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our happiness, that, while we enjoy the remotest products of the north and south, we are free from those extremities of weather which give them birth; that our eyes are refreshed with the green fields of Britain, at the same time that our palates are feasted with fruits that rise between the tropics.

For these reasons, there are not more useful members in a commonwealth than merchants. They knit man|kind together in a mutual intercourse of good offices, di|stribute the gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great. Our English merchant converts the tin of his own country in|to gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. The Maho|m••tans

are cloathed in our British manufacture, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep.

X. ON PUBLIC SPEAKING.

MOST foreign writers who have given any charac|ter of the English nation, whatever vices they ascribe to it, allow, in general, that the people are naturally modest. It proceeds, perhaps, from this our national virtue, that our orators are observed to make use of less gesture or action than those of other countries. Our preachers stand stock-still in the pulpit, and will not so much as move a finger to set off the best sermons in the world. We meet with the same speaking statues at our bars, and in all public places of debate. Our words flow from us in a smooth continued stream, without those strainings of the voice, motions of the body, and majesty of the hand, which are so much celebrated in the orators of Greece and Rome. We can talk of life and death in cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse which turns upon every thing that is dear to us. Though our zeal breaks out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not able to stir a limb about us.

It is certain that proper gestures and exertions of the voice cannot be too much studied by a public orator. They are a kind of comment to what he utters; and enforce every thing he says, with weak hearers, better than the strongest argument he can make use of. They keep the audience awake, and fix their attention to what is deli|vered to them; at the same time that they show the speaker is in earnest, and affected himself with what he so passionately recommends to others.

We are told, that the great Latin orator very much impaired his health by the vehemence of action with which he used to deliver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so very famous for this particular in rheto|ric, that one of his antagonists, whom he had banished from Athens, reading over the oration which had pro|cured his banishment, and seeing his friends admire it, could not forbear asking them, If they were so much affected by the bare reading of it, how much more they

would have been alarmed, had they heard him actually throwing out such a storm of eloquence?

How cold and dead a figure, in comparison of these two great men, does an orator often make at the British bar, holding up his head with the most insipid serenity, and stroking the sides of a long wig that reaches down to his middle? Nothing can be more ridiculous than the ••tures of most of our English speakers. You see som•• of them running their hands into their pockets as far as ever they can thrust them, and others looking with great attention on a piece of paper that has nothing writ|ten on it: you may see many a smart rhetorician turn|ing his hat in his hands, moulding it into several differ|ent cocks, examining sometimes the lining of it, and sometimes the button, during the whole course of his harangue. A deaf man would think he was cheapen|ing a beaver, when perhaps he is talking of the fate of the British nation. I remember, when I was a young man, and used to frequent Westminster-hall, there was a counsellor who never pleaded without a piece of pack|thread in his hand, which he used to twist about a thumb or finger all the while he was speaking: the wags of those days used to call it the thread of his discourse, for he was not able to utter a word without it. One of his clients, who was more merry than wise, stole it from him one day in the midst of his pleading; but he had better have let it alone, for he lost his cause by the est.

XI. THE INDIAN AND BRITISH OFFICER.

DURING the last war in America, a company of the Delaware Indians attacked a small detachment of the British troops, and defeated them. As the Indians had greatly the advantage of swiftness of foot, and were eager in the pursuit, very few of the fugitives escaped; and those who fell into the enemy's hands were treated with a cruelty of which there are not many examples even in that country. Two of the Indians came up with a young officer, and attacked him with great fury. As they were armed with a kind of battle-axe, which they call a tomahawk, he had no hope of e|scape, and thought only of selling his life as dearly as

he could: but just at this crisis another Indian came up, who seemed to be advanced in years, and was armed with a bow and arrows. The old man instantly drew his bow; but after having taken his aim at the officer, he suddenly dropped the point of his arrow, and interposed between him and his pursuers, who were about to cut him in pieces. They retired with respect. The old man then took the officer by the hand, soothed him into confidence by caresses; and, having conducted him to his hut, treated him with a kindness which did honor to his professions. He made him less a slave than a companion, taught him the language of the country, and instructed him in the rude arts that are practised by the inhabitants. They lived together in the most cordial amity; and the young officer found nothing to regret, but that sometimes the old man fixed his eyes upon him, and, having regarded him for some minutes with a steady and silent attention, burst into tears. In the mean time the spring returned; and the Indians having recourse to their arms, again took the field. The old man, who was still vigorous, and well able to bear the fatigues of war, set out with them, and was accom|panied by his prisoner. They marched above 200 leagues across the forest, and came at length to a plain where the British forces were encamped. The old man shew|ed his prisoner the tents at a distance; at the same time remarked his countenance with the most diligent atten|tion. "There," says he, "are your countrymen; there is the enemy who wait to give us battle. Re|member that I hav•• saved thy life, that I have taught thee to construct a canoe, and to arm thyself with a bow and arrows; to surprise the beaver in the forest, to wield the tomahawk, and to scalp the enemy. What wast thou when I first took thee to my hut? Thy hands were those of an infant; they were fit neither to pro|cure thee sustenance nor safety. Thy soul was in utter darkness; thou wast ignorant of every thing; and thou owest all things to me. Wilt thou then go over to thy nation, and take up the hatchet against us?" The offi|cer replied, "That he would rather lose his own life than take away that of his deliverer." The Indian then bending down his head, and covering his face with both

his hands, stood some time silent; then looking ear|nestly at his prisoner, he said, in a voice that was at once softened by tenderness and grief, "Hast thou a father?" "My father," said the young man, "was alive when I left my country." "Alas," said the In|dian, "how wretched must he be!" He paused a mo|ment, and then added, "Dost thou know that I have been a father?—I am a father no more—I saw my son fall in battle—he fought at my side—I saw him expire; but he died like a man.—He was covered with wounds when he fell dead at my feet—but I have revenged him!" He pronounced these words with the utmost vehemence; his body shook with an universal tremor; and he was almost stifled with sighs that he would not suffer to escape him. There was a keen restlessness in his eye; but no tear would flow to his relief. At length he became calm by degrees; and turning towards the east, where the sun was then rising, "Dost thou see," said he to the young officer, "the beauty of that sky, which sparkles with prevailing day? and hast thou pleasure in the sight?" "Yes," replied the young of|ficer, "I have pleasure in the beauty of so fine a sky." "I have none," said the Indian; and his tears then found their way. A few minutes after he showed the young man a magnolia in full bloom. "Dost thou see that beautiful tree?" says he: "and dost thou look up|on it with pleasure?" "Yes replied the officer, "I do look with pleasure upon that beautiful tree."—"I have pleasure in looking upon it no more," said the In|dian hastil••; and immediately added, "Go, return to thy countrymen, that thy father may still have plea|sure when he sees the sun rise in the morning, and the trees blossom in the spring."

XII. ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.

AMONG other excellent arguments for the immortali|ty of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others who have written on this subject, though it seem•• to me to carry a great weight with it. How can

it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is created! Are such abi|lities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection that he can never pass: in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements; I could imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvements, and travelling on from perfection to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of His infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries?

Man, considered in his present state, does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and can finish their business in a short life. The silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But in this life man can never take in his full measure of knowledge; nor has he time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose? Can he delight in the production of such abortive intel|ligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? capacities that are never to be gratified? How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the for|mation of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for the next; and believing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and dis|appear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where they may spread and flourish to all eternity.

There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion than this, of the per|petual progress which the soul makes towards the per|fection of its nature without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength; to consider that she is to shine, with new accessions of glory, to all eternity; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to know|ledge; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resem|blance.

Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extin|guish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherubim, which now appears as a God to a human soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is; nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being; but he knows, that, how high soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory.

With what astonishment and veneration may we look into our souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of per|fection! We know not yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the glo|ry that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered in relation to its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual approaches to Him who is not only the standard of perfection but of happiness?

XIII. OF THE VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD BY COMMODORE ANSON.

WHENEVER France or Spain happens to be at war with England, the shock given to Europe is felt at the extremities of the earth. If the industry and boldness of the modern nations of Europe give them an advantage over the rest of the world, and over the ancients in ge|neral, it is owing to their maritime expeditions. Men are not so much surprised, as perhaps they should be when they see come out of the ports of a few inconsi|derable provinces, unknown to the civilized nations of antiquity, fleets of such a construction, that a single ves|sel of them would have utterly destroyed all the ship|ping of the ancient Greeks and Romans. On the one hand, these fleets go beyond the Ganges, in order to engage each other in the view of the most powerful em|pires, who stand by, the unconcerned spectators of the dire effects of an art which they have not hitherto ac|quired: On the other, they go beyond America, to con|tend with each other for slaves in the New World.

The success is rarely proportionable to the greatness of the enterprizes; not only because it is impossible to see all the obstacles which may arise, but because ade|quate means are scarce ever made use of.

Admiral Anson's expedition proves, how much a man of sense and resolution may perform, though his prepa|rations may be very inadequate to the danger of his undertaking.

Before so many nations had engaged in a war in or|der to decide whether the daughter of the Emperor Charles VI. should succeed her father, there subsisted a war between Spain and England about a ship: That war cost both parties ten thousand times more than the worth of what had given rise to it.

The ministry of London, in the year 1739, sent Ad|miral Vernon to Mexico. He there destroyed Porto-Bello; but he failed in his attempt upon Carthagena. It was intended, at the same time, that George Anson should fall upon Peru by the South Sea, in order, if possible, to ruin, or at least to weaken, the vast empire which Spain had acquired in that part of the world, by

both ends. Anson was created commodore, that is, commander of a squadron; there were given to him five vessels, a sort of a small frigate of eight guns with about one hundred men on board, and two ships loaded with provisions and merchandise: these two ships were in|tended to carry on commerce, under the protection of the convoy; for it is peculiar to the English nation to mix traffic with warlike operations. Aboard the squa|dron were fifteen hundred seamen, with two hundred and sixty superannuated invalids, and two hundred new-raised recruits. He steers his course to the island of Madeira, which belongs to Portugal; he advances to the isles of Cape Verde, and sails by the coast of Brazil. His crew refreshed themselves in a little island named St. Catharine, which is covered with never fading verdure, and abounds with fruit through every season of the year. This island is twenty-seven de|grees beyond the tropic of Cancer. The commodore, after having coasted along the cold and uncultivated country of Patagonia, entered the Straits Le Maire about the end of February 1741; thus did he pass above a hundred degrees of latitude in less than five months. The little sloop or frigate of eight guns, named the Trial, was the first vessel of the kind that ventured to double Cape Horn: She afterwards seized, in the South Sea, a Spanish ship of six hundred tons, the crew of which little expected to have been taken in the Pacific Ocean by a ship from England.

However, upon doubling Cape Horn, after having passed the Straits Le Maire, Anson's squadron was shat|tered and dispersed by violent tempests. One half of the men aboard perished by an inveterate scurvy. The vessel of the commodore, being separated from the rest, put in at the desert island of Fernandes, which lies high|er up the South Sea towards the tropic of Capricorn. A rational reader, who beholds with horror the prodi|gious efforts which mortals make in order to render themselves and their fellow-creatures unhappy, will per|haps receive some satisfaction upon being informed that George Anson, finding the climate of this island ex|ceeding mild, and the soil equally fertile, sowed in it pulse and fruits, the seed of which he brought with him

from England; by which means it, in a short time, be|came a plentiful country. Certain Spaniards, who touched there some time after, being, in the course of the war carried prisoners into England, formed an opi|nion, that Anson alone was capable of repairing the ra|vages of war by such an attention to the general good of mankind, and returned him thanks as their benefac|tor. Let me be allowed to soften, by such circum|stances as these, the melancholy tenor of history, which is almost one continued narrative of murders and cala|mities.

Anson, whose vessel carried sixty guns, being joined by another of his ships of war, and by the little frigate called the Trial, took several considerable prizes in crui|sing near the island of Fernandes; but, having soon af|ter advanced towards the Equator, he ventured to at|tack the town of Paita, upon the coast of America. He neither made use of his ships of war, nor of his men, in executing this bold and hazardous attempt: The expe|dition was performed by fifty soldiers in a boat with oars. They landed during the night. The sudden sur|prise, the confusion, and the darkness, redoubled, mul|tiplied, and increased the danger. The governor, the garrison, and the inhabitants, fled on every side. In the mean time, the fifty English, without molestation, carried off the treasures which they found in the custom-house, and in private houses, during the space of three days. Some black slaves, a species of animals who al|ways become the property of the first that seize them, not having fled, assisted the English in carrying off the wealth of their former masters. Anson caused Paita to be burnt to ashes, and then set sail; having plundered the Spnaiards with as much ease as they, in past ages, plundered the Americans. Spain loft fifteen hundred thousand piasters by the fire; the English gained about one hundred and eighty thousand; which, added to the former captures, greatly enriched the squadron. The great number of men carried off by the scurvy, left the bulk of the treasures to the survivers. This little squa|dron came afterwards opposite to Panama, upon the coast where pearls are dived for, and advanced to Aca|pulco, at the back of Mexico. The government of Ma|drid

was then not aware of the risk it ran of losing that vast region of the world. If Admiral Vernon, who be|sieged Carthagena upon the opposite sea, had succeeded, he might have assisted Commodore Anson. Thus, the isthmus of Panama would have been taken by the Eng|lish, both upon the right and left, and the Spaniards deprived of the very center of their American domini|ons.

Anson, who had but two ships remaining, the rest having been destroyed by tempests, confined all his en|terprises, and his sanguine hopes, to the taking of a large galleon which Mexico sends every year to the island of Manilla in the Chinese seas. Manilla is one of the Philippine islands, so called because they were dis|covered during the reign of Philip II.

This galleon, laden with silver, would not have set sail if the English had been seen upon the coasts; and it did not leave the port till a considerable time after their departure. The commodore, therefore, crossed the Pacific ocean, and all the climates between the Tropic and the Equator. Avarice, rendered honora|ble by fatigue and danger, made him traverse the globe with his two remaining men of war. The scurvy con|tinued to afflict the sailors upon these seas; and, as one of the two vessels leaked on every side, they were ob|liged to abandon and set fire to it, lest the wreck should be thrown upon some of the Spanish islands, and become of use to the inhabitants: The soldiers and sailors be|longing to this vessel were taken on board Anson's. At that time the only vessel that was left of his whole squa|dron was his own ship, called the Centurion, which carried sixty guns, and was accompanied by two ten|ders. The Centurion escaped alone from so many dan|gers, but in a very shattered condition; and, having none but sick men on board, very fortunately touched at one of the Marianne islands called Tinian, which was at that time quite uninhabited. Not long before, it contained no less than thirty thousand souls; but the greatest part of the inhabitants had been swept away by an epidemic disease, and the survivers had been removed to another island by the Spaniards.

The crew owed its preservation to the island of Ti|nian.

That island, which surpassed Fernandes in ferti|lity, abounded on all sides with wood, springs, and ri|vulets, tame animals, fruits, pulse, and every thing ne|cessary for food, the conveniencies of life, and for refit|ting the vessel. But the most extraordinary thing found there, was a sort of a tree, the taste of whose fruit resem|bled that of the best bread, a real treasure, which, if it could be transplanted to our climate, would be greatly preferable to those riches, which owe all their worth to opinion, and which men go in quest of to the end of the earth, through so many dangers and difficulties.

From this island he went to that of Formosa; he then bent his course towards China, to Macao, at the entrance of the river Canton, in order to repair his on|ly remaining vessel.

The commodore, having completely refitted his ship at Macao by the assistance of the Chinese, and having taken on board some Indian sailors, and some Hollan|ders, whom he thought to be useful men, put to sea again.

At length, upon the ninth of June, 1743, the so much wished-for Spanish ship was descried. It advanced to|wards Manilla, having but sixty-four guns; the crew consisted of five hundred and fifty men fit for action: the treasure which it carried amounted only to about fifteen hundred thousand piasters in silver, with cochi|neal and other merchandise; because the whole trea|sure, which is generally double that sum, had been di|vided into two equal parts, and one half was carried by another galleon.

The commodore had but two hundred and forty men on board the Centurion. The captain of the galleon, perceiving the enemy, chose rather to venture the trea|sure, than forfeit his reputation by flying before an En|glishman; for which reason, he hoisted as much sail as possible, in order to come up with and engage him.

The eager desire of seizing riches, a passion much stronger than the principle of duty, which directs to preserve them for the sovereign, the experience of the English, and the skilful operations of the commodore, procured him the victory. Only two of his men were killed in the fight; the galleon lost sixty-seven, who

were slain upon deck, and eighty-four were wounded. The number of his crew still surpassed that of the com|modore's: however, he thought proper to strike. The conqueror returned to Canton with this rich prize. He there maintained the honor of his country, by refusing to pay the imposts exacted by the Emperor of China from all foreign ships: he insisted that a man of war was not subject to them. His conduct overawed the Chinese. The governor of Canton gave him audience, to which he was conducted through two ranks of sol|diers, whose number amounted to ten thousand; after which he returned to his own country, by the Sunda islands and the Cape of Good Hope. Having thus sailed round the world victorious, he landed in England the 4th of June 1744, after a voyage of three years and a half.

XIV. ON PEDANTRY.

PEDANTRY, in the common sense of the word, means an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phra|seology, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of books, and a total ignorance of men.

But I have often thought, that we might extend its signification a good deal farther; and, in general, ap|ply it to that failing, which disposes a person to obtrude upon others subjects of conversation relating to his own business, studies, or amusements.

In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants in every character and condition of life. Instead of a black coat and a plain shirt, we should often see pedantry ap|pear in an embroidered suit and Brussels lace; instead of being bedaubed with snuff, we should find it breath|ing perfumes; and, in place of a book-worm, crawling through the gloomy cloisters of an university, we should mark it in the state of a gilded butterfly, buzzing through the gay region of the drawing-room.

Robert Daisy, Esq is a pedant of this last kind. When he tells you that his ruffles cost twenty guineas a pair; that his buttons were the first of the kind, made by one of the most eminent artists in Birmingham; that his buckles were procured by means of a friend at Pa|ris, and are the exact pattern of those worn by the

Comte d' Artois; that the loop of his hat was of his own contrivance, and has set the fashion to half a dozen of the finest fellows in town: when he descants on all these particulars, with that smile of self-complacency which sits for ever on his cheek, he is as much a pedant as his quondam tutor, who recites verses from Pindar, tells stories from Herodotus, and talks for an hour on the energy of the Greek particles.

But Mr. Daisy is struck dumb by the approach of his brother Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch higher, and pours out all the intelligence of France and Italy, whence the young Baronet is just returned, after a tour of fifteen months over all the kingdoms of the continent. Talk of music, he cuts you short with the history of the first singer at Naples; of painting, he runs you down with a description of the gallery at Florence; of architecture, he overwhelms you with the dimensions of St Peter's, or the grand church at Antwerp; or, if you leave the province of art altogether, and introduce the name of a river or hill, he instantly deluges you with the Rhine, or makes you dizzy with the height of Aet|na, or Mount Blanc.

Miss will have no difficulty of owning her great aunt to be a pedant, when she talks all the time of dinner on the composition of the pudding, or the seasoning of the mince-pies; or enters into a disquisition on the figure of the damask table-cloth, with a word or two on the thrift of making one's own linen: but the young lady will be surprised when I inform her, that her own history of last Thursday's assembly, with the episode of Lady Di's feather, and the digression to the qualities of Mr Frizzle the hair-dresser, was also a piece of downright pe|dantry.

Mrs Caudle is guilty of the same weakness, when she recounts the numberless witticisms of her daughter Em|my, describes the droll figure her little Bill made yester|day at trying on his first pair of breeches, and informs us, that Bobby has got seven teeth, and is just cutting an eighth, though he will be but nine months old next Wednesday at six o'clock in the evening. Nor is her pedantry less disgusting, when she proceeds to enume|rate the virtues and good qualities of her husband;

though these last species is so uncommon, that it may, perhaps, be admitted into conversation for the sake of novelty.

There is pedantry in every disquisition, however ma|sterly it may be, that stops the general conversation of the company. When Silius delivers that sort of lec|ture he is apt to get into, though it is supported by the most extensive information and the clearest discernment, it is still pedantry; and, while I admire the talents of Silius, I cannot help being uneasy at his exhibition of them. In the course of this dissertation, the farther a man proceeds, the more he seems to acquire strength and inclination for the progress. Last night, after supper, Silius began upon Protestantism, proceeded to the Irish massacre, went through the Revolution, drew the cha|racter of King William, repeated anecdotes of Schom|berg, and ended at a quarter past twelve, by delineating the course of the Boyne, in half a bumper of port, upon my best table; which river, happening to overflow its banks, did infinite damage to my cousin Sophy's white sattin petticoat.

In short, every thing, in this sense of the word, is pedantry, which tends to destroy that equality of con|versation which is necessary to the perfect ease and good-humor of the company. Every one would be struck with the unpoliteness of that person's behavior, who should help himself to a whole plate of pease or straw|berries which some friend had sent him for a rarity in the beginning of the season. Now, conversation is one of those good things of which our guests or companions are equally intitled to a share, as of any other consti|tuent part of the entertainment; and it is as essential a want of politeness to engross the one as to monopolize the other.

Besides, it unfortunately happens, that we are very inadequate judges of the value of our own discourse, or the rate at which the dispositions of our company will incline them to hold it. The reflections we make, and the stories we tell, are to be judged of by others, who may hold a very different opinion of their acuteness or their humor. It will be prudent, therefore, to consi|der, that the dish we bring to this entertainment, how|ever

pleasing to our own taste, may prove but mode|rately palatable to those we mean to treat with it; and that, to every man, as well as ourselves (except a few very humble ones,) his own conversation is the PLATE OF PEASE OR STRAWBERRIES.

XV. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

THE consideration of death has always been made use of, by the moralist and the divine, as a powerful incentive to virtue and piety. From the uncertainty of life, they have endeavored to sink the estimation of its pleasures; and if they could not strip the seductions of vice of their present enjoyment, at least to load them with the fear of their end.

Voluptuaries, on the other hand, have, from a similar reflection, endeavored to enhance the value, and per|suade to the enjoyment, of temporal delights. They have advised us to pluck the roses which would other|wise soon wither of themselves; to seize the moments which we could not long command; and, since time was unavoidably fleeting, to crown its flight with joy.

Of neither of these persuasives, whether of the moral or the licentious, the severe or the gay, have the effects been great. Life must necessarily consist of active scenes, which exclude from its general tenor, the leisure of me|ditation and the influence of thought. The schemes of the busy will not be checked by the uncertainty of their event, nor the amusements of the dissipated, be either controlled or endeared by the shortness of their dura|tion. Even the cell of the anchorite, and the cloister of the monk, have their business and their pleasures; for study may become business, and abstraction pleasure, when they engage the mind and occupy the time. A man may even enjoy the present and forget the future, at the very moment in which he is writing of the in|significancy of the former and the importance of the latter.

It were easy to show the wisdom and benignity of Providence—Providence ever wise and benign—in this particular of our constitution; but it would be trite to repeat arguments too obvious not to have been often observed, and too just not to have been always allowed.

But though neither the situation of the world, nor the formation of our minds, allow the thoughts of fu|turity or death a constant or prevailing effect upon our lives, they may surely sometimes, not unseasonably, press upon our imagination; even exclusive of their moral or religious use, there is a sympathetic enjoyment which often makes it not only 'better,' but more delightful, 'to go the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting.'

Perhaps I felt it so, when, but a few days since, I at|tended the funeral of a young lady, who was torn, in the bloom of youth and beauty, from the arms of a fa|ther who doted on her, of a family by whom she was adored: I think I would not have exchanged my feel|ings at the time for all the mirth which gaiety could in|spire, or all the pleasure which luxury could bestow.

Maria was in her twentieth year. To the beauty of her form, and excellence of her natural disposition, a parent equally indulgent and attentive had done the ful|lest justice. To accomplish her person, and to cultivate her mind, every endeavor had been used; and they had been attended with that success which they commonly meet with when not prevented by mistaken fondness or untimely vanity. Few young ladies have attracted more admiration; none ever felt it less: with all the charms of beauty, and the polish of education, the plainest were not less affected, nor the most ignorant less assuming. She died when every tongue was eloquent of her virtues, when every hope was ripening to reward them.

It is by such private and domestic distresses, that the softer emotions of the heart are most strongly excited. The fall of more important personages is commonly di|stant from our observation; but even where it happens under our immediate notice, there is a mixture of other feelings by which our compassion is weakened. The eminently great, or extensively useful, leave behind them a train of interrupted views and disappointed expecta|tions, by which the distress is complicated beyond the simplicity of pity. But the death of one who, like Maria, was to shed the influence of her virtues over the age of a father, and the childhood of her sisters, pre|sents to us a little view of family affliction, which every eye can perceive and every heart can feel. On scenes

of public sorrow and national regret, we gaze as upon those gallery-pictures which strike us with wonder and admiration: domestic calamity is like the miniature of a friend, which we wear in our bosoms, and keep for secret looks and solitary enjoyment.

The last time I saw Maria was in the midst of a crowded assembly of the fashionable and the gay, where she fixed all eyes by the gracefulness of her motion, and the native dignity of her mein; yet so tempered was that superiority which they conferred with gentleness and modesty, that not a murmur was heard, either from the rivalship of beauty or the envy of homeliness. From that scene, the transition was so violent to the hearse and the pall, the grave and the sod, that once or twice my imagination turned rebel to my senses: I beheld the objects around me as the painting of a dream, and thought of Maria as still living.

I was soon, however, recalled to the sad reality. The figure of her father bending over the grave of his dar|ling child; the silent suffering composure in which his countenance was fixed; the tears of his attendants, whose grief was light, and capable of tears; these gave me back the truth, and reminded me that I should see her no more. There was a flow of sorrow with which I suffered myself to be borne along, with a melancholy kind of indulgence; but when her father dropped the cord with which he had helped to lay his Maria in the earth, its sound on the coffin chilled my heart, and hor|ror for a moment took place of pity!

It was but for a moment.—He looked eagerly into the grave; made one involuntary motion to stop the as|sistants who were throwing the earth into it; then sud|denly recollecting himself, clasped his hands together, threw up his eyes to heaven; and then first I saw a few tears drop from them. I gave language to all this. It spoke a lesson of faith, and piety, and resignation. I went away sorrowful; but my sorrow was neither un|gentle nor unmanly: cast on this world a glance rather of pity than of enmity; on the next, a look of humble|ness and hope!

SECTION IV.

I. DESCRIPTION of the AMPHITHEATRE of TITUS.

POSTERITY admires, and will long admire, the awful remains of the amphitheatre of Titus, which so well deserved the epithet of Colossal. It was a building of an elliptic figure, five hundred and sixty-four feet in length, and four hundred and sixty-seven in breadth; founded on fourscore arches; and rising, with four successive or|ders of architecture, to the height of one hundred and forty feet. The outside of the edifice was encrusted with marble, and decorated with statues. The slopes of the vast concave which formed the inside, were filled and surrounded with sixty or eighty rows of seats of marble, co|vered with cushions, and capable of receiving with ease above fourscore thousand spectators. Sixty-four vomito|ries (for by that name the doors were aptly distin|guished) poured forth the immense multitude; and the entrances, passages, and stair-cases, were contrived with such exquisite skill, that each person, whether of the s••|natorial, the equestrian, or the plebeian order, arrived at his destined place, without trouble or confusion.

Nothing was omitted which in any respect could be subservient to the convenience and pleasure of the spec|tators. They were protected from the sun and rain by an ample canopy, occasionally drawn over their heads. The air was continually refreshed by the playing of fountains, and profusely impregnated by the grateful scent of aromatics. In the centre of the edifice, the arena or stage was strewed with the finest sand, and suc|cessively assumed the most different forms. At one mo|ment, it seemed to rise out of the earth like the garden of the Hesperides; at another, it exhibited the rugged rocks and caverns of Thrace. The subterraneous pipes conveyed an inexhaustible supply of water; and what had just before appeared a level plain, might be suddenly converted into a wide lake, covered with armed vessels, and replenished with the monsters of the de••▪

In the decorations of these scenes, the Roman empe|rors displayed their wealth and liberality; and we read, that, on various occasions, the whole furniture of the amphitheatre consisted either of silver, or of gold, or of amber. The poet who describes the games of Carinus, in the character of a shepherd attracted to the capital by the fame of their magnificence, affirms, that the nets designed as a defence against the wild beasts, were of gold wire; that the porticoes were gilded; and that the belt or circle, which divided the several ranks of spectators from each other, was studded with a precious mosaic of beautiful stones.

II. REFLECTIONS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

WHEN I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where the gloomi|ness of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the sole••nity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tomb-stones and inscriptions which I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person, b•• that he was born upon one day, and died upon another; the whole history of his life being comprehended in these two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon those registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memorial of themselves, but that they were born, and that they died.

Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave; and saw, in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh-mouldering earth, that, some time or other, had a place in the composition of an human body. Upon this, I began to consider with myself, what innumerable multitudes of people lay con|fused together, under the pavement of that ancient ca|thedral how men and women, friends and enemies,

priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crum|bled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistin|guished in the same promiscuous heap of matter.

After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality as it were in the lump, I examined it more par|ticularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that an|cient fabric. Some of them were covered wich such ex|travagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or He|brew, and by that means are not understood once in a twelve month. In the poetical quarter, I found there were poets who had no monuments, and monuments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, that the pre|sent war had filled the church with many of those unin|habited monuments, which had been erected to the me|mory of persons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the pl••••••s of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean.

I could not but be very much delighted with several modern epitaphs, which are written with great elegance of expression and justness of thought, and which there|fore do honor to the living as well as to the dead. As a foreigner is very apt to conceive an idea of the igno|rance or politeness of a nation from the turn of their public monuments and inscriptions, they should be sub|mitted to the perusal of men of learning and genius, be|fore they are put into execution. Sir Cloudesly Shovel's monument has very often given me great offence. In|stead of the brave rough English admiral, which was the distinguishing character of that plain ••lant man, he is represented on his his tomb by the fi••ure of 〈◊〉〈◊〉, dressed in a long periwig, and reposing himself upon velvet cushions under a canopy of state. The inscription is an|swerable to the monument; for, instead of celebrating the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service of his country; it acquaints us only with the man+ner of his death, in which it was impossible for him to

reap any honor. The Dutch, whom we are apt to despise for want of genius, show an infinitely greater taste in their buildings and works of this nature, than we meet with in those of our own country. The mo|numents of their admirals, which have been erected at the public expence, represent them like themselves, and are adorned with rostral crowns and naval ornaments, with beautiful festoons of sea-weed, shells, and coral.

I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts▪ in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations: but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be me|lancholy; and can therefore take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By these means, I can improve myself with objects which others consider with terror.—When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epi|taphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grie|ving after those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them; when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes; I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little com|petitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that gr••at day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together.

III. The CHARACTER of MARY QUEEN of SCOTS.

To all the charms of beauty, and the utmost ••••egance of external form, Mary added those accomplishments which render their impression irresistible. Polite, affable, insinuating, sprightly, and capable of speaking and of writing with equal ease and dignity. Sudden, however, and violent in all her attachments, because her heart was warm and unsuspicio••••. Impatient of contradiction, be|cause she had been accustomed from her infancy to be

treated as a queen. No stranger, on some occasions, to dissimulation: which, in that perfidious court where she received her education, was reckoned among the neces|sary arts of government. Not insensible to flattery, or unconscious of that pleasure with which almost every wo|man beholds the influence of her own beauty. Formed with the qualities that we love, not with the talents that we admire, she was an agreeable woman rather than an illustrious queen.

The vivacity of her spirit, not sufficiently tempered with sound judgment, and the warmth of her heart, which was not at all times under the restraint of discre|tion, betrayed her both into errors and into crimes. To say that she was always unfortunate, will not account for that long and almost uninterrupted succession of ca|lamities which befel her; we must likewise add, that she was often imprudent. Her passion for Darnly was rash, youthful, and excessive. And, though the sudden transition to the opposite extreme was the natural effect of her ill-requited love, and of his ingratitude, inso|lence, and brutality; yet neither these, nor Bothwell's artful address and important services, can justify her at|tachment to that nobleman. Even the manners of the age, licentious as they were, are no apology for this un|happy passion; nor can they induce us to look on that tragical and infamous scene which followed upon it, with less abhorrence. Humanity will draw a veil over this part of her character, which it cannot approve; and may perhaps prompt some to impute her actions to her situa|tion, more than to her disposition; and to lament the unhappiness of the former, rather than accuse the per|verseness of the latter. Mary's sufferings exceed, both in degree and in duration, those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned to excite sorrow and commiseration; and while we survey them, we are apt altogether to for|get her frailties: we think of her faults with less indig|nation; and approve of our tears, as if they were shed for a person who had attained much nearer to pure vir+tue.

With regard ••o the queen's person, a circumstance not to be omitted in writing the history of a female reign, all contemporary authors agree in ascribing to

Mary the utmost beauty of countenance, and elegance of shape, of which the human form is capable. Her hair was black, though, according to the fashion of that age, she frequently wore borrowed locks, and of differ|ent colors. Her eyes were a dark gray, her com|plexion was exquisitely fine, and her hands and arms re|markably delicate both as to shape and color. Her sta|ture was of an height that rose to the majestic. She danced, she walked, and rode, with equal grace. Her taste for music was just; and she both sung and played upon the lute with uncommon skill. Towards the end of her life she began to grow fat; and her long con|finement, and the coldness of the houses in which she was imprisoned, brought on a rheumatism, which de|prived her of the use of her limbs. No man, says Bran|tome, ever beheld her person without admiration and love, or will read her history without sorrow.

IV. CHARACTER OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

THERE are few personages in history who have been more exposed to the calumny of enemies and the adulation of friends, than Queen Elizabeth; and yet there scarce is any whose reputation has been more cer|tainly determined, by the unanimous consent of poste|rity. The unusual length of her administration, and the strong features of her character, were able to o|vercome all prejudices; and, obliging her detractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers some|what of their panegyrics, have at last, in spite of politi|cal factions, and, what is more, of religious animosities, produced an uniform judgment with regard to her con|duct. Her vigor, her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit the highest praises, and appear not to have been surpas|sed by any person who ever filled a throne: a conduct less rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, more indul|gent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force of her mind, she con|trolled all her more active and stronger qualities, and prevented them from running into excess. Her heroism was exempted from all temerity, her frugality from ava|rice, her friendship from partiality, her enterprise from

turbulency and a vain ambition: she guarded not herself, with equal care or equal success, from lesser infirmities; the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jea|lousy of love, and the sallies of anger.

Her singular talents for government were founded equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over the people, and while she merited all their esteem by her real virtue••, she also en|gaged their affection by her pretended ones. Few sove|reigns of England succeeded to the throne in more diffi|cult circumstances, and none ever conducted the go|vernment with such uniform success and felicity. ••hough unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing religious factions, she preserved her people, by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy had involved all the neighboring nations: and though her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the most enterprising, the least scrupulous, she was able, by her vigor, to make deep impressions on their state; her own greatness, meanwhile, remaining untouched and un|impaired.

The wise ministers and brave warriors who flourished during her reign share the praise of her success; but, in|stead of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, their ad|vancement to her choice; they were supported by her constancy; and, with all their ability, they were never able to acquire an undue ascendant over her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was great over her, but the force of her mind was still supe|rior; and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments.

The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the prejudices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another predjudice, which is more durable, because more natural; and which, according to the dif|ferent views in which we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond measure, or diminishing, the lustre of

her character. This prejudice is founded on the consi|deration of her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admi|ration of her qualities and extensive capacity; but we are also apt to require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estimating her merit, is to lay aside all these considerations, and to consider her merely as a ra|tional being, placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of mankind. We may find it difficult to reconcile our fancy to her as a wife or a mistress; but her qualities as a sovereign, though with some consider|able exceptions, are the object of undisputed applause and approbation.

V. CHARLES V.'s RESIGNATION of his DOMINIONS.

CHARLES resolved to resign his kingdoms to his son, with a solemnity suitable to the importance of the transaction; and to perform this last act of sovereignty with such formal pomp, as might leave an indelible im|pression on the mind not only of his subjects, but of his successor. With this view, he called Philip out of Eng|land; where the peevish temper of his queen, which in|creased with her despair of having issue, rendered him extremely unhappy, and the jealousy of the English left him no hopes of obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, on the twenty-fifth of October one thousand five hundred and fifty-five, Charles seated himself for the last time in the chair of state; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands; with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the em|pire standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his ter|ritories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Coun|tries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of al|legiance to him, which he required them to transfer to

Philip his lawful heir, and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal which they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government.

Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the au|dience; and, from a paper which he held in his hand in order to assist his memory, he recounted with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed since the commencement of his administration. He observed, that, from the seven|teenth year of his age he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure: that, either in a pa|cific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, A|frica as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea: that, while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigor of his constitution was equal in any de|gree to the arduous office of governing such exten|sive dominions, he had never shunned labor, nor re|pined under fatigue: that, now, when his health was broken, and his vigor exhausted by the rage of an in|curable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire; nor was he so fond of reigning as to re|tain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no long|er able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy: that, instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigor of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years: that if, during the course of a long ad|ministration, he had committed any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness: that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the re|membrance of it along with him to the place of his re|treat,

as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best re|ward for all his services; and, in his last prayers to Al|mighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare.

Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, "If," says he, "I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest ex|pressions of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern for the wel|fare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administra|tion, to justify the extraordinary proof which I this day give of my paternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and, if the time shall ever come when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son, endowed with such qualities that you can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you."

As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to die with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some, from admira|tion of his magnanimity; others, softened by the ex|pressions of tenderness towards his son and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow at losing a sovereign, who had distinguished the Nether|lands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment.

A few weeks thereafter, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with all the ter|ritories depending on them, both in the old and in the

new world. Of all these past possessions, he reserved nothing for himself but an annual pension of an hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity.

The place he had chosen for his retreat was the mo|nastery of St Justus, in the province of Estremadura. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect thither to add a new apartment to the monastery for his accom|modation; but he gave strict orders that the stile of the building should be such as suited his present situation, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms; four of them in the form of friars cells, with na|ked walls; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and which he had filled with various plants, intending to cultivate them with his own hands. On the other side they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he was to perform his devotions.—Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentle|man, did Charles enter with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Eu|rope, filling every kingdom in it by turns with the ter|ror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power.

VI. IMPORTANCE OF VIRTUE.

VIRTUE is of intrinsi•• value and good desert, and of indispensable obligation; not the creature of will, but necessary and immutable; not local or temporary, but of equal extent and antiquity with the Divine mind; not a mode of sensation, but everlasting truth; not de|pendent

on power, but the guide of all power. Virtue is the foundation of honor and esteem, and the fource of all beauty, order, and happiness, in nature. It is what confers value on all the other endowments and qua|lities of a reasonable being, to which they ought to be absolutely subservient; and without which, the more eminent they are, the more hideous deformities and the greater curses they become.

The use of it is not confined to any one stage of our existence, or to any particular situation we can be in, but reaches through all the periods and circumstances of our being. Many of the endowments and talents we now possess, and of which we are too apt to be proud, will cease entire••y with the present state; but this will be our ornament and dignity, in every future state to which we may be removed. Beauty and wit will die, learning will vanish away, and all the arts of life be soon forgot; but virtue will remain for ever. This unites us to the whole rational creation; and fits us for conver|sing with any order of superior natures, and for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 place in any part of God's works. It procures us the appro|bation and love of all wise and good beings, and ••enders them our allies and friends. But what is of unspeak|ably greater consequence is, that it makes God our friend, assimilates and unites our minds to him, and en|gages his Almighty power in our defence. Superior beings of all ranks are bound by it no less than ourselves. It has the same authority in all worlds that it has in this. The further any being is advanced in excellence and perfection, the greater is his attachment to it, and the more he is under its influence.—To say no more, it is the law of the whole universe, it stands first in the estimation of the Deity, its original is his nature, and it is the very object that makes him lovely.

Such is the importance of virtue.—Of what conse|quence, therefore, is it that we practise it! There is no argument or motive in any respect fitted to influence a reasonable mind, which does not call us to this. One virtuous disposition of soul is preferable to the greatest natural accomplishments and abilities, and of more va|lue than all the treasures of the world.—If you are wise, then, study virtue, and contemn every thing that

can come in competition with it. Remember, that no|thing else deserves one anxious thought or wish. Re|member, that this alone is honor, glory, wealth, and happiness. Secure this, and you secure every thing. Loss this, and all is lost.

VII. ADDRESS TO ART.

O ART! thou distinguishing attribute and honor of human kind! who art not only able to imitate nature in her graces, but even to adorn her with graces of thine own! Possessed of thee, the meanest genius grows deserving, and has a just demand for a portion of our esteem: devoid of thee, the brightest of our kind lie lost and useless, and are but poorly distinguished from the most despicable and base. When we inhabited forests in common with brutes, nor otherwise known from them than by the figure of our species, thou taughtest us to assert the sovereignty of our nature, and to assume that empire for which providence intended us. Thousands of utilities owe their birth to thee; thousands of elegancies, pleasures, and joys, without which life itself would be but an insipid possession.

Wide and extensive is the reach of thy dominion. No element is there, either so violent or so subtle, so yield|ing or so sluggish, as, by the powers of its nature, to be superior to thy direction. Thou dreadest not the fierce impetuosity of Fire, but compellest its violence to be both obedient and useful. By it thou softenest the stubborn tribe of minerals, so as to be formed and moulded into shapes innumerable. Hence weapons, armor, coin: and, previous to these and other thy works and ener|gies, hence all those various tools and instruments, which empower thee to proceed to farther ends more ex|cellent. Nor is the subtle Air less obedient to thy power, whether thou willest it to be a minister to our pleasure or utility. At they command, it giveth birth to sounds, which charm the soul with all the powers of harmony. Under thy instruction, it moves the ship over seas; while that yielding element, where otherwise we sink, even Water itself, is by thee taught to bear us; the vast ocean, to promote that intercourse of nations which ignorance would imagine it was destined to intercept.

To say how thy influence is seen on Earth, would be to teach the meanest what he knows already. Suffice it but to mention, fields of arable and pasture; lawns, and groves, and gardens, and plantations; cottages, villages, castles, towns; palaces, temples, and spacious cities.

Nor does thy empire end in subjects thus inanimate. Its power also extends through the various race of Ani|mals, who either patiently submit to become thy slaves, or are sure to find thee an irresistible foe. The faithful dog, the patient ox, the generous horse, and the mighty elephant, are content all to receive their instructions from thee, and readily to lend their natural instincts or strength to perform those offices which thy occasions call for. If there be found any species which are serviceable when dead, thou suggestest the means to investigate and take them: if any be so savage as to refuse being tamed, or of natures fierce enough to venture an attack, thou teachest us to scorn their brutal rage, to meet, repel, pursue, and conquer.

Such, O Art! is thy amazing influence, when thou art employed only on these inferior subjects, on nature inanimate, or at best irrational. But, whenever thou choosest a subject more noble, and settest to the cultiva|ting of Mind itself, then 'tis thou becomest truly amiable and divine, the ever-flowing source of those sublimer beauties of which no subject but mind alone is capable. Then 'tis thou art enabled to exhibit to mankind the admired tribes of poets and orators, the sacred train of patriots and heroes, the god-like list of philosophers and legislators, the forms of virtuous and equal polities, where private welfare is made the same with public, where crowds themselves prove disinterested, and vir|tue is made a national and popular characteristic.

Hail! sacred source of all these wonders! Thyself in|struct me to praise thee worthily; through whom, what|ever we do, is done with elegance and beauty; without whom, what we do is ever graceless and deformed.— Venerable power! by what name shall I address thee? Shall I call thee Ornament of mind, or art thou more truly Mind itself! 'Tis Mind thou art, most perfect Mind; not rude, untaught: but fair and polished: in

such thou dwellest: of such thou art the form; nor is it a thing more possible to separate thee from such, than it would be to separate thee from thine own existence.

VIII. FLATTERY.

FLATTERY is a manner of conversation very shame|ful in itself, but beneficial to the flatterer.

If a flatterer is upon a public walk with you, "Do but mind," says he, "how every one's eye is upon you. Sure there is not a man in Athens that is taken so much notice of. You had justice done you yesterday in the portico. There were above thirty of us together; and, the question being started who was the most considera|ble person in the commonwealth? the whole company was of the same side. In short, Sir, every one made familiar with your name" He follows this whisper with a thousand other flatteries of the same nature.

Whenever the person to whom he would make his court begins to speak, the sycophant begs the company to be silent, most impudently praises him to his face, in raptures all the while he talks, and, as soon as he has done, cries out, That is perfectly right! When his pa|tron aims at being witty upon any man, he is ready to burst at the smartness of his raillery, and stops his mouth with his handkerchief that he may not laugh out. If he calls his children about him, the flatterer has a poc|ket full of apples for them, which he distributes among them with a great deal of fondness, wonders to see so many fine boys, and, turning about to the father, tells him they are all as like him as they can stare.

When he is invited to a feast, he is the first man that calls for a glass of wine, and is wonderfully pleased with the deliciousness of the flavor; gets as near as possible to the man of the house, and tells him with much con|cern that he eats nothing himself. He singles out some particular dish, and recommends it to the rest of the com|pany for a rarity. He desires the master of the feast to sit in a warmer part of the room, begs him to take more care of his health, and advises him to put on a supernu|merary garment in this cold weather. He is in a close whisper with him during the whole entertainment, and

has neither eyes nor ears for any one else in the com|pany.

If a man shows him his house, he extols the architect, admires the gardens, and expatiates upon the furni|ture. If the owner is grossly flattered in a picture, he outflatters the painter; and, though he discovers a great likeness in it, can by no means allow that it does justice to the original.—In short, his whole business is to in|gratiate himself with those who hear him, and to wheedle them out of their senses.

IX. THE ABSENT MAN.

MENALCAS comes down in the morning: opens his door to go out▪ but shuts it again, because he perceives he has his night-cap on; and, examining himself further, finds that he is but half-shaved, that he has stuck his sword on his right side, that his stockings are about his heels, and that his shirt is over his breeches.

When he is dressed, goes to court; comes into the drawing-room; and, walking upright under a branch of candlesticks, his wig is caught up by one of them, and hangs dangling in the air. All the courtiers fall a|laughing; but Menalcas laughs louder than any of them, and looks about for the person that is the jest of the company. Coming down to the court-gate, he finds a coach; which, taking for his own, he whips into it; and the coachman drives off, not doubting but he car|ries his master. As soon as he stops, Menalcas throws himself out of the coach, crosses the court, ascends the stair-case, and runs through all the chambers with the greatest familarity, reposes himself on a couch, and fan|cies himself at home. The master of the house at last comes in. Menalcas rises to receive him, and desires him to sit down. He talks, muses, and then talks again. The gentleman of the house is tired and amazed. Me|nalcas is no less so; but is every moment in hopes that his impertinent guest will at last end his tedious visit. Night comes on, when Menalcas is hardly convinced.

When he is playing at backgammon, he calls for a full glass of wine and water. It is his turn to throw. He has the box in one hand, and his glass in the other; and, being extremely dry and unwilling to lose time, he swal|lows

down both the dice, and at the same time throws his wine into the tables. He writes a letter, and flings the sand into the ink-bottle. He writes a second, and mistakes the superscription. A nobleman receives one of them, and, upon opening it, reads as follows: "I would have you, honest Jack, immediately upon the receipt of this, take in hay enough to serve the winter." His farmer receives the other, and is amazed to see in it, "My Lord, I received your Grace's commands."

If he is at an entertainment, you may see the pieces of bread continually multiplying round his plate: it is true the company want it, as well as their knives and forks, which Menalcas does not let them keep long. Sometimes in a morning he puts his whole family in a hurry, and at last goes out without being able to stay for his coach or breakfast; and, for that day, you may see him in every part of the town, except the very place where he had appointed to be upon business of im|portance.

You would often take him for every thing that he is not—For a fellow quite stupid, for he hears nothing; for a fool, for he talks to himself, and has a hundred grimaces and motions with his head which are altoge|ther involuntary; for a proud man, for he looks full up|on you, and takes no notice of your saluting him. The truth of it is, his eyes are open, but he makes no use of them, and neither sees you, nor any man, nor any thing else. He came once from his country-house, and his own footmen undertook to rob him, and succeeded. They held a flambeau to his throat, and bid him deliver his purse. He did so: and coming home, told his friends he had been robbed. They desire to know the particulars—"Ask my servants," said Menalcas; "for they were with me."

X. THE MONK.

A POOR monk of the order of St Francis came into the room to beg something for his convent. The mo|ment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it up—set myself a little more upon my center, and advanced up gravely to

him: there was something, I fear forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy—but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years, he could be no more than sixty—Truth might lie between—He was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his coun|tenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted—mild, pale,—penetrating; free from all com|mon-place ideas of fat contented ignorance looking down|wards upon the earth—it looked forwards; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, best knows; but it would have suited a Bramin; and had I met it upon it the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it.

The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes: one might put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as charac|ter and expression made it so; it was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure—but it was the attitude of intreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and, lying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journeyed being in his right) —when I had got close up to him, he introduced him|self with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order—and did it with so simple a grace—and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure—I was bewitched not to have been struck with it—

—A better reason was, I had pre-determined not to give him a single sous.

—'Tis very true, said I, replying to a cast upward▪ with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address, —'tis very true—and heaven be their resource who have no other but the charity of the world; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many GREAT CLAIMS which are hourly made upon it.

As I pronounced the words GREAT CLAIMS, he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic—I felt the full force of the appeal—I ac|knowledge it, said I—a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet—are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm: the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the ORDER OF MERCY instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portmanteau, full cheerfully should it have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate. The monk made me a bow.—But, re+sumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first rights; and I have left thousands in dis|tress upon the English shore—The monk gave a cordial wave with his head—as much as to say, No doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent.—But we distinguish, said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor —and those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passed across his check, but could not tarry— Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he showed none—but letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

My heart smote me the moment he shut the door— Pshaw! said I with an air of carelessness, three several

times—But it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind lan|guage—I considered his gray hairs—his courteous fi|gure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me? and why I could use him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an advocate—I have behaved very ill, said I within myself; but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along.

XI. ON THE HEAD-DRESS OF THE LADIES.

THERE is not so variable a thing in nature as a lady'•• head-dress: within my own memory, I have known it rise and fall above thirty degrees. About ten years ago it shot up to a very great height, insomuch that the female part of our species were much taller than the men. The women were of such an enormous stature, that 'we appeared as grasshoppers before them.' At present the whole sex is in a manner dwarfed and shrunk into a race of beauties that seem almost another species. I remember several ladies who were once very near se|ven feet high, that at present want some inches of five: how they came to be thus curtailed, I cannot learn; whether the whole sex be at present under any penance which we know nothing of, or whether they have cast their head-dresses in order to surprise us with something in that kind which shall be entirely new; or whether some of the tallest of the sex, being too cunning for the rest, have contrived this method to make themselves ap|pear sizeable, is still a secret; though I find most are of opinion, they are at present like trees new lopped and pruned, that will certainly sprout up and flourish with greater heads than before. For my own part, as I do not love to be insulted by women who are taller than myself, I admire the sex much more in their present humiliation, which has reduced them to their natural dimensions, than when they had extended their persons and lengthened themselves out into formidable and gi|gantic figures. I am not for adding to the beautiful

edifices of nature, nor for raising any whimsical super|structure upon her plans: I must therefore repeat it, that I am highly pleased with the coiffure now in fa|shion, and think it shows the good sense which at pre|sent very much reigns among the valuable part of the sex. One may observe that women in all ages have ta|ken more pains than men to adorn the outside of their heads; and indeed I very much admire, that those ar|chitects, who raise such wonderful structures out of rib|bands, lace, and wire, have not been recorded for their respective inventions. It is certain there has been as many orders in these kinds of buildings, as in those which have been made of marble; sometimes they rise in the shape of a pyramid, sometimes like a tower, and sometimes like a steeple. In Juvenal's time, the build|ing grew by several orders and stories, as he has very humorously described it.

With curls on curls they build her head before, And mount it with a formidable tow'r: A giantess she seems: but look behind, And then she dwindles to the pigmy kind.

But I do not remember, in any part of my reading, that the head-dress aspired to so great an extravagance as in the fourteenth century; when it was built up in a couple of cones or spires, which stood so excessively high on each side of the head, that a woman, who was but a pigmy without her head-dress, appeared like a Colossus upon putting it on. Monsier Paradin says,

That these old fashioned fontanges rose an ell above the head: that they were pointed like steeples, and had long loose pieces of crape fastened to the tops of them, which were curiously fringed, and hung down their backs like streamers.

The woman might possibly have carried this Gothic building much higher, had not a famous monk, Thomas Connecte by name, attacked it with great zeal and re|solution. This holy man travelled from place to place to preach down this monstrous commode; and succeeded so well in it, that, as the magicians sacrificed their books to the flames upon the preaching of an apostle, many of the women threw down their head-dresses in the middle of his sermon, and made a bonfire of them within sight

of the pulpit. He was so renowned, as well for the sanc|tity of his life as his manner of preaching, that he had often a congregation of twenty thousand people; the men placing themselves on the one side of his pulpit, and the women on the other, they appeared, to use the si|militude of an ingenious writer, like a forest of cedars with their heads reaching to the clouds. He so warm|ed and animated the people against the monstrous or|nament, that it lay under a kind of persecution; and whenever it appeared in public, was pelted down by the rabble, who flung stones at the persons who wore it. But, notwithstanding this prodigy vanished while the preacher was among them, it began to appear again some months after his departure, or, to tell it in Mon|sieur Paradin's own words,

The women, that, like snails in a fright, had drawn in their horns, shot them out again as soon as the danger was over.

This ex|travagance of the womens head-dresses in that age is taken notice of by Monsieur d'Argentre in the history of Bretagne, and by other historians as well as the per|son I have here quoted.

It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only proper time for the making of laws against the exorbi|tance of power; in the same manner an excessive head-dress may be attacked the most effectually when the fa|shion is against it. I do therefore recommend this pa|per to my female readers by way of prevention.

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it is for them to add any thing that can be ornamental to what is already the master-piece of nature. The head has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the highest station, in the human figure. Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying the face; she has touched it with vermilion, planted in it a double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles and blushes, lighted it up and enliven|ed it with the brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side with curious organs of sense, given it airs and graces that cannot be described, and surrounded it with such a flowing shade of hair, as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable light: in short, she seems to have design|ed the head as the cupola to the most glorious of her works; and, when we load it with such a pile of super|numerary

ornaments we destroy the symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly contrive to call off the eye from great and real beauti••, to childish gewgaws, rib|bands, and bone lace.

XII. ON THE PRESENT AND A FUTURE STATE.

A LEWD young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him barefoot, "Father," says he, "you are in a very miserable condition if there is not another world." "True, son," said the hermit; "but what is thy con|dition if there is?"— Man is a creature designed for two different states of being, or rather for two different lives. His first life is short and transient; his second perma|nent and lasting. The question we are all concerned in is this, In which of these two lives it is our chief inte|rest to make ourselves happy? Or, in other words, Whether we should endeavor to secure to ourselves the pleasures and gratifications of a life which is uncertain and precarious, and at its utmost length of a very in|considerable duration; or to secure to ourselves the plea|sures of a life which is fixed and settled, and will never end? Every man, upon the first hearing of this que|stion, knows very well which side of it he ought to close with. But, however right we are in theory, it is plain that in practice we adhere to the wrong side of the question. We make provision for this life as though it were never to have an end; and for the other life, as though it were never to have a beginning.

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature, accidentally alight upon the earth, and take a survey of its inhabitants; what would his notions of us be? Would not he think that we are a species of beings made for quite different ends and pur|poses than what we really are? Must not he imagine that we were placed in this world to get riches and ho|nors? Would not he think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title? Nay, would not he believe we were forbidden poverty by threats of eternal punishment, and enjoyed to pursue our pleasures under pain of damnation? He would certainly imagine that we were influenced by a scheme of duties quite op|posite to those which are indeed prescribed to us. And,

truly, according to such an imagination, he must con|clude, that we are a species of the most obedient crea|tures in the universe; that we are constant to our duty; and that we keep a steady eye on the end for which we were sent hither.

But how great would be his astonishment, when he learnt that we were beings not designed to exist in this world above threescore and ten years; and that the greatest part of these busy species fall short even of that age? How would he be lost in horror and admiration, when he should know that this set of creatures, who lay out all their endeavors for this life, which scarce de|serves the name of existence, when, I say, he should know that this set of creatures are to exist to all eternity in another life, for which they make no preparations? Nothing can be a greater disgrace to reason, than that men, who are persuaded of these two different states of being, should be perpetually employed in providing for a life of threescore and ten years, and neglecting to make provision for that, which, after many myriads of years, will be still new and still beginning; especially when we consider that our endeavors for making ourselves great, or rich, or honorable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may after all prove unsuccessful; whereas if we constantly and sincerely endeavor to make our|selves happy in the other life, we are sure that our en|deavors will succeed, and that we shall not be disap|pointed of our hope.

The following question is started by one of the school-men. Supposing the whole body of the earth were a great ball or mass of the finest sand, and that a single grain or particle of this sand would be annihilated every thousand years? Supposing then that you had it in your choice to be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was consuming by this slow method until there was not a grain of it left, on condition you were to be miserable for ever after? or, supposing that you might be happy for ever after, on condition you would be miserable until the whole mass of sand were thus an|nihilated at the rate of one sand in a thousand years; which of these two cases would you make your choice?

It must be confessed, in this case, so many thousands

of years are to the imagination as a kind of eternity, though in reality they do not bear so great a proportion to that duration which is to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest number which you can put together in figures, or as one of those sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, without any manner of hesita|tion, which would be the better part in this choice. However, as I have before intimated, our reason might, in such case, be so overset by the imagination, as to dis|pose some persons to sink under the consideration of the great length of the first part of this duration, and of the great distance of that second duration which is to suc|ceed it; the mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is so very near, and that it would last so very long. But when the choice we actually have before us is this, Whether we will choose to be happy for the space of only three-score and ten, nay perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say of only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity; or, on the contrary, miserable for this short term of years, and happy for a whole eternity; what words are sufficient to express that folly and want of consideration which in such a case makes a wrong choice!

I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes us miserable in this life: but if we suppose, as it generally happens, that virtue would make us more happy even in this life than a contrary course of vice; how can we sufficiently admire the stupidity or madness of those per|sons who are capable of making so absurd a choice?

Every wise man therefore will consider this life only as it may conduce to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years to those of an eternity.

XIII. STORY OF THE SIEGE OF CALAIS.

EDWARD III. after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregna|ble a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city.—The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant governor, made an admirable defence.—France had now

put the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, with his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At length, famine did more for Edward than arms.—Af|ter suffering unheard-of calamities, they resolved to at|tempt the enemy's camp.—They boldly sallied forth: The English joined battle; and, after a long and des|perate engagement, Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and the citizens who survived the slaughter retired with|in their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace St Pierre, a man of mean birth but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he per|mitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the imputation of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him six of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of re|bellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, consternation and pale dismay were impressed on every countenance.—To a long and dead silence deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St Pierre getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly:— "My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either yield to the terms of our cruel and en|snaring conqueror, or yield up our tender infants, our wives, and daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of deliver|ing up those (who have suffered every misery with you) on the one hand, or the desolation and horror of a sack|ed city on the other? There is, my friends, there is one expedient left, a gracious, an excellent, a godlike expedient! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a blessed ap|probation from that Power, who offered up his only Son for the salvation of mankind." He spoke;—but an uni|versal silence ensued.—Each man looked around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity which all wish|ed to approve in themselves, though they wanted the re|solution. At length St Pierre resumed, "I doubt not

but there are many here as ready, nay, more zealous, of his martyrdom than I can be; though the station to which I am raised, by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be the first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it freely; I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" "Your son," exclaimed a youth not yet come to maturity.—"Ah, my child!" cried St Pierre; "I am then twice sacrificed.—But, no: I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has reached the ut|most purpose and goal of mortality. Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes." "Your kins|man." cried John de Aire. "Your kinsman," cried James Wissant. "Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissant. —Ah!" exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, "why was not I a citizen of Calais!" The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot from numbers who were now emulous of so enno|bling an example. The keys of the city were then de|livered to Sir Walter. He took the six prisoners into his custody; then ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attendants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their families, through the camp of the English. Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take their last adieu of their deliverers. What a parting! what a scene! They crowded, with their wives and children, about St Pierre and his fel|low-prisoners. They embraced; they clung around; they fell prostrate before them. They groaned; they wept aloud; and the joint clamor of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the English camp. The English, by this time, were apprised of what passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls were touched with compassion. Each of the soldiers prepared a portion of his own victuals to welcome and entertain the half-famished inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as their present weakness was able to bear, in or|der to supply them with sustenance by the way. At length St Pierre and his fellow-victims appeared under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emptied The soldiers

poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire, this little band of patriots as they passed. They bowed down to them on all sides. They murmured their applause of that virtue, which they could not but revere even in enemies; and they regarded those ropes which they had volunta|rily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter. As soon as they had reached the presence, "Mauny," says the monarch, "are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?"— "They are," says Mauny: "they are not only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in the act of ennobling." "Were they delivered peaceably?" says Edward, "Was there no resistance, no commotion among the people?" "Not in the least, my Lord; the people would all have perished, rather than have deliver|ed the least of these to your Majesty. They are self-delivered, self-devoted, and come to offer up their in|estimable heads as an ample equivalent for the ransom of thousands." Edward was secretly piqued at this re|ply of Sir Walter; but he knew the privilege of a Bri|tish subject, and suppressed his resentment. "Expe|rience," says he, "has ever shown, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indispensibly necessary to compel subjects to submis|sion by punishment and example. Go," he cried to an officer, "lead these men to execution. Your rebellion," continued he addressing himself to St. Pierre, "your rebellion against me, the natural heir of your crown, is highly aggravated by your present presumption and af|front of my power."—"We have nothing to ask of your Majesty," said Eustace, "save what you cannot refuse us."—"What is that?" "Your esteem, my Lord," said Eustace; and went out with his companions.

At this instant a sound of triumph was head through|out the camp. The Queen had just arrived with a pow|erful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mau|ny flew to receive her Majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respecting the six victims.

As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience. "My Lord,"

said she, "the question I am to enter upon, is not touching the lives of a few mechanics— it respects the honor of the English nation; it respects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king.—You think you have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, my Lord, they have sentenced themselves; and their execution would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of Edward.

"They have behaved themselves worthily; they have behaved themselves greatly: and I cannot but respect, while I envy them, for leaving us no share in the honor of this action, save that of granting a poor, an indispen|sible pardon. I admit they have deserved every thing that is evil at your hands. They have proved the most inveterate and obstinate of your enemies. They a|lone have withstood the rapid course of your conquests, and have with-held from you the crown to which you were born. Is it therefore that you would reward them? that you would gratify their desires, that you would in|dulge their ambition, and enwreath them with everlast|ing glory and applause? But if such a death would ex|alt mechanics over the fame of the most illustrious heroes, how would the name of Edward, with all his triumphs, be tarnished thereby? Would it not be said, that mag|nanimity and virtue are grown odious in the eyes of the monarch of Britain? and that the objects whom he de|stines to the punishment of felons, are the very men who deserve the praise and esteem of mankind? The stage on which they would suffer, would be to them a stage of honor, but a stage of shame to Edward; a reproach to his conquests; an indelible disgrace to his name.— No, my Lord, let us rather disappoint these haughty burghers, who wish to invest themselves with glory at our expence. We cannot wholly deprive them of the merit of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we may cut them short of their desires; in the place of that death by which their glory would be consummate, let us bury them under gifts; let us put them to confusion with applauses. We shall thereby defeat them of that po|pular opinion, which never fails to attend those who suf|fer in the cause of virtue." "I am convinced; you have prevailed. Be it so," replied Edward: "Prevent

the execution; have them instantly before us."—They came; when the Queen, with an aspect and accents dis|fusing sweetness, thus bespoke them: "Natives of France and inhabitants of Calais, ye have put us to a vast expence of blood and treasure in the recovery of our just and natural inheritance: but you have acted up to the best of an erroneous judgment; and we admire and honor in you that valor and virtue, by which we are so long kept out of our rightful possessions. You noble burghers! you excellent citizens! though you were tenfold the enemies of our person and our throne, we can feel nothing on our part, save respect and affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested. We loose your chains; we snatch you from the scaffold; and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation which you teach us, when you show us, that excellence is not of blood, of title, or station;—that virtue gives a dignity supe|rior to that of kings; and that those whom the Al|mighty informs with sentiments like yours, are justly and eminently raised above all human distinctions. You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your country|men, to all those whose lives and liberties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse not the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather bind you to ourselves, by every endearing obligation; and for this purpose, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honors that Edward has to bestow.—Rivals for fame, but al|ways friends to virtue, we wish that England were in|titled to call you her sons." "Ah, my country!" ex|claimed Pierre; "it is now that I tremble for you; Edward only wins our cities, but Philippa conquers hearts."

SECTION V.

I. ON GRACE IN WRITING.

I Will not undertake to mark out with any sort of pre|cision, that idea which I would express by the word Grace: and, perhaps, it can no more be clearly descri|bed than justly defined. To give you, however, a ge|neral intimation of what I mean when I apply that term to compositions of genius, I would resemble it to that easy air which so remarkably distinguishes certain per|sons of a genteel and liberal cast. It consists not only in the particular beauty of single parts, but arises from the general symmetry and construction of the whole. An author may be just in his sentiments, lively in his figures, and clear in his expression; yet may have no claim to be admitted in the rank of finished writers. The several members must be so agreeably united, as mutually to reflect beauty upon each other; their a|rangement must be so happily disposed as not to admit of the least transposition, without manifest prejudice to the entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the allusions, and the diction, should appear easy and natu|ral, and seem to arise like so many spontaneous produc|tions, rather than as the effects of art or labor.

Whatever, therefore, is forced or affected in the sen|timents; whatever is pompous or pedantic in the ex|pression, is the very reverse of Grace. Her mien is neither that of a prude nor a coquette; she is regular without formality, and sprightly without being fantasti|cal. Grace, in short, is to good writing what a proper light is to a fine picture; it not only shows all the fi|gures in their several proportions and relations, but shows them in the most advantageous manner.

As gentility (to resume my former illustration) ap|pears in the minutest action, and improves the most in|considerable gesture; so grace is discovered in the pla|cing even a single word, or the turn of a mere expletive. Neither is this inexpressible quality confined to one spe|cies

of composition only, but extends to all the various kinds; to the humble pastoral as well as to the lofty e|pic; from the slightest letter to the most solemn dis|course.

I know not whether Sir William Temple may not be considered as the first of our prose authors, who intro|duced a graceful manner into our language. At least that quality does not seem to have appeared early, or spread far, amongst us. But wheresoever we may look for its origin, it is certainly to be found in its highest perfection in the essays of a gentleman whose writings will be distinguished so long as politeness and good sense have any admirers. That becoming air which Tully esteemed the criterion of fine composition, and which every reader, he says, imagines so easy to be imitated, yet will find so difficult to attain, is the prevailing cha|racteristic of all that excellent author's most elegant per|formances. In a word, one may justly apply to him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says of Aristo|phanes; that the Graces, having searched all the world round for a temple wherein they might for ever dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr Addison.

II. ON FEMALE ORATORY.

WE are told by some ancient authors, that Socrates was instructed in eloquence by a woman, whose name, if I am not mistaken, was Aspasia. I have indeed very often looked upon that art as the most proper for the female sex; and I think the universities would do well to consider whether they should not fill the rhetoric chairs with she-professors.

It has been said in the praise of some men, that they could talk whole hours together upon any thing; but it must be owned to the honor of the other sex, that there are many among them who can talk whole hours toge|ther upon nothing. I have known a woman branch out into a long extempore dissertation upon the edging of a petticoat, and chide her servant for breaking a china-cup, in all the figures of rhetoric.

Were woman admitted to plead in courts of judica|ture, I am persuaded they would carry the eloquence of the bar to greater heights than it has yet arrived at. If

any one doubts this, let him but be present at those de|bates which frequently arise among the ladies of the British fishery.

The first kind, therefore, of female orators which I shall take notice of, are those who are employed in stir|ring up the passions; a part of rhetoric in which Socra|tes's wife had perhaps made a greater proficiency than his above-mentioned teacher.

The second kind of female orators, are those who deal in invectives and who are commonly known by the name of the censorious. The imagination and elocution of this set of rhetoricians is wonderful. With what a fluency of invention, and copiousness of expression, will they enlarge upon every little slip in the behavior of another? With how many different circumstances, and with what variety of phrases, they will tell over the same story? I have known an old lady make an un|happy marriage the subject of a month's conversation. She blamed the bride in one place, pitied her in ano|ther, laughed at her in a third, wondered at her in the fourth, was angry at her in a fifth; and in short, wore out a pair of coach-horses in expressing her concern for her. At length, after having quite exhausted the sub|ject on this side, she made a visit to the new-married pair, praised the wife for the prudent choice she had made, told her the unreasonable reflections which some malicious people had cast upon her, and desired that they might be better acquainted. The censure and ap|probation of this kind of women are therefore only to be considered as helps to discourse.

A third kind of female orators may be comprehended under the word Gossips. Mrs. Fiddle-Faddle is perfect|ly accomplished in this sort of eloquence; she launches out into descriptions of christenings, runs divisions up|on an head-dress, knows every dish of meat that is serv|ed up in her neighborhood, and entertains her company a whole afternoon together with the wit of her little boy, before he is able to speak.

The coquette may be looked upon as a fourth kind of female orator. To give herself the larger field for discourse she hates and loves in the same breath, talks to her lap-dog or parrot, is uneasy in all kinds of wea|ther,

and in every part of the room; she has false quar|rels and feigned obligations to all the men of her ac|quaintance? sighs when she is not sad, and laughs when she is not merry. The coquette is in particular a great mistress of that part of oratory which is called action; and indeed seems to speak for no other purpose but as it gives her an opportunity of stirring a limb or varying a feature, of glancing her eyes or playing with her fan.

As for newsmongers, politicians, mimics, story-tellers, with other characters of that nature which give birth to loquacity, they are as commonly found among the men as the women; for which reason I shall pass them over in silence.

I have often been puzzled to assign a cause why wo|men should have this talent of a ready utterance in so much greater perfection than men. I have sometimes fancied they that have not a retentive power, or the fa|culty of suppressing their thoughts, as men have; but that they are necessitated to speak every thing they think; and if so, it would perhaps furnish a very strong argu|ment to the Cartesians for the supporting of their doc|trine, that the soul always thinks. But as several are of opinion, that the fair sex are not altogether strangers to the art of dissembling and concealing their thoughts, I have been forced to relinquish that opinion; and have therefore endeavored, to seek after some better reason. In order to it, a friend of mine, who is an excellent a|natomist, has promised me, by the first opportunity, to dissect a woman's tongue, and to examine whether there may not be in it certain juices which render it so won|derfully voluble or flippant; or whether the fibres of it may not be made up of a finer or more pliant thread; or whether there are not in it some particular muscles which dart it up and down by such sudden glances and vibrations; or whether, in the last place, there may not be some certain undiscovered channels running from the head and the heart to this little instrument of loquacity, and conveying into it a perpetual affluence of animal spirits. Nor must I omit the reason which Hudibras has given, why those who can talk on trifles speak with the greatest fluency; namely, that the tongue is like a

race-horse, which runs the faster the less weight it car|ries.

Which of these reasons soever may be looked upon as the most probable, I think the Irishman's thought was very natural, who, after some hours conversation with a female orator, told her, that he believed her tongue was very glad when she was asleep, for that it had not a moment's rest all the while she was awake.

That excellent old ballad of the Wanton Wife of Bath, has the following remarkable lines:

I think, quoth Thomas, women's tongues Of Aspen leaves are made.

And Ovid, though in the description of a very barba|rous circumstance, tells us, That when the tongue of a beautiful female was cut out, and thrown upon the ground, it could not forbear muttering even in that pos|ture.

—The blade had cut Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root; The mangled part still quiver'd on the ground, Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound And as a serpent wreaths his wounded train, Uneasy panting, and possess'd with pain.

If a tongue would be talking without a mouth, what could it have done when it had all its organ's of speech, and accomplices of sound about it? I might here men|tion the story of the pippin-women, had I not some rea|son to look upon it as fabulous.

I must confess I am so wonderfully charmed with the music of this little instrument, that I would by no means discourage it. All that I aim at by this dissertation is, to cure it of several disagreeable notes, and in particu|lar of those little jarrings and dissonances which arise from anger, censoriousness, gossipping, and coquetry. In short, I would always have it tuned by good nature, truth, discretion, and sincerity.

III. On the BEING of a GOD.

THE regularity of the motions and revolutions of the sun, the moon, and numberless stars; w••th the di|stinction, variety, beauty, and order of celestial objects; the slightest observation of which seems sufficient to convin••e every b••holder that they cannot be the effect

〈◊〉〈◊〉 chance; these afford a proof of a Deity, which seems irrefragable. If he, who surveys an academy, a pa|lace, or a court of justice, and observes regularity, order, and oeconomy, prevailing in them, is immediately con|vinced that this regularity, must be the effect of authority and discipline, supported by persons properly qualified; how much more reason has he, who finds himself sur|rounded by so many and such stupendous bodies, per|forming their various revolutions without the least deviation from perfect regularity, through the innumer|able ages of past duration; how much more reason has he to conclude, that such amazing revolutions are go|verned by superior wisdom and power?

Is it not therefore astonishing, that any man should ever have dreamed of the possibility that a beautiful and magnificent system might arise from the fortuitous con|course of certain bodies, carried towards one another by I know not what imaginary impulse? I see not why he who is capable of ascribing the production of a world to a cause so inadequate, may not expect, from the fortui|tous scattering about of a set of letters of ivory or me|tal, a regular history to appear. But I believe he who hopes to produce, in this way, one single line, will find himself for ever disappointed. If the casual concourse of atoms has produced a whole universe, how comes it that we never find a city, a temple, or so much as a por|tico, produced in the same manner? One would ima|gine they who prate so absurdly about the origination of the world, had no eyes, or had never opened them, to view the glories of the immense theatre.

The reasonings of Aristotle on this point are excellent. —"Let us suppose," says he, "certain persons to have been born, and to have lived to mature age, under ground, in habitations accommodated with all the con|veniences and even magnificences of life, except the sight of this upper world. Let us suppose those persons to have heard, by fame, of superior beings, and won|derful effects produced by them. Let the earth be ima|gined suddenly to open, and expose to the view of those subterraneans this fair world which we inhabit. Let them be imagined to behold the face of the earth, di|versified with hills and vales, with rivers and woods;

the wide extended ocean, the lofty sky, and the clouds carried along by the winds. Let them behold the sun, and observe his transcendent brightness and wonderful influence as he pours down the flood of day over the whole earth, from east to west. And when night co|vered the world in darkness, let them behold the heavens adorned with innumerable stars. Let them behold the various appearances of the moon; now horned, then full, then decreasing. Let them have leisure to mark the rising and setting of the heavenly bodies, and to un|derstand that their established courses have been going on from age to age.—When they had surveyed and con|sidered all these things, what could they conclude, but that the accounts they had heard in their subterranean habitation of the existence of superior beings must be true, and that these prodigious works must be the effect of their power!"

Thus Aristotle. To which I will add, that it is only our being accustomed to the continual view of these glo|rious objects that prevents our admiring them, and en|deavoring to come to right conclusions concerning the Authors of them; as if novelty were a better reason for exciting our inquiries than beauty and magnificence.

V. RESIGNATION to PROVIDENCE RECOMMENDED.

THE darts of adverse fortune are always levelled at our heads. Some reach us; some graze against us, and fly to wound our neighbors. Let us therefore im|pose an equal temper on our minds, and pay without murmuring the tribute which we owe to humanity. The winter brings cold and we must freeze. The summer returns with heat, and we must melt. The inclemency of the air disorders our health, and we must be sick. Here we are exposed to wild beasts, and there to men more savage than the beasts: and if we escape the in|conveniences and dangers of the air and the earth, there are perils by water and perils by fire. This established course of things it is not in our power to change: but it is in our power to assume such a greatness of mind as becomes wise and virtuous men, as may enable us to encounter the accidents of life with fortitude, and to conform our|selves to the order of Nature, who govern her great

kingdom the world, by continual mutations. Let us submit to this order; let us be persuaded that whatever does happen ought to happen, and never be so foolish as to expostulate with Nature. The best resolution we can take is to suffer with patience what we cannot alter; and pursue without repining, the road which Providence, who directs every thing, has marked out to us: for it is not enough to follow; and he is but a bad soldier who sighs and marches on with reluctancy. We must receive the orders with spirit and cheerfulness, and not endeavor to slink out of the post which is assigned us in this beautiful disposition of things, whereof even our suf|fering make a necessary part. Let us address ourselves to God, who governs all, as Cleanthes did in those ad|mirable verses, which are going to lose part of their grace and energy in my translation of them.

Parent of Nature! Master of the World! Where'er thy Providence directs, behold My steps with cheerful resignation turn. Fate leads the willing, drags the backward on. Why should I grieve, when grieving I must bear? Or take with guilt, what guiltless I might share?

Thus let us speak, and thus let us act. Resignation to the will of God is true magnanimity. But the sure mark of a pusillanimous and base spirit, is to struggle against, to censure, the order of Providence, and, instead of mending our own conduct, to set up for correcting that of our Maker.

V. ADVANTAGES of HISTORY.

THE advantages found in history seem to be of three kinds: as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the under|standing, and as it strengthens virtue.

In reality, what more agreeable entertainment to the mind than to be transported into the remotest ages of the world, and to observe human society, in its infancy, making the first faint essays towards the arts and scien|ces? To see the policy of government and the civility of conversation refining by degrees, and every thing that is ornamental to human life advancing towards its perfec|tion? To mark the rise, progress, and declension, and final extinction of the most flourishing empires; the virtues which contributed to their greatness, and the vices which drew

on their ruin? In short, to see all the human race, from the beginning of time, pass as it were in review before us, appearing in their true colors, without any of those dis|guises, which, during their lifetime, so much perplexed the judgments of the beholders? What spectacle can be imagined so magnificent, so various, so interesting? What amusement, either of the senses or imagination, can be compared with it? Shall those trifling pastimes, which engross so much of our time, be preferred as more satis|factory, and more fit to engage our attention? How perverse must that taste be which is capable of so wrong a choice of pleasures?

But history is a most improving part of knowledge, as well as an agreeable amusement; and indeed a great part of what we commonly call erudition, and value so highly, is nothing but an acquaintance with historical facts. An extensive knowledge of this kind belongs to men of letters; but I must think it an unpardonable ig|norance in persons, of whatever sex or condition, not to be acquainted with the history of their own country a|long with the histories of ancient Greece and Rome.

I must add, that history is not only a valuable part of knowledge, but opens the door to many other parts of knowledge, and affords materials to most of the scien|ces. And indeed, if we consider the shortness of human life, and our limited knowledge, even of what passes in our own time, we must be sensible that we should be for ever children in understanding, were it not for this in|vention, which ex••ends our experience to all past ages, and to the most distant nations: making them contribute as much to our improvement in wisdom, as if they had actually lain under our observation. A man acquainted with history may, in some respect, be said to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to have been ma|king continual additions to his stock of knowledge in every century.

There is also an advantage in that knowledge which is acquired by history, above what is learned by the prac|tice of the world, that it brings us acquainted with hu|man affairs, without diminishing in the least from the most delicate sentiments of virtue. And, to tell the truth, I scarce know any study or occupation so unexcep|tionable

as history in this particular. Poets can paint virtue in the most charming colors? but, as they address themselves entirely to the passions, they often become advocates for vice. Even philosophers are apt to bewil|der themselves in the subtilty of their speculations; and we have seen some go so far as to deny the reality of all moral distinctions. But I think it a remark worthy the attention of the speculative reader, that the historians have been, almost without exception, the true friends of virtue, and have always represented it in its proper co|lors, however they may have erred in their judgments of particular persons. Nor is this combination of histo|rians in favor of virtue at all difficult to be accounted for. When a man of business enters into life and ac|tion, he is more apt to consider the characters of men as they have relation to his interest than as they stand in themselves, and has his judgment warped on every oc|casion by the violence of his passion. When a philoso|pher contemplates characters and manners in his closet, the general abstract view of the objects leaves the mind so cold and unmoved, that the sentiments of nature have no room to play, and he scarce feels the difference be|twixt vice and virtue. History keeps in a just medium betwixt these extremes, and places the objects in their true point of view. The writers of history, as well as the readers, are sufficiently interested in the characters and events, to have a lively sentiment of blame or praise; and, at the same time, have no particular interest or concern to pervert their judgment.

VI. BATTLE of PHARSALIA and DEATH of POMPEY.

CAESAR had employed all his art for some time in sounding the inclinations of his men; and finding his ar|my once more resolute and vigorous, he caused them to advance towards the plains of Pharsalia, where Pompey was now encamped, and prepared to oppose him.

The approach of these two great armies, composed of the best and bravest troops in the world, together with the greatness of the prize for which they contend|ed, filled all minds with anxiety, though with different expectations. Pompey's army, being most numerous, turned all their thoughts to the enjoyment of the vic|tory;

Caesar's, with better aims, considered only the means of obtaining it: Pompey's army depended upon their numbers and their many generals; Caesar's, upon their own discipline, and the conduct of their single commander: Pompey's partizans hoped much from the justice of their cause; Caesar's alleging the frequent proposals which they had made for peace without effect. Thus, the views, hopes, and motives of both seemed different, but their hatred and ambition were the same. Caesar, who was ever foremost in offering battle, led out his army in array to meet the enemy; but Pompey, either suspecting his troops, or dreading the event, kept his advantageous situation for some time: he drew in|deed sometimes out of his camp, but always kept him|self under his trenches, at the foot of the hill near which he was posted. Caesar, being unwilling to attack him at a disadvantage, resolved to decamp the next day, hop|ing to harass out his antagonish, who was not a match for him in sustaining the fatigues of duty. According|ly the order for marching was given, and the tents struck, when word was brought him that Pompey's ar|my had quitted their entrenchments, and had advanced farther into the plain than usual, so that he might en|gage them at less disadvantage: whereupon he caused his troops that were upon their march to halt, and with a countenance of joy, informed them, that the happy time was at last come which they had so long wished for, and which was to crown their glory and ter|minate their fatigues. Upon this he drew up his troops in order, and advanced towards the place of battle. His forces did not amount to above half those of Pompey; the army of the one amounting to above forty-five thou|sand foot and seven thousand horse; that of the other not exceeding twenty-two thousand foot and about a thousand horse. This disproportion, particularly in the cavalry, had filled Caesar with apprehensions: wherefore he had some days before picked out the strongest and nimblest of his foot soldiers, and accustomed them to fight between the ranks of his cavalry. By their assist|ance his thousand horse was a match for Pompey's se|ven thousand, and had actually got the better in a skir|mish that happened between them some days before.

Pompey, on the other hand, had strong expectations of success: he boasted that he could put Caesar's legions to flight without striking a single blow; presuming, that, as soon as the armies formed, his cavalry, on which he placed his greatest expectations, would outflank and surround the enemy. Labienus commended this scheme of Pompey; alleging also that the present troops of which Caesar's army was composed, were but the shadow of those old legions that had fought in Britain and Gaul; that all the veterans were worn out, and had been replaced by new levies made in a hurry in Ci|salpine Gaul. To increase the confidence of the army still more, he took an oath, which the rest of the officers followed him in, never to return to the camp but with victory. In this disposition, and under these advanta|geous circumstances, Pompey led his troops to battle.

Pompey's order of battle was good and well judged. In the centre, and on the two flanks, he placed all his veterans, and distributed his new-raised troops between the wings and the main body. The Syrian legions were placed in the centre, under the command of Sci|pio; the Spaniards, on whom he greatly relied, were put on the right under Domitius Aenobarbus; and on the left were stationed the two legions which Caesar had restored in the beginning of the war, led on by Pompey himself; because from thence he intended to make the attack which was to gain the day; and, for the same reason, he had there assembled all his horse, slingers, and archers, of which his right wing had no need, being co|vered by the river Enipius. Caesar likewise divided his army into three bodies, under three commanders; Do|mitius Calvinus being placed in the centre, and Mark Anthony on the left, while he himself led on the right wing, which was to oppose the left commanded by Pompey. It is remarkable enough that Pompey chose to put himself at the head of those troops which were disciplined and instructed by Caesar; an incontestible proof how much he valued them above any of the rest of his army. Caesar, on the contrary, placed himself at the head of his tenth legion, that had owed all its merit and fame to his own training. As he observed the enemy's numerous cavalry to be all drawn to one spot,

he guessed at Pompey's intention; to obviate which he made a draught of six cohorts from his rear line, and forming them into a separate body, concealed them be|hind his right wing, with instructions not to throw their javelins on the approach of Pompey's horse, as was cus|tomary, but to keep them in their hands and push them directly in the faces and the eyes of the horsemen, who, being composed of the younger part of the Roman nobi|lity, valued themselves much upon their beauty, and dreaded a scar in the face more than a wound in the body. He lastly placed the little cavalry he had, so as to cover the right of the tenth legion, ordering his third line not to march till they had received the signal from himself.

As the armies approached, the two generals went from rank to rank, encouraging their men, warming their hopes, and lessening their apprehensions. Pompey represented to his men, that the glorious occasion which they had long besought him to grant was now before them; "and indeed," cried he, "what advantages could you wish over an enemy, that you are not now possessed of? Your numbers, your vigor, a late victory, all assure a speedy and an easy conquest of those harassed and broken troops, composed of men worn out with age, and impressed with the terrors of a recent defeat: but there is still a stronger bulwark for our protection than the superiority of our strength—the justice of our cause. You are engaged in the defence of liberty and of your country; you are supported by its laws, and followed by its magistrates; you have the world spectators of your conduct, and wishing you success; on the contrary, he whom you oppose is a robber and oppressor of his country, and almost already sunk with the consciousness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Show, then, on this occasion, all that ardor and detes|tation of tyranny that should animate Romans, and do justice to mankind." Caesar, on his side, went among his men with that steady serenity for which he was so much admired in the midst of danger. He insisted on nothing so strongly to his soldiers as his frequent and unsuccessful endeavors for peace. He talked with ter|ror of the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded

only the necessity that urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men that were to fall on both sides, and the wounds of his country whoever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his speech with looks of ardor and impatience; which observing, he gave the signal to begin. The word on Pompey's side, was Hercules the invincible: that on Caesar's, Venus the victorious. There was only so much space between both armies as to give room for fighting; wherefore Pompey ordered his men to receive the first shock without moving out of their places, expecting the enemy's ranks to be put into dis|order by their motion. Caesar's soldiers were now rush|ing on with their usual impetuosity, when perceiving the enemy motionless, they all stopt short as if by general consent, and halted in the midst of their career. A ter|rible pause ensued, in which both armies continued to gaze upon each other with mutual terror and dreadful serenity; at length, Caesar's men, having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharging their ja|velins, and then drawing their swords. The same me|thod was observed by Pompey's troops, who as vigorous|ly opposed the attack. His cavalry also were ordered to charge at the very onset, which, with the multitude of archers and slingers, soon obliged Caesar's men to give ground; whereupon Caesar immediately ordered the six cohorts that were placed as a reinforcement to advance, with orders to strike at the enemy's faces. This had its desired effect. The cavalry, that were but just now sure of victory, received an immediate check: the un|usual method of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming entirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible disfiguring wounds they made, all contributed to intimidate them so much, that, instead of defending their persons, their only endeavor was to save their faces. A total rout ensued of their whole body, which fled in great disorder to the neighboring mountains, while the archers and slingers, who were thus abandon|ed, were cut to pieces. Caesar now commanded the co|horts to pursue their success, and, advancing, charged Pompey's troops upon the flank. This charge the ene|my withstood for some time with great bravery, till he brought up his third line, which had not yet engaged

Pompey's infantry being thus doubly attacked in front by fresh troops, and in rear by the victorious cohorts. could no longer resist, but fled to their camp. The flight began among the strangers, though Pompey's right wing still valiantly maintained their ground. Cae|sar, however, being convinced that the victory was cer|tain, with his usual clemency cried out, to pursue the strangers, but to spare the Romans; upon which they all laid down their arms and received quarters. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who fled on all quarters, but principally went for safety to the camp. The battle ha•• ••ow lasted from the break of day till noon, although the weather was extremely hot; the conquerors, however, did not remit their ardor, being encouraged by the example of their general, who thought his victory not complete till he became master of the ene|my's camp. Accordingly, marching on foot at their head, he called upon them to follow and strike the de|cisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, for some time made a formidable resistance, par|ticularly a great number of Thracians and other barba|rians who were appointed for its defence: but nothing could resist the ardor of Caesar's victorious army; they were at last driven from their trenches, and all fled to the mountains not far off. Caesar seeing the field and camp strewed with his fallen countrymen, was strongly affected at so melancholy a prospect, and could not help crying out to one that stood near him, "They would have it so." Upon entering the enemy's camp, every object presented fresh instances of the blind presumption and madness of his adversaries. On all sides were to be seen tents adorned with ivy, and branches of myrtle, couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest luxury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle. A camp so richly furnished might have been able to en|gage the attention of any troops but Caesar's; there was still something to be done, and he would not permit them to pursue any other object than their enemies, till they were entirely subdued. A considerable body of them having retired to the adjacent mountains, he prevailed

on his soldiers to join him in the pursuit, in order to oblige these to surrender. He began by inclosing them with a line drawn at the foot of the mountain; but they quickly abandoned a post which was not tenable for want of water, and endeavored to reach the city of Larissa. Caesar led a party of his army by a shorter way, and intercepted their retreat, drawing up in order of battle between them and the city. However, these unhappy fugitives once more found protection from a mountain, at the foot of which a rivulet ran, which sup|plied them with water. Now night approaching, Cae|sar's men were almost spent, and ready to faint with their incessant toil since morning; yet still he prevailed upon them once more to renew their labors, and to cut off the rivulet that supplied the defendents. The fu|gitives, thus deprived of all hopes of succor or subsist|ence, sent deputies to the conqueror, offering to sur|render at discretion. During the interval of negocia|tion, a few senators that were among them took the advantage of the night to escape, and the rest next morn|ing gave up their arms, and experienced the conqueror's clemency. In fact, he addressed them with great gentle|ness, and forbade his soldiers to offer them any violence, or take any thing from them. Thus Caesar, by his con|duct, gained the most complete victory that had ever been obtained; and, by his great clemency after the battle, seemed to have deserved it. His loss amounted to but two hundered men; that of Pompey to fifteen thousand, as well Romans as auxiliaries: twenty-four thousand men surrendered themselves prisoners of war, the greatest part of whom entered into Caesar's a ••••y, and were incorporated with the rest of his forces. As to the senators and Roman knights who fell into his hands, he generously gave liberty to retire where|ever they thought proper; and as for the letters which Pompey had received from several persons who wished to be thought neutral, he burnt them all without read|ing them as Pompey had done upon a former occasion. Thus, having performed all the duties of a general and a statesman, he sent for the legions which had passed the night in the camp, to relieve those which had accompa|nied

him in the pursuit, and arrived the same day •• Larissa.

As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such in|stances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which he had placed his sole dependance, he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to re|medy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of the con|querors, being totally amazed by this unexpected blow, he returned to the camp, and, in his tent, waited the issue of an event, which it was his duty to direct, not to follow. There he remained for some moments without speaking; till, being told that the camp was attacked, "What," says he, "are we pursued to our very entrenchments?" and immediately quitting his armor for a habit more suitable to his circumstances, he fled on horseback to Larissa; from whence, perceiving he was not pur|sued, he slackened his pace, giving way to all the ago|nizing reflections which his deplorable situation must naturally suggest. In this melancholy manner he passed along the vale of Tempe, and, pursuing the course of the river Peneus, at last arrived at a fisherman's hut, in which he passed the night. From thence he went on board a little bark, and, keeping along the sea-shore, he descried a ship of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which he embarked, the master of the vessel still pay|ing him the homage which was due to his former sta|tion. From the mouth of the river Peneus he sailed to Amphipolis; where, finding his affairs desperate, he ••••••ered to Lesbos to take in his wife Cornelia, whom he ha•• left there at a distance from the dangers and hurry of the war. She, who had long flattered herself with the hopes of victory, felt the reverse of her fortune in an agony of distress. She was desired by the messenger (whose tears more than words proclaimed the great|ness of her misfortunes) to hasten if she expected to see Pompey, with but one ship, and even that not his own. Her grief, which before was violent, be|came then insupportable; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time without any signs of life. At length recovering herself, and reflecting it was now no time for vain lamentations, she ran quite through the city to

the sea-side. Pompey embraced her without speaking a word, and for some time supported her in his arms in silent despair.

Having taken in Cornelia, he now continued his course, steering to the south-east, and stopping no longer than was necessary to take in provisions at the ports that occurred in his passage. He was at last prevailed upon to apply to Ptolemy king of Egypt, to whose father Pompey had been a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, who was as yet a minor, had not the government in his own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the di|rection of Photinus an eunuch, and Theodotus a master of the art of speaking. These advised that Pompey should be invited on shore, and there slain; and, accord|ingly, Achillas, the commander of the forces, and Sep|timius, by birth a Roman, and who had formerly been a centurion in Pompey's army, were appointed to carry their opinion into execution. Being attended by three or four more, they went into a little bark, and rowed off from land towards Pompey's ship that lay about a mile from the shore. Pompey, after taking leave of Cornelia, who wept at his departure, and having repeat|ed two verses of Sophocles, signifying, that he who trusts his freedom to a tyrant from that moment be|comes a slave, gave his hand to Achillas, and stept into the bark, with only two attendants of his own. They had now rowed from the ship a good way, and, as during that time they all kept a profound silence, Pompey, willing to begin the discourse, accosted Septimius, whose face he recollected. "Methinks, friend," cried he, "you and I were once fellow-soldiers together." Sep|timius gave only a nod with his head, without uttering a word, or instancing the least civility. Pompey, there|fore, took out a paper, on which he had minuted a speech he intended to make to the king, and began reading it. In this manner they approached the shore; and Cornelia, whose concern had never suffered her to lose sight of her husband, began to conceive hope, when she perceived the people on the strand crowding down along the coasts, as if willing to receive him: but her hopes were soon destroyed; for that instant, as Pompey rose, supporting himself upon his freed-man's arm,

Septimius stabbed him in the back, and was instantly seconded by Achillas. Pompey, perceiving his death inevitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decen|cy; and, covering his face with his robe, without speak|ing a word, with a sigh resigned himself to his fate. At this horrid sight, Cornelia shrieked so loud as to be heard to the shore; but the danger she herself was in did not allow the mariners time to look on: they imme|diately set sail, and, the wind proving favorable, fortu|nately they escaped the pursuit of the Egyptian gallies. In the mean time, Pompey's murderers having cut off his head, caused it to be embalmed, the better to pre|serve its features, designing it for a present to Caesar. The body was thrown naked on the strand, and expo|sed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them that way. However, his faithful freed-man Philip still kept near it; and when the crowd was dispersed, he washed it in the sea: and looking round for materials to burn it with, he preceived the wreck of a fishing-boat; of which he composed a pile. While he was thus piously em|ployed, he was accosted by an old Roman soldier who had served under Pompey in his youth. "Who art thou," said he, "that art making these humble pre|parations for Pompey's funeral?" Philip having an|swered that he was one of his freed-men, "Alas," re|plied the soldier, "permit me to share in this honor also: among all the miseries of my exile, it will be my last sad comfort, that I have been able to assist at the funeral of my old commander, and touch the body of the bravest general that ever Rome produced." After this they both joined in giving the corps the last rites; and, collecting his ashes, buried them under a little ri|sing earth, scraped together with their hands; over which was a••••••rwards placed the following inscription: "He whose merits deserve a temple, can now scarce find a tomb."

VII. AWKWARDNESS IN COMPANY.

WHEN an awkward fellow first comes into a room, he attemps to bow; and his sword, if he wears one, gets between his legs, and nearly throws him down. Confused and ashamed, he stumbles to the up|per

end of the room, and seats himself in the very place where he should not. He there begins playing with his hat, which he presently drops: and, recovering his hat, he lets fall his cane; and, in picking up his cane, down goes his hat again. Thus, 'tis a considerable time before he is adjusted.

When his tea or coffee is handed to him, he spreads his handkerchief upon his knees, scalds his mouth, drops either the cup or saucer, and spills the tea or coffee in his lap. At dinner, he seats himself upon the edge of the chair, at so great a distance from the table, that he frequently drops his meat between his plate and his mouth; he holds his knife, fork, and spoon, different|ly from other people; eats with his knife, to the mani|fest danger of his mouth; and picks his teeth with his fork.

If he is to carve, he cannot hit the joint; but, in la|boring to cut through the bone, splashes the sauce over every body's clothes. He generally daubs himself all over; his elbows are in the next person's plate; and he is up to the knuckles in soup and grease. If he drinks, 'tis with his mouth full, interrupting the whole company with—"To your good health, Sir," and "my service to you:" perhaps coughs in his glass, and besprinkles the whole table.

He addresses the company by improper titles, as, SIR for MY LORD; mistakes one name for another; and tells you of Mr What-d'ye-call-him, or You-know who, Mrs Thingum, What's-her-name, or How-d'ye-call-her. He begins a story; but, not being able to finish it, breaks off in the middle, with—"I've forgot the rest."

VIII. VIRTUE MAN'S HIGHEST INTEREST.

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense unknown expansion.— Where am I? What sort of a place do I inhabit? Is it ex|actly accommodated in every instance to my convenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own kind or a different? Is every thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered all myself?—No—nothing like it —the farthest from it possible. The world appears not

then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone?—It does not. But is it not possible so to ac|commodate it, by my own particular industry? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What consequence then follows? or can there be any other than this—If I seek an interest of my own detached from that of others, I seek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence.

How then must I determine? Have I no interest at all? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here: 'tis a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the better. But why no interest? Can I be contented with none but one separate and detached? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be ad|mitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herd|ing animals, are enow to convince me that the thing is somewhere at least possible. How, then, am I assured that 'tis not equally true of man? Admit it; and what follows? If so, then honor and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.

But, farther still—I stop not here—I pursue this so|cial interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighborhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as di••persed throughout the earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the general inter|course of arts and letters, by that common nature of which we all participate?

Again—I must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the di|stant sun, from whose beams I derive vigor? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of hea|ven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I de|pend on this common general welfare. What▪ then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety! Not only honor and justice, and what I owe to man, is my

interest; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its greater Governor our common Parent.

IX. ON the PLEASURE ARISING from OBJECTS of SIGHT.

THOSE pleasures of the imagination which arise from the actual view and survey of outward objects, all pro|ceed from the sight of what is great, uncommon or beau|tiful.

By greatness, I do not only mean the bulk of any sin|gle object, but the largeness of a whole view considered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of an open champaign country, a vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of mountains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of waters, where we are not struck with the novelty, or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence which appears in many of these stupen|duous works of nature. Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleasing asto|nishment at such unbounded views, and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul at the apprehensions of them. The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like a restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy it|self under a sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened on every side by the neighbourhood of walls or mountains. On the con|trary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its ob|servation. Such wide and undetermined prospects are as pleasing to the fancy as the speculations of eternity or infinitude are to the understanding. But if there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean, a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, or a spacious landscape cut out into rivers, woods, rocks, and meadows, the pleasure still grows up|on us, as it rises from more than a single principle.

Every thing that is new or uncommon raises a pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an a|greeable

surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. We are in|deed so often conversant with one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new and uncommon, contributes a little to vary human life, and to divert our minds for a while with the strangeness of its appearance; it serves us for a kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of in our usual and ordinary enter|tainments. It is this that bestows charms on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature please us. It is this that recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the at|tention not suffered to dwell too long, and waste itself on any particular object: it is this likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment. Groves, fields, and meadows, are at any season of the year pleasant to look upon; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accustomed and familiar to the eye. For this reason there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect than rivers, jetteaus, or falls of wa|ter where the scene is perpetually shifting, and enter|taining the sight every moment with something that is new. We are quickly tired with looking upon hills and valleys, where every thing continues fixt and set|t••ed in the same place and posture, but find our thoughts a little agitated and relieved at the sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and sliding away from beneath the eye of the beholder.

But there is nothing that makes its way more directly to the soul than beauty, which immediately diffuses a secret satisfaction and complacency through the imagi|nation, and gives a finishing to any thing that is great or uncommon. The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an inward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties. There is not perhaps any real beauty or deformity more in one piece of mat|ter than another; because we might have been so made, that whatsoever now appears loathsome to us might have shown itself agreeable; but we find by experience, that

there are several modifications of matter, which the mind without any previous consideration, pronounces at the first sight beautiful or deformed. Thus we see that every different species of sensible creatures has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most affected with the beauties of its own kind. This is no where more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and proportion, where we often see the male deter|mined in his courtship by the single grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the color of its species.

There is a second kind of beauty that we find in the several products of art and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that w•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and violence as the beauty that appears in our proper species, but is apt however, to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the places or objects in which we discover it. This consists either in the gaiety or variety of co|lors, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a just mix|ture and concurrence of all together. Among these several kinds of beauty the eye takes most delight in co|lors. We no where meet with a more glorious or plea|sing show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of the sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light that show them|selves in clouds of a different situation. For this reason we find the poets, who are always addressing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from colors than from any other topic.

As the fancy delights in every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the same object; so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of another sense. Thus any continued sound, as the music of birds, or the fall of water, awakens every mo|ment the mind of the beholder, and makes him more at|tentive to the several beauties of the place that lie be|fore him. Thus if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the imagina|tion, and make even the colors and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable: for the ideas of both

senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter toge|ther than when they enter the mind separately; as the different colors of a picture, when they are well dispo|sed, set off one another, and receive an additional beau|ty from the advantage of their situation.

X. LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.

DISGUISE theyself as thou wilt, still Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty! thrice sweet and gracious goddess! whom all, in public or in private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so till nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great bestower of it! and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy divine Pro|vidence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table; and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagina|tion.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but find|ing, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me, I took a single captive; and, having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door, to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expec|tation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years, the western breeze had not once sanned his blood —he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his

lattice. His children—But here my heart began to bleed—and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alter|nately his chair and bed. A little calender of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery, to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door—then cast it down— shook his head—and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh—I saw the iron enter his soul.—I burst into tears—I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

XII. THE CANT OF CRITICISM.

—AND how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night?—Oh, against all rule, my Lord; most un|grammatically! Betwixt the substantive and adjective (which should agree together in number, case, and gender) he made a breach thus—stoping as if the point wanted settling. And after the nominative case (which your Lordship knows should govern the verb) he suspended his voice in the epilogue, a dozen times, three seconds and three fifths, by a stop-watch, my Lord, each time—Admirable grammarian!—But, in suspend|ing his voice, was the sense suspended likewise? Did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm? Was the eye silent? Did you narrowly look? —I looked only at the stop-watch, my Lord.—Excel|lent observer!

And what of this new book the whole world makes such a rout about?—Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my Lord,—quite an irregular thing! not one of the angles at the four corners was a right angle.—I had my rule and compasses, my Lord, in my pocket.—Excellent critic!

And, for the epic poem your Lordship bid me look

at,—upon taking the length, breadth, heighth, and depth of it, and trying them at home upon an exact scale of Bossu's—'tis out, my Lord, in every one of its dimen|sions.—Admirable connoisseur!

And did you step in to take a look at the grand pic|ture in your way back?—'Tis a melancholy daub, my Lord: not one principle of the pyramid in any one group!—And what a price!—for there is nothing of the coloring of Titian—the expression of Rubens—the grace of Raphael—the purity of Dominichino—the corregies|city of Corregio—the learning of Poussin—the airs of Guido—the taste of the Carrrchis—or the grand con|tour of Angelo!

Grant me patience!—Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world—though the cant of hypo|crites may be the worst—the cant of criticism is the most tormenting!—I would go fifty miles on foot, to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imagination into his author's hands, be pleased, he knows not why, and cares not wherefore.

XIII. STORY OF LE FEVER.

IT was some time in the summer of that year in which Denderm••nd was taken by the Allies; when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard,—I say sitting— for in consideration of the Corporal's lame knee (which sometimes gave him exquisite pain)—when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone he would never suffer the Corporal to stand; and the poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itself, with less trouble than he was able to gain this point over him; for many a time when my uncle Toby supposed the Corporal's leg was at rest, he would look back, and detect him standing behind him with the most dutiful respect: this bred more little squabbles betwixt them, than all other causes for five-and-twenty years toge|ther.

He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a little inn in the village came into the

parlor with an empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack: 'Tis for a poor gentleman,—I think of the army, said the landlord, who has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing, till just now, that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast, —"I think," says he, taking his hand from his fore-head, "it would comfort me."—

—If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy such a thing,—added the landlord,—I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, he is so ill.—I hope he will still mend, continued he;—we are all of us concerned for him.

Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glass of sack thyself,—and take a couple of bottles with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more, if they will do him good.

Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord shut the door, he is a very compassionate fel|low—Trim,—yet I cannot help entertaining a high o|pinion of his guest too; there must be something more than common in him, that in so short a time should win so much upon the affections of his host—And of his whole family, added the Corporal, for they are all con|cerned for him.—Step after him, said my uncle Toby, —do Trim, and ask if he knows his name.

—I have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, co|ming back into the parlor with the Corporal,—but I can ask his son again.—Has he a son with him then? said my uncle Toby.—A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years of age;—but the poor crea|ture has tasted almost as little as his father; he does no|thing but mourn and lament for him night and day:— He has not stirred from the bed-side these two days.

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took them away, without saying one word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco.

Trim! said my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in

my roquelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman. —Your honor's roquelaure, replied the Corporal, has not once been had on since the night before your ho|nor received your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas;—and be|sides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with the roquelaure, and what with the weather, it will be e|nough to give your honor your death. I fear so, re|plied my uncle Toby: but I am not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the landlord has given me—I wish I had not known so much of this affair,—added my uncle Toby,—or that I had known more of it:— How shall we manage it? Leave it, an't please your honor, to me, quoth the Corporal;—I'll take my hat and stick, and go to the house and reconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honor a full account in an hour.—Thou shalt go, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and here's a shilling for thee to drink with his servant.— I shall get all out of him, said the Corporal shutting the door.

It was not till uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe that Corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave the following account.

I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of being able to bring back your honor any kind of intelligence con|cerning the poor sick Lieutenant—Is he in the army, then? said my uncle Toby—He is, said the corporal— and in what regiment said my uncle Toby—I'll tell your honor, replied the Corporal, every thing straight forward, as I learnt it.—Then, Trim, I'll fill another pipe, said my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again. The Corporal made his old bow, which gene|rally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it, "Your ho|nor is good:"—And having done that, he sat down, as he was ordered,—and began the story to my uncle To|by over again in pretty near the same words.

I despaired at first, said the Corporal, of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honor about the Lieutenant and his son; for when I asked where his ser|vant was from whom I made myself sure of knowing every thing which was proper to be asked,—That's a

right distinction, Trim, said my uncle Toby—I was answered, an't please your honor, that he had no ser|vant with him:—that he had come to the inn with hi|red horses; which, upon finding himself unable to pro|ceed (to join, I suppose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he came.—If I get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man,— we can hire horses from hence.—But, alas! the poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to me,—for I heard the death watch all night long;— and when he dies the youth, his son, will certainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already.

I was hearing this account continued the Corporal, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of;—but I will do it for my father myself said the youth.—Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair to sit down upon by the fire, whilst I did it.—I believe, Sir, said he, very modestly, I can please him best myself.—I am sure, said I, his honor will not like the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier.—The youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into tears. Poor youth! said my uncle Toby,—he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears like the name of a friend; I wish I had him here.

—I never in the longest march, said the Corporal, had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company:—What could be the matter with me an please your honor? Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose,—but that thou art a good-natured fellow.

When I gave him the toast, continued the Corporal, I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain Shan|dy's servant, and that your honor (though a stranger) was extremely concerned for his father; and that if there was any thing in your house or cellar—(and thou might'st have added my purse too, said my uncle Toby), —he was heartily welcome to it:—He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honor), but no an|swer—for his heart was full—so he went up stairs with

the toast;—I warrant you, my dear, said I, as I open|ed, the kitchen-door, your father will be well again— Mr. Yorick's curate was smoaking a pipe by the kitchen-fire,—but said not a word good or bad to comfort the youth.—I thought it wrong; added the corporal—I think so too, said my uncle Toby.

When the Lieutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let me know, that in ••bout ten minutes he should be glad if I would step up stairs.—I believe, said the Landlord, he is going to say his prayers,—for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bed-side, and as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a cu|shion.—

I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all.—I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it.—Are you sure of it, re|plied the curate.—A soldier, an' please your reverence, said I, prays as often (of his own accord) as a parson;— and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honor too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world.—'Twas well said of thee, Trim said my uncle Toby.—But when a soldier, said I, an' please your reverence, has been stand|ing for twelve hours together, in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water,—or engaged, said I, for months together in long and dangerous marches; harassed, per|haps, in his rear to-day; harassing others to-morrow; —detached here;—countermanded there;—resting this night out upon his arms?—beat up in his shirt the next: —benumbed in his joints;—perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on;—he must say his prayers how and when he can—I believe, said I,—for I was piqued, quoth the corporal, for the reputation of the army—I believe, an' please your reverence, said I, that when a soldier gets time to pray,—he prays as heartily as a par|son,—though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy.— Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby,—for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not:—At the great and general review of us all,

Corporal, at the day of judgment, (and not till then)— it will be seen who have done their duties in this world, —and who have not; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly.—I hope we shall, said Trim.—It is in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby; and I will show it thee to-morrow:—In the mean time we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, that God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it,—it will never be inquired into, whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one:—I hope not; said the Corporal.—But go on, Trim, said my uncle Toby; with the story.

When I went up, continued the Corporal, into the Lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the expira|tion of the ten minutes,—he was lying in his bed, with his head raised upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric hankerchief beside it:—The youth was just stooping down to take up the cushion, upon which I supposed he had been kneeling, —the book was laid upon the bed,—and as he rose, in taking up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take the book away at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the Lieutenant.

He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close to his bed-side: If you are Captain Shandy's ser|vant said he, you must present my thanks to your mas|ter, with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me;—if he was of Levan's—said he Lieutenant.—I told him your honor was—Then, said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him,—but 'tis most likely, as I had not the honor of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me.—You will tell him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fever, a Lieutenant in Ang••s's—but he knows me not,—said he a second time, ••••sing;— possibly he may my story—added he—pray tell the Captain, I was the Ensign at Breda, who••e w••••e was most unfortunately killed with a musket-s••ot, as she lay in my arms in my tent.—I remember the story, a••'t please your honor, said I, very well.—Do you s••? ••aid

he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief,—then well may I.—In saying this, he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black ribband about his neck, and kiss'd it twice—Here, Billy, said he,—the boy flew across the room to the bed-side,—and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand, and kiss'd it too,—then kiss'd his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept.

I wish, said my uncle Toby, with •• deep sigh,—I wish, Trim, I was asleep.

Your honor, replied the Corporal, is too much con|cerned;—shall I pour your honor out a glass of sack to your pipe?—Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby.

I remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of the Ensign and his wife,—and particularly well that he, as well as she, upon some account or other, (I forget what), was universally pitied by the whole regi|ment;—but finish the story:—'Tis finished already, said the Corporal,—for I could stay no longer,—so wished his honor a good night; young Le Fever rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and as we went down together, told me, they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders.—But alas! said the Corporal,—the Lieute|nant's last day's march is over.—Then what is to be|come of his poor boy? cried my uncle Toby.

Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Toby to the Corporal, as he was putting him to bed,—and I will tell thee in what, Trim—In the first place, when thou madest an offer of my services to Le Fever,—as sickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knewest he was but a poor Lieutenant, with a son to ••bsist as well as himself out of his pay,—that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as wel|come to it as myself.—Your honor knows, said the Corporal, I had no orders;—True, quoth my uncle Toby,—thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier,—but certainly very wrong as a man.

In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same excuse, continued my uncle Toby,—when thou offer••••st him whatever was in my ho••••e,—thou shouldst

have offered him my house too:—a sick brother officer should have the best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us,—we could tend and look to him:—Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs.—

—In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smiling,—he might march.—He will never march, an't please your honor, in this world, said the Corpo|ral:—He will march; said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off:—An't please your honor, said the Corporal, he will never march, but to his grave.—He shall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe on, though without advancing an inch,—he shall march to his regiment.—He cannot stand it, said the Corporal; —He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby;—He'll drop at last; said the Corporal, and what will bec••me of his boy?—He shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly.—A-well-o'day,—do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point,—the poor soul will die: —He shall not die, by H—n, cried my uncle Toby.

—The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blush'd as he gave it in:—and the RECORDING ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.

—My uncle Toby went to his bureau,—put his purse into his pocket, and having ordered the Corporal to go early in the morning for a physician,—he went to bed and fell asleep.

The sun looked bright the morning after to every eye in the village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eye-lids,—and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle,—when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, entered the Lieutenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself down upon the chair by the bed-side, and independently of all modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him how he did,—how he had rested in the night.— what was his complaint,—where was his pain,—and

what he could do to help him?—and without giving him time to answer any one of the inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been con|certing with the Corporal the night before for him—

—You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, to my house,—and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the matter,—and we'll have an apothecary, —and the Corporal shall be your nurse,—and I'll be your servant, Le Fever.

There was a frankness in my uncle Toby,—not the effect of familiarity,—but the cause of it,—which let you at once into his soul,—and showed you the goodness of his nature; to this, there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take shelter under him; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the son insensible pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of the breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him.—The blood and spirits of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the heart,—rallied back,—the film forsook his eyes for a moment,—he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face,—then cast a look upon his boy.—

Nature instantly ebb'd again,—••he film returned to its place,—••he pulse flattered—stopp'd—went on— throbb'd—stopp'd again—moved—stopp'd—shall I go on?—No.

All that is necessary to be added is as follow —

That my uncle Toby, with young Le Fever in his hand, attended the poor Lieutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave.

When my uncle Toby had turned every thing into money, and settled all accounts betwixt the agent of the regiment and Le Fever, and betwixt Le Fever and all mankind,—there remained nothing more in my uncle Toby's hands than an old regimental coat and a sword; so that my uncle Toby found little or no opposition from the world in taking administration. The coat my uncle Toby gave the Corporal;—Wear it, Trim, said my uncle Toby, as long as it will hold together, for the sake of the poor Lieutenant—And this, said my uncle

Toby, taking up the sword in his hand, and drawing it out of the scabbard as he spoke—and this, Le Fever, I'll save for thee—'tis all the fortune, continued my uncle Toby, hanging it up upon a crook, and pointing to it,—'tis all the fortune, my dear Le Fever, which God has left thee; but if he has given thee a heart to fight thy way with it in the world,—and thou dost it like a man of honor,—'tis enough for us.

As soon as my uncle Toby had laid a foundation, he sent him to a public school, where, excepting Whitsun|tide and Christmas, at which times the Corporal was punctually dispatched for him,—he remained to the spring of the year seventeen; when the stories of the Emperor's sending his army into Hungary against the Turks, kindling a spark of fire in his bosom, he left his Greek and Latin without leave, and throwing himself upon his knees before my uncle Toby, begged his fa|ther's sword, and my uncle Toby's leave along with it, to go and try his fortune under Eugene.—Twice did my uncle Toby forget his wound, and cry out, Le Fever? I will go with thee, and thou shalt fight beside me— And twice he laid his hand upon his groin, and hung down his head in sorrow and disconsolation.—

My uncle Toby took down the sword from the crook where it had hung untouched ever since the Lieutenant's death, and delivered it to the Corporal to brighten up; —and having detained Le Fever a single fortnight to equip him, and contract for his passage to Leghorn,— he put the sword into his hand,—If thou art brave, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, this will not fail thee;— but Fortune, said he (musing a little)—Fortune may— And if she does,—added my uncle Toby embracing him, come back again to me, Le Fever, and we will shape thee another course.

The greatest injury could not have oppressed the heart of Le Fever more than my uncle Toby's paternal kind|ness;—he parted from my uncle Toby, as the best of so••s from the best of farners—both dropped tears— and as my uncle Toby gave him his last kiss, he slipped sixty guineas, tied up in an old purse of his father's, in which was his mother's ring, into his hand,—and bid God bless him.

SECTION VI.

I. THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER••.

REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain, Unvex'd with all the cares of gain. His head was silver'd o'er with age, And long experience made him sage: In summer's heat, and winter's cold, He fed his flock, and penn'd the fold: His hours in cheerful labor flew, Nor envy nor ambition knew: His wisdom, and his honest fame, Thro' all the country rais'd his name. A deep philosopher (whose rules Of moral life were drawn from schools) The shepherd's homely cottage sought; And thus explor'd his reach of thought.— Whence is thy learning; Hath thy toil O'er books consum'd the midnight-oil? Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd, And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd? Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd? And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind? Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown By various fates on realms unknown, Hast thou through many cities stray'd, Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd! The shepherd modestly reply'd— I ne'er the paths of learning try'd: Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts, To read mankind, their laws, and arts; For man is practis'd in disguise; He cheats the most discerning eyes: Who by that search shall wiser grow, When we ourselves can never know? The little knowledge I have gain'd Was all from simple nature drain'd: Hence my life's maxims took their rise; Hence grew my settled hate to vice.

The daily labors of the bee Awake my soul to industry. Who can observe the careful ant, And not provide for future want? My dog (the trustiest of his kind) With gratitude inflames my mind: I mark his true, his faithful way; And in my service copy Tray. In constancy and nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the chilly air With pious wing protects her care, And every sowl that flies at large, Instructs me in a parent's charge. From Nature, too, I take my rule To shun contempt and ridicule. I never, with important air, In conversation overbear: Can grave and formal pass for wise, When men the solemn owl despise? My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain: We from the wordy torrent ••ly: Who listens to the chatt'ring pye? Nor would I, with felonious slight, By stealth invade my neighbor's right: Rapacious animals we hate; Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. Do not we just abhorrence find Against the toad and serpent kind? But envy, calumny, and spite, Bear stronger venom in their bite.— Thus every object of creation Can furnish hints for contemplation; And, from the most minute and mean, A virtuous mind can morals glean. Thy fame is just, the sage replies: Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. Pride often guides the author's pen; Books as affected are as men: But he who studies nature's laws, From certain truth his maxims draws,

And those, without our schools, suffice To make men moral, good, and wise.

II. ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th' Arcadian plain. Pure stream! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to leave; No torrents stain thy limpid source; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood, In myriads, cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout, in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from the parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch and groves of pine, And hedges flower'd with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen; And lasses, chanting o'er the pail; And shepherds, piping in the dale; And ancient faith, that knows no guile; And industry, embrown'd with toil; And hearts resolv'd, and hands prepar'd, The blessings they enjoy to guard.

III. ODE FROM THE 19th PSALM.

THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue etherial sky, And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim. Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's pow'r display; And publishes to ev'ry land The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, And nightly, to the list'ning earth, Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings, as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, For ever singing as they shine, "The hand that made us is divine."

IV. RURAL CHARMS.

SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain! Where health and plenty cheer'd the laboring swain; Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease! Seats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please! How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm! The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighboring hill; The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. For talking age and whispering lovers made. How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil remitting, lent its turn to play, A lady came, ••ge-train, from labor free, 〈…〉〈…〉 their sports beneath the spreading tree! While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And slights of art, and seats of strength, went round;

And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd: The dancing pair, that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love; The matron's glance, that would those looks reprove. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at ev'ning's close▪ Up yonder hill, the village-murmur rose. There, as I pass'd with careless steps and ••low, The mingling notes came soften'd from below. The swain, responsive as the milkmaid sung; The sober herd, that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese, that gabbled o'er the pool; The playful children, just let loose from school; The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whisp'ring wind; And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind: These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

V. The PAINTER who pleased NOBODY and every BODY.

LEST men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view. The trav'ller, leaping o'er those bounds, The credit of his book confounds; Who with his tongue hath armies routed, Makes ev'n his real courage doubted. But flatt'ry never seems absurd; The flatter'd always take your word: Impossibilities seem just; They take the strongest praise on trust: Hyperboles, though e'er so great, Will still come short of self-conceit. So very like a painter drew, That every eye the picture knew; He hit complexion, feature, air, So just, that life itself was there. No flatt'ry with his colors laid, To bloom restor'd the faded maid; He gave each muscle all its strength; The mouth, the chin, the nose's length,

His honest pencil touch'd with truth, And mark'd the date of age and youth.— He lost his friends, his practice fail'd, Truth should not always be reveal'd; In dusty piles his pictures lay, For no one sent the second pay. Two busto's, fraught with ev'ry grace, A Venus' and Apollo's face, He plac'd in view: resolv'd to please, Whoever sat, he drew from these; From them corrected ev'ry feature, And spirited each awkward creature. All things were set; the hour was come, His pallet ready o'er his thumb: My Lord appear'd, and, seated right In proper attitude and light, The painter look'd, he sketch'd the piece; Then dipt his pencil, talk'd of Greece, Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air— "Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all the native fire: The features fraught with sense and wit, You'll grant it very hard to hit; But yet, with patience, you shall view As much as paint or art can do; Observe the work."—My Lord reply'd "Till now I thought my mouth was wide; Besides, my nose is somewhat long; Dear Sir, for me, 'tis far too young." "Oh, pardon me," the artist cry'd, "In this we painters must decide. "The piece ev'n common eyes must strike; "I warrant it extremely like." My Lord examin'd it anew— No looking-glass seem'd half so true. A lady came. With borrow'd grace He from his Venus form'd her face. Her lover prais'd the painter's art, So like the picture in his heart! To ev'ry age some charm he lent; Ev'n beauties were almost content.

Through all the town his art they prais'd, His custom grew, his price was rais'd. Had he the real likeness shown, Would any man the picture own? But when thus happily he wrought, Each found the likeness in his thought.

VI. DIVERSITY in the HUMAN CHARACTER.

VIRTUOUS and vicious ev'ry man must be, Few in th' extreme, but all in the degree; The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise, And ev'n the best, by fits, what they despise. 'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill, For, Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still; Each individual seeks a sev'ral goal; But Heav'n's great view is one, and that the Whole: That counter-works each folly and caprice? That disappoints th' effect of ev'ry vice: That happy frailties to all ranks apply'd, Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, To kings presumption, and to crowds belief. That Virtue's ends from Vanity can raise, Which seeks no int'rest, no reward but praise; And build on wants, and on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind. Heav'n forming each on other to depend, A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, 'Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common int'rest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here: Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those int'rests to resign: Taught half by Reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away. Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, Not one will change his neighbor with himself. The learn'd is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more;

The rich is happy in the plenty giv'n, The poor contents him with the care of Heav'n. See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king; The starving chymist in his golden views Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, And Pride bestow'd on all, a common friend; See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier play-thing gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage; And cards and counters are the toys of age: Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before; 'Till tir'd he sleeps, and Life's poor play is o'er! Mean while opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by Hope supply'd, And each vacuity of sense by Pride: These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy; One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is giv'n in vain; Ev'n mean self-love becomes, by force divine, The scale to measure others wants by thine. See! and confess one comfort still must rise; 'Tis this: Though Man's a fool, yet GOD is wise.

VII. The TOILET.

AND, now, unveil'd the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears: To that she bends, to that her eye she rears. Th' inferior priestess, at the altar's side, Tremb'ling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various off'rings of the world appear:

From each, she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glitt'ring spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise, here, and elephant, unite, Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair, each moment, rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face.

VIII. THE HERMIT.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age, a reverend hermit grew. The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well, Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days: Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd heav'n itself, 'till one suggestion rose— That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey: This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway. His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So, when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, Calm Nature's image on its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks; the trees, depending grow; And skies, beneath, with answering colours glow: But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side; And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt; to know the world by sight; To find if books or swains report it right; (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wand'ring o'er the nightly dew) He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fix'd the scallop in his hat before: Then with the sun, a rising journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But, when the southern sun had warm'd the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And, soft, in graceful ringlets, wav'd his hair. Then near approaching, Father, hail! he cry'd; And, Hail, my son! the reverend fire reply'd: Words follow'd words; from question, answer flow'd; And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road; 'Till, each with other pleas'd and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound; Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun: the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray: Nature, in silence, bid the world repose; When, near the road, a stately palace rose: There by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their stoping sides of grass. It chanc'd the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home: Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease, The pair arrive; the liv'ry'd servants wait; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate: The table groans with costly piles of food; And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the days long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn; and, at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh, o'er the gay parterres, the breezes creep, And shake the neighboring wood, to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call; An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd, Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste. Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go; And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe— His cup was vanish'd; for, in secret guise, The younger guest purloin'd the glitt'ring prize.

As one who sees a serpent in his way Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray, Disorder'd stops, to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily part'ner show'd. He stopt with silence; walk'd with trembling heart; And much he wish'd, but durst not ask, to part: Murm'ring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That gen'rous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pas••, the sun his glory shrouds; The changing skies hang out their sable clouds: A sound in air presag••d approaching rain; And beasts, to covert, scud a-cross the plain. Warn'd by the signs, these wand'ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat. 'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground; And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around: Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe, Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there. As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts, with sudden fury, blew; The nimble light'ning, mix'd with show'rs, began; And o'er their heads, loud-rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock; but knock or call in v••in, Driv'n by the wind and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast; ('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest); Slow creaking turns the door, with jealous care; And half he welcomes in the shiv'ring pair. One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And nature's fervor through their limbs recalls; Bread of the coarsest sort with eager wine, (Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine; And, when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready-warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pond'ring hermit view'd, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude: And why should such (within himself he cry'd) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But, what new marks of wonder soon took place, In every settling feature of his face,

When, from his vest, the young companion bore That cup, the gen'rous landlord own'd before, And paid profusely, with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul! But, now, the clouds in airy tumult fly; The sun, emerging, opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from the poor retreat; And the glad master, bolts the wary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought. His partner's acts without their cause appear; 'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here. Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's dim shade again involve the sky; Again the wand'rers want a place to lie; Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improv'd around; the mansion neat; And, neither poorly low, nor idly great: It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind; Content, and, not for praise, but virtue kind. Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet; Then, bless the mansion and the master greet: Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies: Without a vain without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part: From him you come; for him accept it here; A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. He spoke; and bade the welcome table spread: Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed; When the grave houshold round his hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with pray'r. At length, the world renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose. Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the clo••d cradle where an infant slept, And writh'd his neck: the landlord's little pride— O strange return!—grew black, and gasp'd, and died.

Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How look'd our hermit when the fact was done? Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed, He flies; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed. His steps the youth pursues. The country lay Perplex'd with roads: The servant show'd the way. A river cross'd the path. The passage o'er Was nice to find: The servant trode before: Long arms of oaks an open bridge supply'd; And, deep, the waves, beneath the bending, glide. The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin, Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in: Plunging, he falls; and, rising, lifts his head; Then, flashing, turns, and sinks among the dead. Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes; He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, Detested wretch!—But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man; His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odors breathe through purpled air: And wings, whose colors, glitter'd on the day, Wide as his back, their gradual plumes display. The form etherial burst upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first, the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do; Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends; And, in a calm, his settling temper ends. But silence, here, the beauteous angel broke. The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke. Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial, rise before the throne: These charms, success in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind. For this commission'd, I forsook the sky— Nay, cease to kneel—Thy fellow-servant I. Then know the truth of government divine; And let these scruples be no longer thine.

The maker justly claims that world he made; In this the right of Providence is laid: Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work his ends. 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high; Your actions uses, nor controls your will; And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just▪ And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. The great vain man, who far'd on costly food; Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his iv'ry stands with goblets shine; And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine; Has with the cup, the graceless custom lost; And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wand'ring poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind, That heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth he views the bowl; And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head: In the kind warmth, the metal learns to glow; And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But, now, the child half-wean'd his heart from God: (Child of his age)—for him he liv'd in pain, And measur'd back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run! But God, to save the father, took the son. To all, but thee, in fits he seem'd to go; And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns, in tears, the punishment was just. But how had all his fortune felt a wreck, Had that false servant speed in safety back! This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal: And what a fund of charity would fail!

Thus Heav'n instructs thy mind. This trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. On sounding pinions, here the youth withdrew: The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew. Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky: The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view; The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too. The bending hermit here a pray'r begun— "Lord! as in heav'n, on earth thy will be done." Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And pass'd a life of piety and peace.

IX. The DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

SECLUDED from domestic strife, Jack Book-worm liv'd a college life; A fellowship at twenty-five Made him the happiest man alive; He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, And Freshmen wonder'd as he spoke; Without politeness aim'd at breeding, And laugh'd at pedantry and reading. Such pleasures, unallay'd with care, Could any accident impair? Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix Our swain, arriv'd at thirty-six? O had the archer ne'er came down, To ravage in a country town! Or Flavia been content to stop! At triumphs in in a Fleet-Street shop! O had her eyes forgot to blaze! Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze! O!—But let exclamation cease, Her presence banish'd all his peace. Our alter'd parson now began To be a perfect ladies-man; Made sonnets, lisp'd his sermons o'e••, And told the tales he told before, Of bailiffs pump'd, and proctors bit, At college how he show'd his wit; And as the fair one still approv'd; He fell in love—or thought he lov'd:

So, with decorum all things carry'd, Miss frown'd and blush'd and then was—married. The honey-moon like light'ning flew; The second brought its transports too; A third, a fourth, was not amiss; The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss. But when a twelve month pass'd away, Jack found his goddess made of clay; Found half the charms that deck'd her face Arose from powder, shreds, or lace: But still the worst remain'd behind, That very face had robb'd her mind. Skill'd in no other art was she, But dressing, patching, repartee; And, just as humor rose or fell, By turns a slattern or a belle. Could so much beauty condescend To be a dull domestic friend? Could any curtain-lectures bring To decency so fine a thing? In short by night, 'twas fits or fretting; By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. Now tawdry Madam kept a bevy Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; The 'squire and captain took their stations, And twenty other near relations. Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke A sigh in suffocating smoke: She in her turn, became perplexing, And found substantial bliss in vexing. Thus ev'ry hour was pass'd between Insulting repartee or spleen. Each day, the more her faults were known, He thinks her features coarser grown; He fancies every vice she shows Or thins her lips, or points her nose: Whenever rage or envy rise, How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes! And, though her fops are wond'rous civil. He thinks her ugly as the devil. Thus, to perplex the ravell'd noose, While each a diff'rent way pursues,

While sullen or loquacious strife Promis'd to hold on for life; That dire disease, whose ruthless pow'r Wither's the beauty's transient flow'r— Lo! the small pox, with horrid glare, Levell'd its terrors at the fair, And, rifling every youthful grace, Left but the remnant of a face. The glass, grown hateful to her sight, Reflected now a perfect fright; Each former art she vainly tries. To bring back lustre to her eyes. In vain she tries her pastes and creams, To smooth her skin or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins, Lovers no more, flew off by dozens: The 'squire himself was seen to yield, And even the captain quit the field. Poor Madam, now condemn'd to hack The rest of life with anxious Jack, Perceiving others fairly flown, Attempted pleasing him alone. Jack soon was dazzled to behold Her present face surpass the old; With modesty her cheeks were dy'd, Humility displaces pride; For tawdry finery is seen A person ever neatly clean: No more presuming on her sway She learns good-nature every day. Serenely gay and strict in duty, Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

X. The JUDGMENT of HERCULES.

Now had the son of Jove, mature, attain'd The joyful prime; when youth, elate and gay, Steps into life; and follows unrestrain'd Where passion leads, or prudence points the way. In the pure mind, at those ambiguous years, Or vice, rank weed, first strikes her pois'nous root; Or haply virtue's op'ning bud appears By just degrees; fair bloom of fairest fruit:

For, if on youth's untainted thought imprest, The gen'rous purpose still shall warm the manly breast.

As on a day, reflecting on his age For highest deeds now ripe, Alcides sought Retirement, nurse of contemplation sage; Step following step, and thought succeeding thought: Musing, with steady path the youth pursu'd His walk, and, lost in meditation, stray'd Far in a lonely vale, with Solitude Conversing; while intent his mind survey'd The dubious path of life: before him lay, Here Virtue's rough ascent, there Pleasure's flow'ry way▪

Much did the view divide his wavering mind: Now glow'd his breast with gen'rous thirst of fame; Now love of ease to softer thoughts inclin'd His yielding soul, and quench'd the rising flame. When, lo! far off, two female forms he spies; Direct to him their steps they seem to bear; Both large and tall, exceeding human size; Both, far exceeding human beauty, fair. Graceful, yet each with different grace, they move: This, striking sacred awe; that, softer winning love.

The first, in native dignity surpass'd; Artless and unadorn'd, she pleas'd the more: Health o'er her looks a genuine lustre cast; A vest, more white than new-fall'n snow, she wore. August she trode, yet modest was her air; Serene her eye, yet darting heav'nly fire. Still she drew near; and nearer still more fair, More mild appear'd: yet such as might inspire Pleasure corrected with an awful fear; Majestically sweet, and amiably severe.

The other dame seem'd ev'n of fairer hue: But bold her mein; unguarded rov'd her eye; And her flush'd cheeks confess'd at nearer view The borrow'd blushes of an artful die. All soft and delicate, with airy swim Lightly she danc'd along; her robe betray'd Through the clear texture every tender limb, Height'ning the charms it only seem'd to shade:

And as it flow'd adown, so loose and thin, Her stature show'd more tall; more snowy-white her skin,

Oft with a smile she view'd herself askance; Ev'n on her shade a conscious look she threw: Then all around her cast a careless glance, To mark what gazing eyes her beauty drew. As they come near, before that other maid Approaching decent, eagerly she press'd With hasty step; nor of repulse afraid, With freedom bland the wond'ring youth address'd: With winning fondness on his neck she hung; Sweet as the honey-dew flow'd her inchanting tongue,

"Dear Hercules, whence this unkind delay? Dear youth, what doubts can thus distract thy mind? Securely follow where I lead the way; And range through wilds of pleasure unconfin'd. With me retire, from noise, and pain, and care; Embath'd in bliss, and wrapt in endless ease: Rough is the road to fame, through blood and war; Smooth is my way, and all my paths are peace. With me retire, from toils and perils free; Leave honor to the wretch! pleasures were made for thee.

Then will I grant thee all thy soul's desire; All that may charm thine ear, and please thy sight: All that thy thought can frame, or wish require, To steep thy ravish'd senses in delight. The sumptuous feast, enhanc'd with music's sound, Fittest to tune the melting soul to love; Rich odors, breathing choicest sweets around; The fragrant bow'r, cool fountain, shady grove; Fresh flowers, to strew thy couch, and crown thy head: Joy shall attend thy steps, and ease shall smooth thy bed.

These will I freely, constantly supply; Pleasures, not earn'd with toil, nor mix'd with woe: Far from thy rest repining Want shall fly; Nor Labor bathe in sweat thy careful brow. Mature, the copious harvest shall be thine; Let the laborious hind subdue the soil: Leave the rash soldier spoils of war to win; Won by the soldier thou shalt share the spoil:

These softer cares my blest allies employ— New pleasures to invent; to ••ish, and to enjoy."

Her winning voice the youth attentive caught; He gaz'd impatient on the smiling maid; Still gaz'd, and listen'd: then her name besought. "My name, fair youth, is Happiness," she said. "Well can my friends this envy'd truth maintain: They share my bliss; they best can speak my praise. Tho' slander call me Sloth—(detraction vain!) Heed not what Slander, vain detracter, says: Slander, still prompt true merit to defame; To blot the brightest worth, and blast the fairest name."

By this, arriv'd the fair majestic maid: (She all the while, with the same modest pace, Compos'd advanc'd.) "Know, Hercules," she said With manly tone, "thy birth of heav'nly race: Thy tender age, that lov'd instruction's voice, Promis'd thee gen'rous, patient, brave, and wise; When manhood should confirm thy glorious choice. Now expectation waits to see thee rise. Rise, youth! exalt thyself, and me: approve Thy high descent from heav'n; and dare be worthy Jove.

But what truth prompts, my tongue shall not dis|guise: The steep ascent must be with toil subdu'd: Watchings and cares must win the lofty prize Propos'd by Heav'n;—true bliss, and real good. Honor rewards the brave and bold alone: She spurns the timorous, indol••nt, and base: Danger and toil stand stren before her throne, And guard (so Jove commands) the sacred place▪ Who seeks her must the mighty cost sustain, And pay the price of fame—labor, and care, and pain.

Wouldst thou engage the god's peculiar care? O, Hercules, th' immortal powers adore! With a pure heart, with sacrifice and pray'r, Attend their altars; and their aid implore.

Or, wouldst thou gain thy country's loud applause, Lov'd as her father, as her god ador'd? Be thou the bold assertor of her cause: Her voice in council; in the fight, her sword. In peace, in war, pursue thy country's good: For her, bare thy bold breast, and pour thy generous blood.

Wouldst thou, to quell the proud and lift th' opprest, In arts of war and matchless strength excel? First conquer thou thyself. To ease, to rest, To each soft thought of pleasure, bid farewel. The night alternate, due to sweet repose, In watches waste; in painful march, the day: Congeal'd amidst the rigorous winter's snows, Scorch'd by the summer's thirst-inflaming ray; Thy harden'd limbs shall boast superior might: Vigor shall brace thine arm, resistless in the fight."

"Hea••'st thou what monsters then thou must engage; What danger, gentle youth, she bids thee prove?" (Abrupt says Sloth.) "Ill fit thy tender age Tumult and wars; fit age for joy and love. Turn, gentle youth, to me, to love, and joy! To these I lead: no monsters here shall stay Thine easy course; no cares thy peace annoy: I lead to bliss a nearer, smoother way. Short is my way; fair, easy, smooth, and plain: Turn, gentle youth; with me eternal pleasures reign."

"What pleasures, vain mistaken wretch, are thine?" (Virtue with scorn reply'd) "who sleep'st in ease Insensate; whose soft limbs the toil decline That seasons bliss, and makes enjoyment please. Draining the copious bowl, ere thirst require; Feasting, ere hunger to the feast invite: Whose tasteless joys anticipate desire: Whom luxury supplies with appetite: Yet Nature loaths; and you employ in vain Variety and art to conquer her disdain.

The sparkling nectar cool'd with summer snows; The dainty board, with choicest viands spread; To thee are tasteless all! sincere repose Flies from thy flow'ry couch and downy bed.

For thou art only tir'd with indolence: Nor is thy sleep with toil and labor bought; Th' imperfect sleep that lulls thy languid sense In dull oblivions interval of thought; That kindly steals th' inactive hours away From the long ling'ring space, that lengthens out the day.

From bounteous Nature's unexhausted stores Flows the pure fountain of sincere delights: Averse to her, you waste the joyless hours; Sleep drowns thy days, and riot rules thy nights. Immortal though thou art, indignant Jove Hurl'd thee from heav'n, th' immortals' blissful place; For ever banish'd from the realms above, To dwell on earth, with man's degenerate race: Fitter abode! on earth alike disgrac'd; Rejected by the wise, and by the fool embrac'd.

Fond wretch, that vainly weenest all delight To gratify the sense reserv'd for thee! Yet the most pleasing object to the sight, Thine own fair actions, never didst thou see. Though lull'd with sofest sounds thou liest along; Soft music, warbling voices, melting lays: Ne'er didst thou hear, more sweet than sweetest song Charming the soul, thou ne'er didst hear thy praise! No—To thy revels let the fool repair: To such, go smooth thy speech, and spread thy tempt|ing snare.

Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies! A youth, of follies; and old age, of cares; Young, yet enervate; old, yet never wise: Vice wastes their vigor, and their mind impairs. Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend; All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, With sorrow, to the verge of life they tend. Griev'd with the present, of the past asham'd; They live, and are despis'd; they die, nor more are nam'd.

But with the gods, and godlike men, I dwell: Me, his supreme delight, the Almighty Sire Regards well pleas••d: whatever works excel, All, or divine or human, I inspire. Counsel with strength, and industry with art, In union meet conjoin'd, with me reside: My dictates arm, instruct, and mend the heart; The surest policy, the wisest guide. With me true friendship dwells: she deigns to bind Those gen'rous souls alone whom I before have join'd.

Nor need my friends the various costly feast; Hunger to them th' effects of art supplies; Labor prepares their weary limbs to rest; Sweet is their sleep: light, cheerful, strong they rise. Through health, through joy, through pleasure and renown, They tread my paths; and, by a soft descent, At length to age all gently sinking down, Look back with transport on a life well spent: In which no hour flew unimprov'd away: In which, some gen'rous deed distinguish'd ev'ry day.

And when (the destin'd term at length complete) Their ashes rest in peace, eternal fame Sounds wide their praise: triumphant over fate, In sacred song, for ever lives their name. This, Hercules, is happiness! obey My voice, and live. Let thy celestial birth Lift and enlarge thy thoughts. Behold the way That leads to fame, and raises thee from earth Immortal! Lo, I guide thy steps. Arise, Pursue the glorious path, and claim thy native skies."

Her words breathe fire celestial, and impart New vigor to his soul; that sudden caught The gen'rous flame: with great intent his heart Swells full; and labors with exalted thought: The mist of error from his eyes dispell'd, Through all her fraud••ul arts in clearest light Sloth in her native form he now beheld! Unveil'd she stood, confess'd before his sight: False Siren!—All her wonted charms, that shone So fresh erewhile and fair, now wither'd, pale, and gone.

No more the rosy bloom in sweet disguise Masks her dissembled looks, each borrow'd grace Leaves her wan cheek; pale sickness clouds her eyes, Livid and sunk, and passions dim her face. As when fair Iris has a while display'd Her wat'ry arch, with gaudy painture gay; While yet we gaze, the glorious colors fade; And from our wonder gently steal away: Where shone the beauteous phantom erst so bright, Now lours the low-hung cloud; all gloomy to the sight.

But Virtue, more engaging, all the while Disclos'd new charms; more lovely, more serene: Beaming sweet influence. A milder smile Soften'd the terrors of her lofty mein. "Lead, goddess, I am thine! (transported cry'd Alcides:) O propitious pow'r, thy way Teach me! possess my soul; be thou my guide: From thee, O never, never let me stray!" While ardent thus the youth his vows addrest, With all the goddess fill'd, already glow'd his breast.

The heav'nly maid, with strength divine endu'd His daring soul; there all her pow'rs combin'd: Firm constancy, undaunted fortitude, Enduring patience, arm'd his mighty mind. Unmov'd in toils, in dangers undismay'd, By many a hardy deed and bold emprize, From fiercest monsters, through her pow'rful aid, He freed the earth: through her he gain'd the skies. 'Twas virtue plac'd him in the blest abode, Crown'd with eternal youth; among the gods a god.

SECTION VII.

I. THE FATHER AND JUPITER.

THE man to Jove his suit preferr'd. He begg'd a wife: his pray'r was heard. Jove wonder'd at his bold addressing; For how precarious is the blessing! A wife he takes. And now for heirs Again he worries heav'n with prayers. Jove nods assent. Two hopeful boys And a fine girl reward his joys. Now more solicitous he grew, And set their future lives in view: He saw that all respect and duty, Were paid to wealth, to pow'r, and beauty. "Once more," he cries, "accept my pray'r: Make my lov'd progeny thy care. Let my first hope, my fav'rite boy, All fortune's richest gifts enjoy. My next, with strong ambition fire, My favor teach him to aspire, Till he the step of pow'r ascend, And courtiers to their idol bend. With ev'ry grace, with every charm, My daughter's perfect features arm. If Heav'n approve, a father's blest." Jove smiles, and grants his full request. The first, a miser at the heart, Studious of ev'ry griping art, Heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain, And all his life devotes to gain. He feels no joy, his cares increase; He neither wakes nor sleeps in peace: In fancy'd want (a wretch complete) He starves, and yet he dares not eat. The next, to sudden honors grew; The thriving art of courts he knew: He reach'd the height of pow'r and place, Then fell the victim of disgrace.

Beauty with early bloom supplies His daughter's cheek, and points her eyes: The vain coquette each suit disdains, And glories in her lover's pains. With age she fades; each lover flies: Contemn'd, forlorn, she pines and dies. When Jove the father's grief survey'd, And heard him Hea'ven and fate upbraid, Thus spoke the god. "By outward show Men judge of happiness and wo. Shall ignorance of good and ill, Dare to direct th' eternal will? Seek virtue; and, of that possest, To Providence resign the rest."

II. THE CAMELION.

OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, Returning from his finish'd tour, Grown ten times perter than before: Whatever word you chance to drop, The travell'd fool your mouth will stop— "Sir, if my judgment you'll allow— I've seen—and sure I ought to know."— So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk'd of this, and then of that; Discours'd a while, 'mongst other matter, Of the Camelion's form and nature. "A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never liv'd beneath the sun: A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'd; And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace! and then its hue— Whoever saw so fine a blue!" "Hold there," the other quick replies, "'Tis green: I saw it with these eyes,

As late with open mouth it lay, And warm'd it in the sunny ray; Stretch'd at its ease the beast I view'd, And saw it eat the air for food." "I've seen it, Sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue. At leisure I the beast survey'd, Extended in the cooling shade." "'Tis green, 'tis green, Sir, I assure ye"— "Green!" cries the other in a fury— "Why, Sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" "'Twere no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, "You'll find 'em but of little use." So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows; When luckily came by a third: To him the question they referr'd; And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. "Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother The creature's—neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night, And view'd it o'er by candle-light: I mark'd it well—'twas black as jet— You stare—but, Sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it."—"Pray, Sir, do: I'll lay my life the thing is blue."— "And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green."— "Well then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out; And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said: then full before their sight Produc'd the beast: and lo!—'twas white.

III. DESCRIPTION of a COUNTRY ALE-HOUSE.

NEAR yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye; Low lies that house, where nut-brown draughts inspir'd; Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil, retir'd;

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops, to trace The parlor-splendors of that festive place: The white-wash'd wall; the nicely-sanded floor; The varnish'd clock, that click'd behind the door; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures plac'd for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel, gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Rang'd o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendors! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall; Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup, to pass it to the rest.

IV. CHARACTER of a COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.

BESIDE you straggling fence, that skirts the way With blossom'd furze unprofitable gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village-master taught his little school.— A man severe he was, and stern to view: I knew him well; and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace The day's disasters in his morning face: Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes—for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd.

Yet he was kind; or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declar'd how much he knew: 'Twas certain he could write—and cypher too: Lands he could measure; terms and tides presage; And even the story ran, that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill; For, ev'n though vanquish'd, he could argue still: While words of learned length and thund'ring sound Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd round; And still they gaz'd; and still the wonder grew, That one small head—could carry all he knew.

V. STORY of PALEMON and LAVINIA.

THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth. For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all, Of every stay, save innocence and Heav'n, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old, And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd. Together, thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn, Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride: Almost on Nature's common bounty fed; Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning-rose, When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure. As is the lily or the mountain-snow. The modish virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers; Or, when the mournful tale her mother told, Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once, Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of ev'ning, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness

Needs not the for••••gn aid of ornament, But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self, Recluse amid the close embow'ring woods. As in the hollow breast of Appenine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye, And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia; till at length, compell'd By strong Necessity's supreme command, With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields.—The pride of swains Palemon was; the generous, and the rich; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times, When tyrant Custom had not shackled man, But free to follow nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye, Unconscious of her pow'r, and turning quick With unaffected blushes from his gaze: He saw her charming; but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd That very moment love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown; For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh, (Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn) Should his heart own a gleaner in the field: And thus, in secret, to his soul he sigh'd. "What pity, that so delicate a form, By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown! She looks, methinks, Of old Acastos' line; and to my mind Recals that patron of my happy life, From whom my liberal fortune took its rise; Now to the dust gone down, his houses, lands, And once fair-spreading family, dissolv'd.

'Tis said, that, in some lone, obscure retreat, Urg'd by remembrance sad and decent pride, Far from those scenes which knew their better days, His aged widow and his daughter live, Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish! would this the daughter were!" When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend, Of bountiful Acasto—who can speak The mingled passions that surpris'd his heart, And through his nerves in shivering transport ran! Then blaz••d his smother'd flame, avow'd, and bold; And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er, Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. Confus'd, and frighten'd at his sudden tears; Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom; And thus Palemon, passionate and just, Pour'd out the pious rapture of his soul. "And art thou, then, Acasto's dear remains? She whom my restless gratitude has sought So long in vain?—O yes! the very same, The soften'd image of my noble friend; Alive, his every feature, every look, More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than spring! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourish'd up my fortune! say, ah! where, In what sequester'd desert, hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted heaven? Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair, Though poverty's cold wind and crushing rain Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years. Oh let me now into a richer soil Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and showers Diffuse their warmest, largest influence; And of my garden be the pride and joy. Ill it befits thee, oh! it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his, whose open store, Though vast, were little to his ampler heart, The father of a country, thus to pick The very refuse of those harvest-fields Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand,

But ill applied to such a rugged task The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine; If to the various blessings which thy house Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss, That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee! Here ceas'd the youth; yet still his speaking eye Express'd the sacred triumph of his soul, With conscious virtue, gratitude and love, Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd. Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and all In sweet disorder lost—she blush'd consent. The news immediate to her mother brought While, pierc'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate: Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her evening-hours; Not less enraptur'd than the happy pair, Who flourish'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, And good, the grace of all the country round.

VI. CELADON and AMELIA.

—YOUNG Celadon And his Amelia were a matchless pair, With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace; The same, distinguish'd by their sex alone: Hers, the mild lustre of the blooming morn; And his, the radiance of the risen day. They lov'd. But such their guileless passion was, As, in the dawn of time, inform'd the heart Of innocence and undissembling truth. 'Twas friendship, heighten'd by the mutual wish: The' enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow, Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all To love, each was to each a dearer self; Supremely happy, in the awaken'd power Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades, Still, in harmonious intercourse, they liv'd The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart; Or sigh'd and look'd—unutterable things.

So pass'd their life; a clear united stream, By care unruffled, till, in evil hour, The tempest caught them on the tender walk, Heedless how far and where its mazes stray'd; While, with each other blest, creative love Still bade eternal Eden smile around. Presaging instant fate, her bosom heav'd Unwonted sighs; and, stealing oft a look Tow'rds the big gloom, on Celadon her eye Fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek. In vain assuming love and confidence In heaven repress'd her fear; it grew, and shook Her frame near dissolution. He perceived Th' unequal conflict, and, as angels look On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, With love illumin'd high. "Fear not," he said, "Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offence And inward storm! He who you skies involves In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft, That wastes at midnight, or th' undreaded hour Of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice Which thunders terror through the guilty heart, With tongues of seraphs, whispers peace to thine. 'Tis safety to be near thee, sure, and thus To clasp perfection!"—From his void embrace (Mysterious Heaven) that moment, to the ground, A blacken'd corpse, was struck the beauteous maid. But who can paint the lover, as he stood Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life, Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of wo.

VII. DESCRIPTION of MAB QUEEN of the FAIRIES.

SHE is the fancy's midwife: and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate-stone On the fore-finger of an alderman; Drawn with a team of little atomies, Athwart mens noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes, made of long spinners' legs; The cover of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web: The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams;

Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film: Her waggoner, a small gray-coated gnat; Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies coachmakers. And in this stare she gallops, night by night, Thro' lovers brains, and then they dream of love; O'er lawyers fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream: And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail, Tickling the parson as he lies asleep; Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck: And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spainish blades; Of healths five fathom deep: and then, anon, Drums in his ears; at which he starts and wakes; And, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two— And sleeps again.

VIII. ENQUIRY CONCERNING HAPPINESS.

OH HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name: That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise. Plant of celestial seed! if dropt below, Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? Where grows;—where grows it not?—If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil: Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere, 'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where. Order is Heav'n's first law; and this confest, Some are, and must be, greater than the rest, More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence That such are happier, shocks all common sense.

Heav'n to mankind impartial we confess, If all are equal in their happiness: But mutual wants this happiness increase; All Nature's diff'rence keeps all Nature's peace. Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king; In who obtain defence, or who defend, In him who is, or him who finds a friend. Fortune her gifts may variously dispose, And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; But Heav'n's just balance equal will appear, While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear▪ Not present good or ill, the joy or curse, But future views of better or of worse. Oh sons of earth! attempt ye still to rise, By mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies? Heav'n still with laughter the vain toil surveys, And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind; Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words—Health, Peace, and Competence.

IX. DESCRIPTION OF A GAME AT CARDS.

BELINDA, now, whom thirst of same invites, Burns to encounter two advent'rous knights; At ombre, singly, to decide their doom; And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. Behold four kings, in majesty rever'd, With hoary whiskers, and a forky beard; And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flow'r, Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; Four knaves, in garbs succinct, a trusty band, Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand; And party-color'd troops, a shining train; Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. The skilful nymph reviews her force with care: "Let spades be trumps!" she said—and trumps they were Now, move to war her sable matadors, In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! Le•• off two captive trumps, and swept the board

As many more Manillio forc'd to yield, And march'd a victor from the verdant field. Him Basto follow'd; but, his sate more hard, Gain'd but one trump, and one Plebeian card. With his broad sabre, next, a chief in years, The hoary majesty of spades appears; Puts forth one manly leg to sight reveal'd, The rest his many-color'd robe conceal'd. The rebel knave, who dares his prince engage, Proves the just victim of his royal rage: Ev'n mighty Pam, that kings and queens o'erthrew, And mow'd down armies in the fights of Loo, Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid, Falls undistinguished by the victor spade. Thus far both armies to Belinda yield: Now, to the baron, fate inclines the field. His warlike Amazon her host invades, Th' imperial consort of the crown of spades. The clubs' black tyrant first her victim died, Spite of his haughty mien and barb'rous pride. What boots the regal circle on his head; His giant limb••, in state unwieldy spread; That long behind he trails his pompous robe; And, of all monarchs, only, grasp the globe! The baron, now, his diamonds pours apace: Th' embroider'd king, who shows but half his face, And his refulgent queen, with pow'rs combin'd, Of broken troops, an easy conquest find; Clubs, diamonds, hearts, in wild disorder seen, With throngs promiscuous, strew the level green. Thus, when, dispers'd, a routed army runs, Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, With like confusion, different nations fly, Of various habit, and of various die: The pierc'd battalions, disunited, fall In heaps on heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. The knave of diamonds tries his wily arts; And wins (oh shameful chance!) the queen of hearts. At this, the blood the virgin's cheek forsook; A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, Just in the jaws of ruin and codille.

And, now (as oft, in some distemper'd state, On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate) An ace of hearts steps forth; the king, unseen, Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive queen— He springs to vengence, with an eager pace, And falls, like thunder, on the prostrate ace. The nymph, exulting, fills with shouts the sky: The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.

X. ELEGY WRITTEN in a COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world—to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save, that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening-care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave, Await, alike, th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead—but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn isle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise:

Can story'd urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their l••t forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide; To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame; Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the m••d••ing crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit will inquire thy fate,

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say— 'Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 'Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'Muttering wayward fancies, he would rove; 'Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

'One morn I miss'd him on the' custom'd hill, 'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; 'Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he:

'The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 'Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne— 'Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay. 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

The EPITAPH.

HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown. Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: Heav'n did a recompense as largely send. He gave to mis'ry all he had—a tear; He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd)—a friend.

No father seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

XI. SCIPIO restoring the CAPTIVE LADY to her LOVER.

WHEN, to his glorious first essay in war, New Carthage fell; there, all the flow'r of Spain Were kept in hostage; a full field presenting For Scipio's generosity to shine.—A noble virgin, Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames, Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept, and blush'd; Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn. An eye, As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud Of purest white. A secret charm combin'd Her features, and infus'd inchantment through them. Her shape was harmony.—But eloquence Beneath her beauty fails; which seem'd on purpose

By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind Might see the virtue of a hero tried Almost beyond the stretch of human force. Soft as she pass'd along, with downcast eyes, Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and, now and then, Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear, The Roman legions languish'd, and hard war Felt more than pity: even their chief himself, As on his high tribunal rais'd he sat. Turn'd from the dangerous sight; and, chiding, ask'd His officers, if, by this gift, they meant To cloud his glory in its very dawn. She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents, With tears and blushes, broken, told her tale. But, when he found her royally descended; Of her old captive parents the sole joy; And that a hapless Celtiberian prince, Her lover and belov'd, forgot his chains, His lost dominions, and for her alone Wept out his tender soul; sudden the heart Of this young, conqu'ring, loving, godlike Roman, Felt all the great divinity of virtue. His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power, Restrain'd by kind humanity.—At once He for her parents and her lover call'd. The various scene imagine. How his troops Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant; While, stretch'd below, the trembling suppliants lay, Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions—fear, Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief, Anxiety, and love in every shape. To these as different sentiments succeeded, As mix'd emotions, when the man divine Thus the dread silence to the lover broke. "We both are young; both charm'd. The right of war Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power; With whom, I could, in the most sacred ties, Live out a happy life. But, know, that Romans, Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer. Then, take her to thy soul: and, with her, take Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, I ask but this— When you behold these eyes,

These charms with transport, be a friend to Rome." Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute; While the loud camp, and all the clust'ring crowd That hung around, rang with repeated shouts. Fame took the alarm, and through resounding Spain Blew fast the fair report: which, more than arms, Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd.

XII. POPE's humorous COMPLAINT to Dr. ARBUTH|NOT of the IMPERTINENCE of SCRIBBLERS.

SHUT, shut the door, good John!—fatigu'd, I said Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glide▪ By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred; not the church is free; Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me: Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme— "Happy to catch me—just at dinner-time." Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted—many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fools wrath or love? A dire dilemma!—either way. I'm sped: If foes, they write; if friends they read me d••ad. Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh were want of goodness and of grace; And to be grave exceeds all pow'r of face. I sit with sad civility; I read With serious anguish and an aching head: Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This sa••ing counsel—"Keep your piece nine years."— "Nine years!" (cries he, who, high in Drury-Lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig'd by hunger—and request of friends);

"The piece, you think is incorrect. Why, take it: I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modest wishes bound— My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me—"You know his Grace: I want a patron, ask him for a place." "Pitholeon libell'd me"—"But here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better." Bless me! a packet!—"'Tis a stranger sues; A virgin tragedy, an orphan-muse." If I dislike it—"Furies, death and rage!" I•• I approve—"Commend it to the stage." There, thank my stars! my whole commission ends: The play'rs and I are, luckily, no friends. Fir'd that the house reject him—"'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools—Your int'rest, Sir, with Lintot." "Lintot (dull rogue!) will think your price too much." "Not if you, Sir, revise it and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: At last he whispers—"Do, and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door— "Sir, let me see you and your works no more." You think this cruel! take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, Thou unconcern'd, canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through:— He spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew. Destroy his fib or sophistry:—in vain— The creature's at his dirty work again. One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend; And, more abusive, calls himself my friend: This prints my letters; that expects a bribe; And others roar aloud—"Subscribe, subscribe." There are who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace; and, though lean, am short: Ammon's great son, one shoulder had too high; Such Ovid's nose; and "Sir, you have an eye."—

Go on, obliging creatures; make me see All that disgrac'd my betters met in me. Say for my comfort languishing in bed, Just so immortal Maro held his head; And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died—three thousand years ago.

XIII. HYMN to ADVERSITY.

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour, The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple Tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heav'nly birth, And bade thee form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer Friend, the flatt'ring Foe, By vain Prosperity receiv'd; To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immers'd in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend: Warm charity, the gen'ral friend; With justice, to himself severe; And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread Goddess lay thy chast'ning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thund'ring voice and threat'ning mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear; Thy milder influence impart; Thy philosophic train be there, To soften not to wound my heart, The gen'rous spark, extinct, revive; Teach me to love and to forgive; Exact my own defects to scan; What others are, to feel; and know myself a man.

XIV. The PASSIONS. An ODE.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse's painting. By turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each (for madness rul'd the hour) Would prove his own expressive power.

First, Fear, his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder'd laid; And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire: In light'nings, own'd his secret stings,

In one rude clash, he struck the lyre— And swept, with hurry'd hands, the strings.

With woeful measures, wan despair— Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd: A solemn, strange, and mingl'd air: 'Twas sad, by fits—by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, O hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all her song: And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope, enchanted, smil'd and wav'd her golden hair And longer had she sung—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast, so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of wo: And, ever and anon, he beat The double drum, with furious heat. And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side, Her soul-subduing voice apply'd, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien; While each strain'd ball of sight—seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, jealousy, to nought were fix'd; Sad proof of thy distressful state. Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd: And, now, it courted Love; now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd; And, from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And, dashing soft, from rocks around Bubbling runnels join'd the sound. Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay, (Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing) In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O, how alter'd was in sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known. The oak-crown'd Sisters, and their chaste-ey'd Queen, Satyrs, and sylvan Boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green: Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joys ecstatic trial. He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd: But soon he saw the brisk awak'ning viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal sounding shades, To some unweary'd minstrel dancing; While as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, (Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound) And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings▪

SECT VIII.

I. MILTON's LAMENTATION for the LOSS of his SIGHT.

HAIL, holy light! offspring of heav'n first-born! Or, of th' Eternal, coeternal beam! May I express thee unblam'd! since God is light, And never but in unapproached light Dwelt from eternity; dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate. Or, hear'st thou, rather, pure etherial stream, Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the sun, Before the heav'ns thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless infinite. Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain'd In that obscure sojourn; while in my flight Through utter and through middle darkness borne, With other notes than to th' Orphean lyre, I sung of Chaos and eternal Night; Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovereign vital lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt Clear spring or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flow'ry brooks beneath That wash thy hallow'd feet and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget Those other two equall'd with me in fate, So were I equall'd with them in renown, Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides; And Tyresias, and Phineus, prophets old:

Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling and, in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus, with the year. Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with an universal blank Of nature's works, to me expung'd and ras'd, And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. So much the rather, thou celestial light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse; that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.

II. L'ALLE••RO, or the MERRY MAN.

HENCE, loathed Melancholy! Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shades, and shrieks, and sights unholy; Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heav'n yclep'd Euphrosyne! And, by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister-graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles?

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport, that wrinkled care derides; And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come! and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And, in thy right hand, lead with thee The mountain nymph sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honor due, Mirth admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free: To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then, to come in spite of sorrow, And, at my window, bid good-morrow, Through the sweet briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Rob'd in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight: While the plough-man near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milk-maid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures;

Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim, with daisies pied; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where, perhaps, some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses; And then, in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind his sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead. Tow'red cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace high triumphs hold; With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear, In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eve by haunted stream. Then to the well trod stage anon, If Johnson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce,

In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running; Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of Harmony: That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regain'd Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

III. ON the PURSUITS of MANKIND.

HONOR and shame from no condition rise: Act well your part; there all the honor lies. Fortune, in men, has some small difference made; One flaunts in rags; one flutters in brocade; The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd; The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. "What differ more," you cry, "than crown and cowl." I'll tell you friend—a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow: The rest is all but leather or prunella. Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece: But, by your father's worth if your's you rate, Count me those only, who were good and great▪ Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood, Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood; Go! and pretend your family is young; Nor own, your fathers have been fools so long. What can enoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look next on greatness: say where greatness lies. "Where, but among the heroes and the wise?" Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede:

The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find Or make—an enemy of all mankind! Not one looks backward; onward still he goes; Yet ne'er looks forward—further than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise: All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes. Men in their loose unguarded hours they take: Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But, grant that those can conquer; these can cheat: 'Tis phrase absurd, to call a villain great. Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains; Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates—that man is great indeed. What's fame?—a fancy'd life in others breath: A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death. All fame is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart: One self-approving hour whole years out-weighs Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas: And more true joy, Marcellus, ex••l'd, feels, Than Caesar, with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'Tis but to know how little can be known; To see all others faults, and feel our own; Condemn'd in bus'ness, or in arts, to drudge Without a second, or without a judge. Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand. Painful Pre-eminence! yourself to view Above life's weakness, and its comforts too. Bring, then, these blessings to a strict account; Make fair deductions; see to what they mount: How much, of other, each is sure to cost; How each, for other, oft is wholly lost; How inconsistent greater goods with these; How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease: Think. And, if still such things thy envy call, Say, would'st thou be the man to whom they fall?

To sigh for ribbands, if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra or Sir Billy. Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife. If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd; The wisest, brightest—meanest of mankind. Or, ravish'd with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame. If all united thy ambition call, From ancient story—learn to scorn them all.

IV. ADAM and EVE's MORNING-HYMN.

THESE are thy glorious works! Parent of good! Almighty! thine this universal frame, Thus wond'rous fair: Thyself how wond'rous, then, Unspeakable! who sit'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine— Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels! for ye behold him, and, with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven!— On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars! last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou, Sun! of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater: sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st. Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies; And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move In mysti•• dance, not without song; resound His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth Of Nature's womb, that, in quaternion, run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix

And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations! that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honor to the world's great Author rise; Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolor'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds! that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud: and wave your top••, ye pines! With every plant, in sign of worship, wave. Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling, tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls. Ye birds, That, singing, up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise. Ye that in waters glide! and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread or lowly creep! Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.— Hail, universal Lord! Be bounteous still, To give us only good; and, if the night Have gather'd ought of evil, or conceal'd— Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

V. PARTING of HECTOR and ANDROMACHE.

HECTOR now pass'd, with sad presaging heart, To seek his spouse, his soul's far dearer part. At home he sought her; but he sought in vain: She, with one maid of all her menial train, Had thence retir'd; and, with her second joy The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy, Pensive she stood on Illion's tow'ry height, Beheld the war, and sicken'd at the sight: There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, Or weep the wounds—her bleeding country bore. Hector this heard, return'd without delay; Swift through the town, he took his former way, Through streets of palaces and walks of state, And meet the mourner at the Scaen gate.

With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair, His blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir. The nurse stood near! in whose embraces press'd, His only hope, hung, smiling at her breast; Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn, Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn. Silent, the warrior smil'd; and, pleas'd, resign'd To tender passions all his mighty mind. His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, Hung on his hand, and then, dejected, spoke. Her bosom labor'd with a boding sigh, And the big tear—stood trembling in her eye. "Too daring prince! ah! whither dost thou run? Ah! too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be? A widow I, an helpless orphan he! For, sure, such courage length of life denies; And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee—and thou must be slain. Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of heav'n—an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share— Oh! prove a husband's and a parent's care. That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have giv'n, Or led by hopes, or dictated from heav'n. Let others in the field their arms employ; But stay, my Hector, here, and guard his Troy." The chief reply'd—"That post shall be my care; Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown'd, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame! My early youth was bred to warlike pains: My soul impels me to the martial plains.

Still foremost let me stand, to guard the throne, To save my father's honors, and my own.— Yet come it will! the day decreed by fates! (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates!) The day when thou, imperial Troy!—must bend, Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. And, yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam's hoary hairs defil'd with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, As thine, Andromache!—Thy griefs I dread! I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, In Argive lo••ms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part was thine. There, while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry—"Behold the mighty Hector's wife!" Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes, by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! May I lie cold before that dreadful day, Press'd with a load of monumental clay! Thy Hector, wrapt in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung, crying, to his nurse's breast, Scar'd with the dazzling helm and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smil'd, And Hector hasted to relieve his child; The glitt'ring terrors from his brows unbound, And plac'd the beaming helmet on the ground. Then kiss'd the child; and lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr'd a parent's pray'r. "O Thou, whose glory fills th' etherial throne! And all ye deathless pow'rs!—protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age. So, when, triumphant from successful toils, Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,

Whole hosts may hail him with deserv'd acclaim, And say—This chief transcends his father's fame; While, pleas'd amidst the general shouts of joy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." He spoke: and, fondly gazing on her charms, Restor'd the pleasing burden to her arms. Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush'd to repose, and with a smile survey'd: The troubl'd pleasure, soon chastis'd with fear, She mingl'd with the smile—a tender tear. The soften'd chief with kind compassion view'd, And dry'd the falling drops; and thus pursu'd. "Andromache! my soul's far better part! Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Till fate condemn me to the silent tomb: Fix'd is the term of all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth. No force can then resist, no flight can save; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home; There guide the spindle, and direct the loom. Me glory summons to the martial scene; The field of combat is the sphere for men: Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame." Thus having said, th' undaunted chief resumes His tow'ry helmet, black with shading plumes. His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream'd at ev'ry look; then, moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulg'd her wo. There, while her tears deplor'd the god-like man, Through all her train the soft infection ran; The pious maids their mingl'd sorrows shed, And mourn'd the living Hector as the dead.

VI. FACETIOUS HISTORY of JOHN GILPIN.

JOHN Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown: A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear— 'Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.

My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.'

He soon reply'd—'I do admire Of woman kind but one; And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world does know: And my good friend Tom Callender, Will lend his horse to go.'

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin—'That's well said: And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is so bright and clear.'

John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'er joy'd was he to find, T••••t though on pleasure she was bent, ••he had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was staid, Where they did all get in, Six precious souls; and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horses' side, Seiz'd fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haste to ride, But soon came down again.

For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his face, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it griev'd him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would grieve him still much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty scream'd into his ears— 'The wine is left behind!'

'Good lack!' quoth he; 'yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise.'

Now Mrs. Gilpin—careful soul! Had two stone-bottles found, To hold the liquor which she lov'd, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had two curling ears, Through which the belt he drew; He hung one bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then, over all, that he might be Equipp'd from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Fully slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed.

But, finding soon a smoother road Beneath this his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall'd him in his seat.

So 'fair and softly,' John did cry, But John he cry'd in vain; That trot became a gallop soon In spite of curb or rein.

So stooping down, as he needs must Who cannot sit upright, He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought, Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.

The horse, who never had before Been handled in this kind, Affrighted fled; and, as he flew, Left all the world behind.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay; Till loop and button failing both, At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side, As has been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, Up flew the windows all; And ev'ry soul cry'd out, 'Well done!' As loud as they could bawl.

Away went Gilpin—who but he! His fame soon spread around— 'He carries weight!—he rides a race!— 'Tis for a thousand pound!'

And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view, How, in a trice, the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain, behind his back, Were shatter'd at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, And made his horse's flanks to smoke, As he had basted been.

But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle brac'd; For still the bottle necks were left Both dangling at his waist.

Thus, all through merry Islington, These gambols he did play, And till he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the Wash about On both sides of the way; Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife, From the balcony, spied Her tender husband, wond'ring much To see how he did ride.

'Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house!' They all at once did cry; 'The dinner waits, and we are tir'd!' Said Gilpin—'So am I!'

But, ah! his horse was not a whit Inclin'd to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware.

So like an arrow swift he flew Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to The middle of my song.

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend's, Tom Callender's, His horse at last stood still.

Tom Callender, surpiz'd to see His friend in such a trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him—

'What news, what news!—the tidings tell; Make haste and tell me all! Say, why bare-headed you are come, Or why you come at all?'

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And lov'd a timely joke; And thus unto Tom Callender, In merry strains, he spoke—

'I come because your horse would come, And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here; They are upon the road.'

Tom Callender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in.

Whence strait he came with hat and wig, A wig that droop'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear; Each comely in its kind.

He held them up; and, in his turn, Thus show'd his ready wit— 'My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit.

But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs about your face; And stop and eat—for well you my Be in a hungry case!'

Said John—'It is my wedding-day; And folks would gape and stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware.'

Then, speaking to his horse, he said, 'I am in haste to dine: 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.'

Ah! luckless word and bootless boast, For which he paid full dear; For, while he spoke, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear:

Whereat his horse did snort, as if He heard a lion roar; And gallop'd off, with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin—and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig; He lost them sooner than at first; For why?—They were too big.

Now, Gilpin's wife, when she had seen Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, 'This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.'

The youth did ride, and soon they met: He tried to stop John's horse By seizing fast the flowing rein; But only made things worse:

For, not performing what he meant And gladly would have done, He, thereby, frighted Gilpin's horse, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin—and away Went post-boy at his heels; The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumber of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scamp'ring in the rear, They rais'd the hue-and-cry.

'Stop thief!—stop thief!— a highwayman!' Not one of them was mute; So they, and all that pass'd that way, Soon join'd in the pursuit.

But all the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The men still thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race:

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he first got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing—'Long live the King; And Gilpin, long live he: And when he next does ride abroad, May I be there to see!'

VII. OVERTHROW OF THE REBEL ANGELS.

So said, he, o'er his sceptre bowing, rose From the right hand of glory, where he sat; And the third sacred morn began to shine,

Dawning through heav'n. Forth rush'd, with whirl|wind sound, The chariot of paternal Deity, Flashing thick flames; wheel within wheel undrawn, Itself instinct with spirit, but convoy'd By four cherubic shapes: four faces each Had wond'rous; as with stars, their bodies all, And wings, were set with eyes; with eyes the wheels Of beril; and careering fires between: Over their heads a crystal firmament, Whereon a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure Amber, and colours of the show'ry arch. He in celestial panoply all arm'd Of radiant Urim, work divinly wrought. Ascended. At his right hand, victory Sat eagle-wing'd: beside him, hung his bow And quiver, with three-bolted thunder stor'd; And from about him, fierce effusion roll'd, Of smoke, and bickering flame, and sparkles dire. Attended with ten thousand thousand saints He onward came; far off his coming shone: And twenty thousand (I their number heard) Chariots of God half on each hand, were seen. He, on the wings of cherub, rode sublime On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd; Illustrious far and wide, but by his own First seen. Them unexpected joy surpris'd, When the great ensign of Messiah blaz'd Aloft, by angels borne, his sign in heav'n: Under whose conduct Michael soon reduc'd▪ His army, circumfus'd on either wing, Under their head embodied all in one. Before him, pow'r divine his way prepar'd. At his command, th' uprooted hills retir'd Each to his place: they heard his voice, and went Obsequious. Heav'n his wonted face renew'd; And, with fresh flow'rets, hill and valley smil'd.— This saw his hapless foes, but stood obdur'd; And, now, to battle drew, disdaining flight, Or faint retreat: when the great Son of God, To all his host, on either hand, thus spoke. Stand still in bright array, ye saints; here stand,

Ye angels arm'd: this day from battle rest. Faithful hath been your warfare, and of God Accepted, fearless in his righteous cause: And, as ye have receiv'd, so have ye done, Invincibly. But of this cursed crew, The punishment to other hand belongs. Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints. Number to this day's work is not ordain'd, Nor multitude. Stand only, and behold God's indignation on these godless pour'd By me. Not you, but me, they have despis'd; Yet envied. Against me is all their rage; Because the Father, to whom, in heav'n, supreme Kingdom, and pow'r, and glory, appertain, Hath honor'd me according to his will. Therefore, to me their doom he hath assign'd; That they may have their wish, to try with me, In battle, which the stronger proves: they all, Or I alone against them; since by strength They measure all, of other excellence Not emulous, nor care who them excels: Nor other strife with them do I vouchsafe. So spoke the Son: and into terror chang'd His countenance, too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies. At once, the four spread out their starry wings, With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs Of his fierce chariot roll'd as with the sound Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. He, on his impious foes, right onward drove, Gloomy as night. Under his burning wheels The stedfast empyrean shook throughout, All but the throne itself of God. Full soon Among them he arriv'd; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in their souls infix'd Plagues. They, astonish'd, all resistance lost, All courage▪ down their idle weapons dropt: O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads, he rode, Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate, That wish'd the mountains, now, might be again Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire.

Nor less, on either side, tempestuous sell His arrows, from the fourfold-visag'd four Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels Distinct alike with multitude of eyes: One spirit in them rul'd; and every eye Glar'd lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among the accurs'd, that wither'd all their strength, And of their wonted vigor, left them drain'd, Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fall'n. Yet half his strength he put not forth; but check'd His thunder in mid volley: for he meant, Not to destroy, but root them out of heav'n. The overthrown he rais'd: and, as a herd Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, Drove them before him, thunder-struck, pursued With terrors, and with furies, to the bounds And crystal wall of heav'n; which opening wide, Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight Struck them with horror backward; but far worse Urg'd them behind. Headlong themselves they threw Down from the verge of heav'n: eternal wrath Burnt after them to the bottomless pit.

VIII. ALEXANDER's FEAST; or, The POWER of MU|SIC. An ODE for St. CICILIA's DAY.

'TWAS at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son— Aloft, in awful state, The god-like hero sat On his imperial throne. His valiant peers were plac'd around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound: So should desert in arms be crown'd. The lovely Thais by his side, Sat like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth, and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave, deserves the fair.

Timotheus plac'd on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heav'nly joys inspire.— The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above; (Such is the pow'r of mighty love!) A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god: Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia press'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god: Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung; Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young, The jolly god in triumph comes! Sound the trumpets; beat the drums: Flush'd with a purple grace, He shows his honest face. Now give the hautboys breath—he comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure, after pain.

Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heav'n and earth defy'd, Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride.—

He chose a mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius, great and good, By too severe a fate, Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, Fall'n from his high estate, And weltering in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos'd he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes.— With downcast look the joyless victor sat, Revolving, in his alter'd soul, The various turns of fate below; And, now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow.

The mighty master smil'd, to see That love was in the next degree: 'Twas but a kindred sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, his toil and trouble; Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee; Take the good the gods provide thee.— The many rend the skies with loud applause: So love was crown'd: but musick won the cause.— The prince unable to conceal his pain, Gaz'd on the fair Who caus'd his care, And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'••, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquish'd victor—sunk upon her breast.

Now, strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain:

Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark!—the horrid sound Has rais'd up his head, As awak'd from the dead; And, amaz'd, he stares around. Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries— See the furies arise! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And, unbury'd remain Inglorious on the plain. Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold! how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods!— The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy: Thais led the way, To light him to his prey; And, like another Helen—fir'd another Troy. Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage—or kindle soft desire. At last, divine Cicilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before▪ Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He rais'd a mortal to the skies; She threw an angel down.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The Elementary Lessons formerly prefixed to this and Part II. are now inserted at the end of the book, considerably enlarged.