The Pleasing instructor, or Entertaining moralist. Consisting of select essays, relations, visions, and allegories. / Collected from the most eminent English authors. ; To which are prefixed, new thoughts on education.

THE PLEASING INSTRUCTOR, OR ENTERTAINING MORALIST.

The Practice of VIRTUE recommended.

If Happiness 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your Pursuit, Plant Virtue—and Content's the Fruit. GAY.

WHEN Hercules, says the divine Prodicus, 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 desart, where the silence and solitude of the place very much favoured his meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed in himself on the state of life he should chuse, he saw two women of a larger size than ordinary approaching towards him. One of them had a very not|able air, and graceful deportment; her beauty was nat|ural and easy; her person clean and unspotted; her eyes cast towards the ground, with an agreeable reserve; her motion and behaviour full of modesty; and her raiment white as snow.—The other had a great deal of health and floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red, and endeavoured to ap|pear more graceful than ordinary in her mein, by a mix|ture

of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonder|ful confidence 〈…〉〈…〉 in her looks, and all the variety of colours 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dress, that she thought were the most proper to shew her complexion to advantage. She cast her eyes on herself, then turned them on ••hose 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 car|riage) and running up to him, accosted him in the fol|lowing manner.

My dear Hercules, (say 〈◊〉〈◊〉) I find you are very much divided in your own thoughts upon the way of life that you ought to chuse: ••e my friend, and follow me; I will lead you into 〈◊〉〈◊〉 possession of pleasure, and out 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 easy, and to enter|tain every sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptu|ous 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 farewell for ever to care, to pain, and to business.

Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desi|red 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 addressed herself to the young hero is a very different manner.

Hercules. (says she) I offer myself to you because I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent, by your love of virtue, and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will gain both for yourself and me an immortal reputa|tion. But before I invite you into my society and friend|ship, I will be open and sincere with you; and must lay down this as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 purchased without pains and labour. The gods ••ave•• set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favour 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 honoured by your country, you must take care to serve it. In short, if you would be em|inent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. These are the only terms and conditions upon which I can propose happi|ness. The goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her discourse: you see, (said she) Hercules, by her own con|fession, the way to her pleasure is long and difficult, whereas that which I propose is short and easy. Alas! (said the other lady, whose visage glowed with a passion made up of scorn and pity) what are the pleasures you propose? To eat before you are hungry, drink be|fore you are thirsty, sleep before you are tired, to gratify appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard the most de|licious 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 pleasure, while they are hoarding up anguish, torment, and remorse for old age.

As for me, I am the friend of the gods and of good men, an agreeable companion of the artisan, an house|hold guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, and an associate in all true and generous friendship. The banquets of my votaries are never 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 are 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 honoured by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, beloved by their acquaintances, esteemed by their country, and (after the close of their labours) honoured by posterity.

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 justice to ap|prove his choice.

I very much admire the speeches of these ladies, as containing in them the chief arguments for a life of vir|tue, or a life of pleasure, that could enter into the

thoughts of an Heathen; but am particularly pleased with the different figures he gives the two goddesses. Our modern authors have represented pleasure and vice with an alluring face, but ending in snakes and monsters. Here she appears in all the charms of beauty, though they are false and borrowed; and by that means compose a vision entirely natural and pleasing.

I have translated this allegory for the benefit of youth; and particularly of those who are still in the deplorable state of non-existence, and whom I most earnestly intreat to come into the world. Let my embrios shew the least inclination to any single virtue, and I shall allow it to be struggling towards birth. I do not expect of them, that, like the hero in the foregoing story, they should go about as soon as they are born, with a club in their hands, and a lion's skin on their shoulders, to root out monsters, and destroy tyrants: but as the finest author of all antiquity has said upon this very occasion, Though a man has not the abilities to distinguish himself in the most shining parts of a great character, he has certainly ••he capacity of being just, faithful, modest, and temperate.

On IDLENESS.

He who defers his work from day to day, Does on a river's brink expecting stay. 'Till the whole stream which stopp'd him should be gone, Which, as it runs, for ever will run on. Anon.

IDLENESS is so general a distemper, that I cannot but imagine a speculation on this subject will be of uni|versal use. There is hardly any one person without some alloy of it; and thousands besides myself spend more time in an idle uncertainty, whether of two affairs to begin first, than would have been sufficient to have ended them both. The occasion of this seems to be the want of some necessary employment to put the spirits in motion, and to awaken them out of their lethargy. If I had less leisure, I should have more; for I should then find time distinguished into portions, some for business, and others for the indulging of pleasures: but now one face of indolence overspreads the whole, and I have no land mark to direct myself by. Were one's time a little straitened by business, like water inclosed in its banks, it

would have some determined course; but unless it be put into some channel, it has no current, but becomes a del|uge without either use or motion.

When Scanderberg, Prince of Epirus, was dead, the Turks, who had but too often felt the force of his arm in the battles he had won from them, imagined, that by wear|ing a piece of his bones near their hearts, they should be animated with a vigour and force like that which inspired him when living. As I am like to be but of little use while I live, I am resolved to do what good I can after my decease; and have accordingly ordered my bones to be disposed of in this manner for the good of my country|men, who are troubled with too exorbitant a degree of fire. All fox-hunters, upon wearing me, would in a short time be brought to endure their bed in a morning, and perhaps even quit them with regret at ten: instead of hurrying away to teaze a poor animal, and run away from their own thoughts, a chair or a chariot would be thought the most desirable means of performing a remove from one place to another. I should be a cure for the unnatural desire of John 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for dancing, and a specific to lessen the inclination Mrs. Fidget has to motion, and cause her always to give her approbation to the present place she is in. In fine, no Egyptian Mummy was ever half so useful in physic, as I should be to those feverish constitutions, to repress the violent follies of youth, and to give to each action its proper weight and repose.

I can stifle any violent inclination, and oppose a torrent of anger, or the solicitations of revenge, with success. But indolence is a stream which flows slowly on, but yet undermines the foundation of every virtue. A vice of a more lively nature were a more desirable tyrant than this rust of the mind, which gives a tincture of its nature to every action of one's life. It were as little hazard to be tossed in a storm, as to lie thus perpetually becalmed: and it is to no purpose to have within one the seeds of a thousand good qualities, if we want the vigour and resolu|tion necessary for exerting them. Death brings all persons back to an equality; and this image of it, this slumber of the mind, leaves no difference between the greatest genius and the meanest understanding: a faculty of doing things remarkably praise worthy thus concealed, is of no more use to the owner than a heap of gold to a man who dares not use it.

To-morrow is still the fatal time when all is to be recti|fied: to-morrow comes, it goes, and still I please myself with the shadow whilst I lose the reality; unmindful that the present time alone is ours, the future is yet unborn, and the past is dead, and can only live (as parents in their children) in the actions it has produced.

The time we live ought not to be computed by the number of years, but by the use which has been made of it; thus, it is not the extent of ground, but the yearly rent which gives the value to the estate. Wretched and thoughtless creatures, in the only place where covetousness were a virtue, we turn prodigals! Nothing lies upon our hands with such uneasiness; nor has there been so many devices for any one thing, as to make it slide away imper|ceptibly and to no purpose. A shilling shall be hoarded up with care, whilst that which is above the price of an estate is flung away with disregard and contempt. There is nothing now a-days so much avoided as a solicitous improvement of every part of time; it is a report that must be shunned as one tenders the name of a wit and a fine genius, and as one fears the dreadful character of a laborious prodder: but notwithstanding this, the greatest wits any age has produced thought far otherwise; for who can think either Socrates or Demosthenes lost any repu|tation, by their continual pains both in overcoming the defects and improving the gifts of nature? All are ac|quainted with the labour and assiduity with which Tully acquired his eloquence. Seneca, in his letters to Lucilius, assures him, there was not a day in which he did not either write something, or read and epitomise some good author; and I remember Pliny, in one of his letters, where he gives an account of the various methods he used to fill up every vacancy of time, after several employments which he enumerates; sometimes, says he, I hunt; but even then I carry with me a pocket book, that whilst my servants are busied in disposing of the nets and other matters, I may be employed in something that may be useful to me in my studies; and that if I miss of my game, I may at least bring home some of my own thoughts with me, and not have the mortification of having caught nothing all day.

Thus, Sir, you see how many examples I recal to mind, and what arguments I use with myself to regain my liber|ty; but as I am afraid it is no ordinary persuasion that

will be of service, I shall expect your thoughts on this subject, with the greatest impatience, especially since the good will not be confined to me alone, but will be of universal use. For there are no hopes of amendment where men are pleased with their ruin, and whilst they think laziness is a desirable character: whether it be that they like the state itself, or that they think it gives them a new lustre when they do exert themselves, seemingly to be able to do that without labour and application which others attain not to but by the greatest diligence.

SIMON SLOW.

On spending TIME.

Time in advance behind him hides his wings, And seems to creep decr••pid with his age: Behold him when past by, what then is seen, But his broad pinions fleeter than the wind. YOUNG.

WE all of us complain of the shortness of time, saith Seneca, and yet have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives, says he, are spent either in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing to the purpose, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining our days are few, and acting as though there would be no end of them. That noble philosopher has described our inconsistency with ourselves in this particu|lar, by all those various turns of expression and thought which are peculiar to his writings.

I often consider mankind as wholly inconsistent with itself in a point that bears some affinity to the former. Though we seem grieved at the shortness of life in general, we are wishing every period of it at an end. The minor longs to be at age, then to be a man of business, then to make up an estate, then to arrive at honors, then to retire. Thus, although the whole of life is allowed by every one to be short, the several divisions of it appear to be long and tedious. We are for lengthening our span in general, but would fain contract the parts of which it is composed. The usurer would be very well satisfied to have all the time annihilated that lies between the present moment and next quarter day. The politician would be content to lose three years in his life, could he place things in the posture which he fancies they will stand in after such a

revolution of time. The lover would be glad to strike out of his existence all the moments that are to pass away before the happy meeting. Thus, as fast as our time runs, we should be very glad, in most part of our lives, that it ran much faster than it does. Several hours of the day hang upon our hands, nay, we wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements, or imaginary points of rest, which are dis|persed up and down in it.

If we divide the life of most men into twenty parts, we shall find that at least nineteen of them are mere gaps and chasms, which are neither filled with pleasure nor business. I do not, however, include in this calculation the life of those men who are in a perpetual hurry of affairs, but of those only who are not always engaged in scenes of action; and I hope I shall not do an unacceptable piece of service to those persons, if I point out to them certain methods for the filling up their empty spaces of life. The methods I shall propose to them are as follow:

The first is the exercise of virtue, in the most general acceptation of the word. That particular scheme which comprehends the social virtues, may give employment to the most industrious temper, and find a man more business than the most active station of life. To advise the igno|rant, relieve the needy, comfort the afflicted, are duties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives. A man has frequent opportunities of mitigating the fierceness of a party; of doing justice to the character of a deserving man; of softening the envious, quieting the angry, and rectifying the prejudiced; which are all of them employ|ments suited to a reasonable nature, and bring great satis|faction to the person who can busy himself in them with discretion.

There is another kind of virtue that may find employ|ment for those retired hours in which we are altogether left to ourselves, and destitute of company and conversa|tion: I mean that intercourse and communication which every reasonable creature ought to maintain with the great Author of his being. The man who lives under an habitual sense of the Divine presence, keeps up a per|petual cheerfulness of temper, and enjoys every moment

the satisfaction of thinking himself in company with his dearest and best of friends. The time never lies heavy upon him: it is impossible for him to be alone. His thoughts and passions are the most busied at such hours, when those of other men are the most inactive. He no sooner steps out of the world, but his heart burns with devotion, swells with hope, and triumphs in the conscious|ness of that presence which every where surrounds him: or, on the contrary, pours out its fears, its sorrows, its apprehensions, to the great Supporter of its existence.

I have here only considered the necessity of a man's being virtuous, that he may have something to do; but if I consider further, that the exercise of virtue is not only an amusement for the time it lasts, but that its influ|ence extends to those parts of our existence which lie beyond the grave; and that our whole eternity is to take its colour from those hours which we here employ in virtue or in vice, the argument redoubles upon us, for putting in practice this method of passing away our time.

When a man has but a little stock to improve, and has opportunities of turning it all to good account, what shall we think of him if he suffers nineteen parts of it to lie dead, and perhaps employs even the twentieth to his ruin or disadvantage? But because the mind cannot be always in its fervours, nor strained up to a pitch of virtue, it is necessary to find out proper employments for it in its relaxations.

The next method therefore that I would propose to fill up our time, should be useful and innocent diversion. I must confess I think it is below reasonable creatures to be altogether conversant in such diversions as are merely innocent, and have nothing else to recommend them; but that there is no hurt in them. Whether any kind of gaming has even thus much to say for itself, I shall not determine; but I think it is very wonderful to see persons of the best sense passing away a dozen of hours together in shu••tling and dividing a pack of cards, with no other conversation but what is made up of a few game phrases, and no other ideas but those of black or red spots ranged together in different figures. Would not a man laugh to hear any one of this species complaining that life is short!

The stage might be made a perpetual source of the most noble and useful entertainments, were it under proper regulations.

But the mind never unbends itself so agreeably as in the conversation of a well-chosen friend. There is indeed no blessing in life that is any way comparable to the enjoyment of a discreet and virtuous friend. It eases and unloads the mind, clears and improves the understanding, engenders thought and knowledge, animates virtue and good resolutions, sooths and allays the passions, and finds employment for most of the vacant hours of life.

Next to such an intimacy with a particular person, one would endeavour after a more general conversation with such as are capable of edifying and entertaining those with whom they converse, which are qualities that seldom go asunder.

There are many other useful amusements of life which one would endeavour to multiply, that one might, on all occasions, have recourse to something, rather than suffer the mind to lie idle, or run adrift with any passion that chances to arise in it.

A man that has a taste for music, painting, or architec|ture, is like one that has another sense, when compared with such as have no relish of those arts. The florist, the planter, the gardener, the husbandman, when they are only as accomplishments to the man of fortune, are great reliefs to a country life, and many ways useful to those who are possessed of them.

On the same SUBJECT.

Live well, and ther•• how soon soe'er you die, Thou art of age to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Eternity. RANDOLPH.

THE human species only, to the great reproach of our nature, are filled with complaints, that the day hangs heavy on 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 stiled reasonable beings. How monstrous are such expressions among creatures who have the labours of the mind, as well as those of the body, to furnish them with proper employment, who, besides the business of their respective callings and professions, can apply themselves to the duties of religion, to medita|tion, to the reading of useful books, and to discourse; i••

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 for some time been taken up with this course of thought, I diverted myself with a book, accord|ing 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 in his tribunal. On his left hand stood the keeper of Erebus, on his right hand the keeper of Elysium. I was told he sat judge on women that day, there being several of the sex lately arrived, who had not yet their mansions assigned them. I was surprised to hear him ask every one of them the same question, What they had been doing? Upon this question being proposed to the whole assembly, they stared upon one another, as not knowing what to answer. He then interrogated each of them separately. Madam, says he to the first of them, you have been upon the earth about fifty years: what have you been doing 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 she had been playing at crimp; upon which Rhadamanthus beckoned to the keeper on his left hand to take her into custody. And you, Madam, says the judge, who look with such a soft and languish|ing air, I think you set our 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 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? If it please your Worship, says she, I did not live quite forty years; and in that time brought my husband seven daugh|ters, made him nine thousand cheeses, and left my eldest

girl with him, to look after his house in my absence, and who I may venture to say is as pretty a house-wife as any in the country. Rhadamanthus smiled at the simplicity of the good woman, and ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her into 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, says 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 Rhadamanthus observing an ingenu|ous modesty in her countenance and behaviour, 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 sour look, presented herself next to the bar, and being asked what she had been doing? Truly, says she, I lived threescore and ten years in a very wicked world, and was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of young flirts, that I past most of my last years in condemning the follies of the times: I was every day blaming the silly conduct of the 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 not time to consider my own. Madam, says Rhadamanthus, be pleased to file off to the left, and make room for the venerable matron that stands behinds 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, interrogated her in the same form. To whom the matron replied, 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 endeavoured to bring up in every thing that was good. My eldest son is blessed 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. Rhadamanthus 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 van|ished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with blushes, and she appeared in full beauty. A young woman observ|ing, 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 who appeared at ••he bar. And being asked, what she had been doing the five and twenty years she had been in the world. I have endeavoured says she, ever since I came to years of discretion, to make myself lovely, and gain admirers. In order to 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 my time in bottling up May dew, inventing 〈◊〉〈◊〉 washes, mixing colours, cutting out patches, consisting my glass, suiting my complexion, tearing off my 〈◊〉〈◊〉, sinking my stays.—Rhadamanthus, without hearing her out, gave the sign to take her off. Upon the approach of the keeper of Erebus, her colour faded, her face puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person was 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 reception they would meet with, and withal was very apprehen|sive 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 wri|ting 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 a work that is vain and unprofitable.

I shall conclude with recommending to them the same short self-examination. If every one of them fre|quently lays his hand upon his heart, and considers 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 ac|tions, and encourage him when he is engaged in those

that 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.

On PRIDE.

If aught on earth th' immortal pow'rs deride, 'Tis surely this—the littleness of pride. Anon.

IF there be any thing which makes human nature ap|pear ridiculous to beings of superior faculties, it must be Pride. They know so well the vanity of those imag|inary perfections that swell the heart of man, and of those little supernumerary advantages, whether in birth, fortune, or title, which one man enjoys above another, that it must certainly very much astonish, if it does not very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed up, and valuing himself above his neighbours on any of these accounts, at the same time that he is obnoxious to all the common calamities of the species.

To set this thought in its true light, we shall fancy, if you please, that yonder mole-hill is inhabited by reason|able creatures, and that every pismire (his shape and way of life only excepted) is endowed with human passions. How should we smile to hear one give an account of the pedigrees, distinctions, and titles that reign amongst them! Observe how the whole swarm divide, and make way for the pismire that passes through them! You must under|stand he is an emmet of quality, and has better blood in his veins than any pismire in the mole-hill. Do you not see how sensible he is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the whole rabble of ants keep their distance? Here you may observe one placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a long row of laborers. He is the richest insect on this side the hillock: he has a walk of half a yard in length, and a quarter of an inch in breadth; he keeps one hundred menial servants, and has at least fifteen bar|ley corns in his granary. He is now chiding and enslav|ing the emmet that stands before him, and who, for all we can discover, is as good an emmet as himself.

But here comes an insect of figure: do not you take

notice of a little white straw that he carries in his mouth? That straw, you must understand, he would not part with for the longest tract about the mole-hill: did you but know what he has undergone to purchase it! See how the ants of all qualities and conditions swarm about him. Should this straw drop out of his mouth, you would see all this numerous circle of attendants follow the next that took it up, and leave the discarded insect, or run over his back to come at his successor.

If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the mole|hill, observe first the pismire that listens to the emmet on her left hand, at the same time she seems to turn away her head from him. He tells this poor infect that she is a goddess; that her eyes are brighter than the sun; that life and death are at her disposal. She believes him, and gives herself a thousand little airs upon it. Mark the vanity of the pismire on her left hand. She can scarce crawl with age; but you must know she values herself upon her birth; and, if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her reach. The little nimble coquette that is running along the side of her is a wit. She has broken many a pismire's heart. Do but observe what a drove of lovers are running after her.

We will here finish this imaginary scene; but first of all, to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that death comes down upon the mole-hill in the shape of a cock-sparrow, and picks up, without distinction, the pismire of quality, and his flatterers, the pismire of substance and his day-labourers, the white-straw officer and his sycophants, with all the goddesses, wits, and beauties of the mole-hill.

May we not imagine that beings of superior natures and perfections regard all the instances of pride and vanity among our own species in the same kind of view, when they take a survey of those who inhabit this earth; or, in the language of an ingenious French poet, of those pismires that people this heap of dirt, which human vanity has divided into climates and regions.

The BASKET-MAKER. A Peruvian Tale.

The Pride of Blood, or high Birth decried.

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow, The rest is all but leather and prunello. POPE.

IN the midst of that vast ocean, commonly called the South Sea, lie the islands of Solomon. In the centre of those lies one, not only distant from the rest, which are immensely scattered round it, but also larger beyond proportion. An ancestor of the Prince, who now reigns absolute in this central island, has, through a long des|cent of ages, entailed the name of Solomon's Islands on the whole, by the effect of that wisdom wherewith he had polished the manners of his people.

A descendant of one of the great men of this happy island, becoming a gentleman to so improved a degree as to despise the good qualities which had originally en|nobled his family, thought of nothing but how to sup|port and distinguish his dignity by the pride of an igno|rant mind, and a disposition abandoned to pleasure. He had a house on the sea side, where he spent great part of his time in hunting and fishing but found him|self at a loss in pursuit of those important diversions, by means of a long slip of marsh land, over grown with high reeds that lay between his house and the sea. Re|solving, at length, that it became not a man of his qual|ity to submit to restraint in his pleasures, for the ease and convenience of an obstinate mechanic; and having often endeavoured in vain to buy out the owner, who was an honest poor basket-maker, and whose livelihood depended on working up the flags of those reeds, in a manner peculiar to himself, the gentleman took advan|tage of a very high wind, and commanded his servants to burn down the barrier.

The basket-maker, who saw himself undone, com|plained of the oppression in terms more suited to his sense of the injury, than the respect due to the rank of the offender: and the reward this imprudence procured him, was the additional injustice of blows and reproach|es, and all kinds of insult and indignity.

There was but one way to a remedy, and he took it; for going to the capital with the marks of his hard usage upon him, he threw himself at the sect of the King, and

procured a citation for his oppressor's appearance; who, confessing the charge, proceeded to justify his behaviour by the poor man's unmindfulness of the submission due from the vulgar to gentlemen of rank and distinction.

But pray, replied the King, what distinction of rank had the grandfather of your father; when, being a cleaver of wood in the palace of my ancestors, he was raised from among those vulgar you speak of with such contempt, in reward of an instance he gave of his courage and loyalty in defence of his master? Yet his distinction was nobler than yours: it was the distinction of soul, not of birth; the superiority of worth, not of fortune! I am sorry I have a gentleman in my kingdom, who is base enough to be ignorant, that case and distinction of fortune were bestowed on him but to this end, that, being at rest from all cares of providing for himself, he might apply his heart, head, and hand for the public advantage of others.

Here the king, discontinuing his speech, fixed an eye of indignation on a sullen resentment of mein which he observed in the haughty offender, who muttered out his dislike of the encouragement this way of thinking must give to the commonalty, who, he said, were to be con|sidered as persons of no consequence, in comparison of men who were born to be honored. Where reflection is wanting, replied the King, with a smile of disdain, men must find their defects in the pain of their sufferings. Yarbuma, added he, turning to a captain of his galleys, strip the injured and the injurer; and conveying them to one of the most barbarous and remotest of the islands, set them ashore in the night, and leave them both to their fortune.

The place in which they were landed was a marsh: under cover of those flags the gentleman was in hopes to conceal himself, and give the slip to his companion, with whom he thought it a disgrace to be found: but the lights in the galley having given an alarm to the savages, a considerable body of them came down, and discovered in the morning, the two strangers in their hiding-place. Setting up a dismal yell, they surrounded them; and advancing nearer and nearer with a kind of clubs, seemed determined to dispatch them, without sense of hospitality or mercy.

Here the gentleman began to discover, that the supe|riority

of his blood was imaginary: for, between the consciousness of shame and cold, under the nakedness he had never been used to; a fear of the event from the fierceness of the savages' approach; and the want of an idea whereby to soften or divert their asperity, he fell behind the poor sharer of his calamity; and with an unsinewed, apprehensive, unmanly sneakingness of mein, gave up the post of honour, and made a leader of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 man whom he had thought it a disgrace to consider as a companion.

The basket-maker, on the contrary, to whom the pov|erty of his condition had made nakedness habitual; to whom a life of pain and mortification represented death as not dreadful; and whose remembrance of his skill in arts, of which these savages, were ignorant, gave him hopes of becoming safe, from demonstrating that he could be useful, moved with bolder and more open free|dom; and, having plucked a handful of the flags, sat down without emotion, and making signs that he would shew them something worthy of their attention, fell to work with smiles and noddings; while the savages drew near, and gazed with expectation of the consequence.

It was not long before he had wreathed a kind of cor|onet, of pretty workmanship; and rising with respect and fearfulness, approached the savage who appeared the chief, and placed it gently on his head; whose figure under this new ornament, so charmed and struck his followers, that they threw down all their clubs, and formed a dance of welcome and congratulation round the author of so prized a favour.

There was not one but shewed the marks of his impa|tience to be made as fine as his captain: so the poor basket-maker had his hands full of employment; and the savages observing one quite idle, while the other was so busy in their service, took up arms in behalf of natu|ral justice, and began to lay on arguments in favour of their purpose.

The basket-maker's pity now effaced the remembrance of his sufferings: so he arose and rescued his oppressor, by making signs that he was ignorant of the art; but might, if they thought fit, be usefully employed in wait|ing on the work, and fetching flags to his supply as fast as he should want them.

This proposition luckily fell in with a desire the sava|ges expressed to keep themselves at leisure, that they might crowd round, and mark the progress of a work they took such pleasure in. They left the gentleman, therefore, to his duty in the basket-maker's service; and considered him, from that time forward, as one who was, and ought to be treated as inferiour to their benefactor.

Men, wives, and children, from all corners of the island, came in droves for coronets; and, setting the gentleman to work to gather boughs and poles, made a fine hut to lodge the basket-maker; and brought down daily from the country such provisions as they lived upon themselves, taking care to offer the imagined ser|vant nothing till his master had done eating.

Three months reflection in this mortified condition, gave a new and just turn to our gentleman's improved ideas; insomuch, that, lying weeping, and awake, one night, he thus confessed his sentiments in favour of the basket-maker: I have been to blame, and wanted judg|ment to distinguish between accident and excellence. When I should have measured nature, I but looked to vanity. The preference which fortune gives is empty and imaginary; and I perceive, too late, that only things of use are naturally honourable. I am ashamed, when I compare my malice, to remember your humanity: but if the gods should please to call me to a••r possession of my rank and happiness, I would divide all with you in atonement for my justly punished arrogance.

He promised, and performed his promise: for the King, soon after, sent the Captain who had landed them, with presents to the savages; and ordered him to bring both back again. And it continues to this day a custom in that island, to degrade all gentlemen who can|not give a better reason for their pride, than that they were born to do nothing; and the word for this due punishment is, Send him to the basket-maker.

On TRUTH and SINCERITY.

I still shall hate that man as hell, Who this can think, and that can tell. FRANCIS.

TRUTH and reality have all the advantages of ap|pearance, and many more. If the shew of any

thing be good for any thing, I am sure sincerity is better 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have such a quality as he pretends to? For to counterfeit and dissemble, is to put on the appearance of some real ex|cellency. Now, the best way in the world for a man to seem to be any thing, is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides, that it is many times as troublesome to ma•••• good the pretence of a good quality, as to have it; and if a man has it not, it is ten to one but he is discovered to want it, and then all his pains and labour to seem to have it are lost. There is something unnatu|ral in painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and complexion.

It is hard to personate, and act a part long; for where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endea|vouring to return, and will peep out and betray herself one time or another. Therefore, if any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed, and then his goodness will appear to every body's satisfaction; so that upon all accounts sincerity is true wisdom. Partic|ularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many advantages over all the fine and artificial ways of dissim|ulation and deceit; it is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more secure way of dealing in the world; it has less of trouble and difficulty, of entangle|ment and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it; it is the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither in a strait line, and will hold out and last longest. The arts of deceit and cunning do continually grow weaker and less effectual and serviceable to those that use them; whereas integrity gains strength by use, and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do, to repose the greatest trust and confidence in him, which is an unspeakable ad|vantage in the business and affairs of life.

Truth is always consistent with itself, and needs noth|ing to help it out; it is always near at hand, and sits up|on our lips, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the rack, and one trick needs a great many more to make it good. It is like building upon a false founda|tion,

which continually stands in need of props to shore it up, and proves at last to be more chargeable than to have raised a substantial building at first upon a true and solid foundation; for sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is nothing hollow and unsound in it, and because it is plain and open, fears no discovery; of which the crafty man is always in danger, and when he thinks he walks in the dark, all his pretences are so transparent, that he that runs may read them: he is the last man that finds himself to be found out: and while he takes it for granted that he makes fools of others, he renders him|self ridiculous.

Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy dis|patch of business; it creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in a few words: it is like travelling in a plain beaten road, that commonly brings men sooner to their journey's end, than by ways in which they often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever con|venience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimu|lation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is per|petual, because it brings a man under an everlasting jea|lousy and suspicion; so that he is not believed when he speaks the truth, nor trusted when perhaps he means honestly. When a man hath once forfeited the reputa|tion of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood.

I have often thought, that God hath, in his great wisdom, hid from men of false and dishonest minds, the wonderful advantages of truth and integrity, to the pros|perity even of their worldly affairs; those men are so blinded by their covetousness and ambition, that they cannot look beyond a present advantage, no•• forbear to seize upon it, though by ways never so indirect; they cannot see so far as to the remotest consequences of a steady integrity, and the vast benefit and advantage which it will bring a man at last. Were but this sort of men wise and clear-sighted enough to discern this, they would be honest out of very knavery, not out of any love to honesty and virtue, but with a crafty design to promote and advance more effectually their own interests; and therefore the justice of the divine Providence hath hid

this truest point of wisdom from their eyes, that bad men might not be upon equal terms with the just and upright, and serve their own wicked designs by honest and lawful means.

Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and should never have occasion to converse more with mankind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it were then no great matter (speaking as to the concernments of this world) if a man spent his repu|tation all at once, and ventured it at one throw: but if he be to continue in the world, and would have the ad|vantage of conversation whilst he is in it, let him make use of truth and sincerity in all his words and actions; for nothing but this will last and hold out to the end: all other arts will fail; but truth and integrity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last.

On DEFAMATION.

All seems infected that th' infected spy, As all looks yellow to the jaundic'd eye. POPE

IT is a certain sign of an ill heart to be inclined to def|amation. They who are harmless and innocent, can have no gratification that way; but it ever arises from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 neglect of what is laudable in a man's self, and an impa|tience of seeing it in another. Else why should virtue provoke? Why should beauty displease in such a degree that a man given to scandal never lets the mention of either pass by him, without offering something to the diminution of it? A lady the other day at a visit, being attacked somewhat rudely by one, whose own character had been very roughly treated, answered a great deal of heat and intemperance very calmly, Good madam, spare me, who am none of your match; I speak ill of nobody, and it is a new thing for me to be spoken ill of. Little minds think fame consists in the number of votes they have on their side among the multitude; whereas it is really the insep|arable follower of good and worthy actions. Fame is as natural a follower of merit, as a shadow is of a body, it is true, when crowds press upon you, this shadow cannot be seen; but when they separate from around you, it will appear again. The lazy, the idle, and froward, are the

persons who are most pleased with the little tales which pass about the town, to the disadvantage of the rest of the world. Were it not for a pleasure of speaking ill, there are numbers of people who are too lazy to go out of their own houses, and too ill-natured to open their lips in con|versation. It was not a little diverting, the other day, to observe a lady reading a post-letter, and at these words, After all her airs, he has heard some story or other, and the match is broken off, give orders in the midst of her reading, Put to the horses. That a young woman of merit had miss|ed an advantageous settlement, was news not to be de|layed, lest some body else should have given her malicious acquaintance that satisfaction before her. The unwil|lingness to receive good tidings is a quality as insepara|ble from a scandal-bearer, as the readiness to divulge bad. But, alas! how wretchedly low and contemptible is that state of mind, that cannot be pleased but by what is the subject of lamentation. This temper has ever been in the highest degree odious to gallant spirits. The Persian soldier who was heard reviling Alexander the Great, was well admonished by his officer; "Sir, you are paid to fight against Alexander, and not to rail at him."

Cicero, in one of his pleadings, defended his client from general scandal, says very handsomely, and with much reason,

There are many who have particular engage|ments to the prosecutor: there are many who are known to have ill-will to him for whom I appear: there are many who are naturally addicted to defamation, and envious of any good to any man, who may have con|tributed to spread reports of this kind: for nothing is so swift as scandal, nothing is more easily sent abroad, nothing received with more welcome, nothing diffuses itself so universally. I shall not desire, that if any report to our disadvantage has any ground for it, you will overlook, or extenuate it: but if there be any thing advanced by a person, who cannot say whence he had it; or which is attested by one who forgot who told him it; or who had it from one of so little consideration, that ••e did not then think it worth his notice; all such testimonies as these, I know you will think too slight to have any credit against the innocence and honor of your fellow citizen.

When an ill report is traced, it very seldom vanishes among such as the orator has here

recited. And how despicable a creature must that be, who is in pain for what passes among so frivolous a people.

There is a town in Warwickshire of good note, and form|erly pretty famous for much animosity and dissention, the chief families of which have now turned all their whispers, back bitings, envy, and private malice into mirth and entertainment, by means of a peevish old gentlewo|man, known by the title of Lady Bluemantle. This heroine has for many years together out done the whole sisterhood of gossips in invention, quick utterance, and unprovoked malice. This good body is of a lasting constitution, though extremely decayed in her eyes, and decrepid in her feet. The two circumstances of being always at home from her lameness, and very attentive from her blindness, make her lodgings the receptacle of all that passes in town, good or bad; but for the latter, she seems to have the better memory. There is another thing to be noted of her, which is, that as it is usual with old people, she has a livelier memory of things which passed when she was very young, than of late years. Add to all this, that she not only does not love any body, but she hates every body. The statue in Rome does not serve to vent malice half so well, as this old lady does to disappoint it. She does not know the author of any thing that is told her; but can readily repeat the matter itself; therefore, though she exposes the whole town, she offends no body in it. She is so exquisitely restless and peevish, that she quarrels with all about her, and sometimes, in a freak, will instantly change her habitation. To indulge this humour, she is led about the grounds belonging to the same house she is in, and the persons to whom she is to remove, being in the plot, are ready to receive her at her own chamber again. At stated times the gentle woman at whose house she supposes she is at the time, is sent for to quarrel with, according to her common custom. When they have a mind to drive the jest, she is immediately urged to that degree, that she will board in a family with which she has never yet been; and away she will go this instant, and tell them all that the rest have been saying of them. By this means she has been an inhabitant of every house in the place; without stirring from the same habitation; and the many stories which every body furnish her with to favour that deceit, make her the general intelligencer of the

town of all that can be said by one woman against another. Thus, groundless stories die away, and sometimes truths are smothered under the general word; when they have a mind to discountenance a thing, "Oh! that is in my Lady Bluemantle's memoirs."

Whoever receives impressions to the disadvantage of others without examination, is to be had in no other credit for intelligence than this good Lady Bluemantle, who is subjected to have her ears imposed upon for want of other helps to better information. Add to this, that other scandal-bearers suspend the use of those faculties which she has lost, rather than apply them to do justice to their neighbours; and I think, for the service of my fair readers, to acquaint them, that there is a voluntary Lady Bluemantle at every visit in town.

On CALUMNY and REPROACH.

Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: But he who filches from me my good name, Robs me of that Which not enriches him, But makes me poor indeed.— SHAKESPEAR.

WERE all the vexations of life put together, we should find, that a great part of them proceed from those calumnies and reproaches which we spread abroad con|cerning one another.

There is scarce a man living who is not, in some degree, guilty of this offence; though, at the same time, however we treat one another, it must be confessed, that we all consent in speaking ill of the persons who are notorious in this practice. It generally takes its rise either from an ill will to mankind, a private inclination to make ourselves esteemed, an ostentation of wit, a vanity of being thought in the secrets of the world, or from a desire of gratifying any of these dispositions of mind in those persons with whom we converse.

The publisher of scandal is more or less odious to man|kind, and criminal in himself, as he is influenced by any one or more of the foregoing motives. But whatever may be the occasion of spreading these false reports, he ought to consider, that the effect of them is equally preju|dicial

and pernicious to the person at whom they are aimed. The injury is the same, though the principle from whence it proceeds may be different.

As every one looks upon himself with too much indul|gence when he passes a judgment on his own thoughts of actions; and as very few would be thought guilty of this abominable proceeding, which is so universally practised, and, at the same time, so universally blamed, I shall lay down three rules, by which I would have a man examine and search into his own heart, before he stands acquitted to himself of that evil disposition of mind which I am here mentioning.

First, Let him consider whether he does not take de|light in hearing the faults of others.

Secondly, Whether he is not too apt to believe such lit|tle blackening accounts, and more inclined to be cred|ulous on the uncharitable than on the good natured side.

Thirdly, Whether he is not ready to spread and propa|gate such reports as tend to the disreputation of another.

These are the several steps by which this vice proceeds, and grows up into slander and defamation.

In the first place, a man who takes delight in hearing the faults of others, shews sufficiently that he has a true relish of scandal, and consequently the seeds of this vice within him. If his mind is gratified with hearing the reproaches which are cast on others, he will find the same pleasure in relating them, and be the more apt to do it, as he will naturally imagine every one he conver|ses with is delighted in the same manner with himself. A man should endeavour therefore to wear out of his mind this criminal curiosity, which is perpetually heigh|tened and inflamed by listening to such stories as tend to the disreputation of others.

In the second place, a man should consult his own heart, whether he is not apt to believe such little black|ening accounts; and more inclined to be credulous on the uncharitable, than on the good-natured side.

Such a credulity is very vicious in itself, and generally arises from a man's consciousness of his own secret cor|ruptions. It is a pretty saying of Thales, Falsehood is just as far distant from truth, as the ears are from the eyes. By which he would intimate, that a wise man

should not easily give credit to the reports of actions which he has not seen. I shall, under this head, mention two or three remarkable rules to be observed by the members of the celebrated Abbe de la Trappe, as they are published in a little French book.

The fathers are there ordered, never to give an ear to any accounts of base or criminal actions; to turn off all such discourse if possible; but in case they hear any thing of this nature so well attested that they cannot disbelieve it, they are then to suppose that the criminal actions may have proceeded from a good intention in him who is guilty of it. This is perhaps carrying chari|ty to an extravagance; but it is certainly much more lau|dable, than to suppose, as the ill-natured part of the world does, that indifferent and even good actions pro|ceed from bad principles and wrong intentions.

In the third place, a man should examine his heart, whether he does not find in it a secret inclination to propagate such reports as tend to the disrepuation of another.

When the disease of the mind, which I have hitherto been speaking of, arises to this degree of malignity, it discovers itself in its worst symptoms, and is in danger of becoming incurable. I need not therefore insist upon the guilt in this last particular, which every one cannot but disapprove, who is not void of humanity, or even common discretion; I shall only add, whatever pleasure any man may take in spreading whispers of this nature, he will find an infinitely greater satisfaction in conquer|ing the temptation he is under, by letting the secret die within his own breast.

On CHEERFULNESS.

—I look on cheerfulness, As on the health of virtue. YOUNG.

I HAVE always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as an act, the former as an habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient; cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the great|est depressions of melancholy. On the contrary, cheer|fulness,

though it does not give the mind such an exqui|site gladness, prevents us from falling into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.

Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion have observed, that the sacred Person, who was the great pattern of perfection, was never seen to laugh.

Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these ex|ceptions: it is of a serious and composed nature, it does not throw the mind into a condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very conspicuous in the character of those who are looked upon as the greatest philosophers among the heathens, as well as among those who have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians.

If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself on each of those accounts. The man who is possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and fac|ulties of his soul: his imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed: his temper is even and un|ruffled, whether in action or solitude: He comes with a relish of all those goods which nature has provided for him, tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are poured about him, and does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befal him.

If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same good humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself pleased, he does not know why, with the cheer|fulness of his companions: it is like a sudden sun-shine that awakens a secret delight in the mind without attend|ing to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and

naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence to|wards the person who has so kindly an effect upon it.

When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual gratitude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheerfulness is an implicit praise and thanksgiv|ing to Providence under its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation of the divine will in his conduct to|wards man.

There are but two things, which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no title to that evenness and tranquillity of mind, which is the health of the soul, and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and as many degrees be|yond what we commonly call folly and madness.

Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of the supreme Being, and consequently of a future state, under what|soever title it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of his cheerfulness of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to hu|man nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I can|not but wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to out-live the expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in eve|ry occurrence, and in every thought. If we look into the character of this tribe of infidels, we generally find, they are made up of pride, spleen, and cavil. It is in|deed no wonder, that men, who are uneasy to themselves, should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it pos|sible for a man to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, when he is in danger every moment of losing his entire existence, and dropping into nothing!

The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no pre|tence to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably, should they endeavour at it. It is impossible for any one to live in good humour, and enjoy his present exist|ence, who is apprehensive either of torment, or annihila|tion; of being miserable, or of not being at all.

After having mentioned these two great principles which are destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old age, nay death itself, considering the shortness of their duration, and the advantage we may 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with patience, and with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tem|pest, does not discompose him, who is sure it will bring him to a joyful harbour.

A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of virtue and right reason, has two per|petual sources of cheerfulness; in the consideration of his own nature, and of that Being on whom he has a de|pendence. If he look into himself, he cannot but re|joice in that existence, which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after millions of ages, will be still new, and still in its beginning. How many self-congratula|tions naturally arise in the mind when it reflects on this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those improveable faculties, which in a few years, and even at his first setting out, have made so considerable a prog|ress and which will be still receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of happiness! The consciousness of such a Being spreads a perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.

The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, is its consideration of that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we behold him, as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, or amiable. We find ourselves every where upheld by his goodness, and surrounded with an immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a Being, whose power qualifies him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose goodness and truth engage him to make tho 〈◊〉〈◊〉 happy who desire it of him, and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all eternity.

Such considerations, which every one should perpetually

cherish in his thoughts, will banish from us all that se|cret heaviness of heart, which unthinking men are sub|ject to when they lie under no real affliction; all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses us, to which I may likewise add, those little cracklings of mirth and folly that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in us such an even and cheerful temper, as will make us pleasing to ourselves, to those with whom we converse, and to him whom we were made to please.

The advantage of CHEERFULNESS.

Nor fell despair, nor noise invades the ear; But all serene and placid does appear. Anon.

CHEERFULNESS is, in the first place, the best promoter of health. Repinings, 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 ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbed motions which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce remember; in my own observations, 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 indo|lence in their humour, 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 cheerful|ness, 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. But having already touch|ed on this last consideration, I shall here take notice, that the world in which we are placed is filled with innumer|able objects, that are proper to raise and keep alive this happy temper of mind.

If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one would think it was made for our use; but if we con|sider

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 produces 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 appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as refreshing to the im|agination, 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 colour, 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 colouring. A fa|mous modern philosopher accounts for it in the follow|ing manner: all colours that are more luminous, over|power and dissipate the animal spirits which are employ|ed in sight; on the contrary, those that are more ob|scure, do not give the animal spirits a sufficient exercise; whereas the rays that produce in us the idea of green, ••all 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 colour the epithet of cheerful.

To consider farther 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 beau|tiful. These are the seeds by which the several races of plants are propagated and continued, and which are al|ways lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in ma|••ing the earth gay and delightful, while she is carrying 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her great work, and intent upon her own preserva|tion. The husbandman, after the same manner, is em|ployed in laying out the whole country into a kind of

garden or landscape, and making every thing 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 capa|ble of conceiving delight from several objects which seem to have very little use in them; as from the wildness of rocks and desarts, 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 Provi|dence given it a power of producing in us impressions of such imaginary qualities as tastes and colours, sounds and smells, heat and cold; but that man, while he is conversant in the lower stations of nature, might have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensa|tions? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre, filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amuse|ment, or admiration.

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 nature, 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, conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, because I would only take notice of such incitements to a cheerful temper as offer themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently shew us, that Providence did not design this 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 itself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French Novelist, in opposition to those who begin their romances with the flowery season of the year enters on his story,

thus: In the gloomy month of November, when the people of England hang and drown themselves, a disconsolate lover walked out into the fields, &c.

Every one ought to fence against the temper of his cli|mate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself 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 an 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 amidst the entertainments that are provided for us; but these if rightly considered, should be far from overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper, which I have been recommending. This interspersion 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 went 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 evermore.

On HAPPINESS.

Know then this truth—enough for man to know, Virtue alone is happiness below. POPE.

I OUGHT hourly to be looking up with gratitude and praise to the Creator of my being, for having formed me of a disposition that throws off every particle of spleen, and either directs my attention to objects of cheerfulness and joy, or enables me to look upon their contraries as I do on shades in a picture, which add force to the lights, and beauty to the whole. With this hap|piness of constitution I can behold the luxury of the

times, as giving food and clothing to the hungry and the naked; extending our commerce, and promoting and encouraging the liberal arts. I can look upon the horrors of war, as productive of the blessings and enjoy|ments of peace; and upon the miseries of mankind, which I cannot relieve, with a thankful heart that my own lot has been more favourable.

There is a passage in that truly original poem, called the Spleen, which pleases me more than almost any thing I have read. The passage is this:

Happy the man who innocent, Grieves not at ills be can't prevent; His skiff does with the current glide, Nor puffing pull'd against the tide: He, paddling by the scuffling crowd, Sees unconcern'd life's wager row'd; And when he can't prevent foul play, Enjoys the follies of the fray.

The laughing philosopher has always appeared to me a more eligible character than the weeping one: but be|fore I sit down either to laugh or to cry at the follies of mankind, as I have publicly enlisted myself in their ser|vice, it becomes me to administer every thing in my power to relieve or cure them. For this purpose I shall here lay before my readers some loose hints on a subject, which will, I hope, excite their attention, and contribute towards the expelling from the heart those malignant and sullen humours, which destroy the harmony of social life.

If we make observations on human nature, either from what we feel in ourselves, or see in others, we shall per|ceive that almost all the uneasinesses of mankind owe their rise to inactivity or idleness of body or mind. A free and brisk circulation of the blood is abso|lutely necessary towards the creating easiness and good humour; and is the only means of securing us from a restless train of idle thoughts, which cannot fail to make us burthensome to ourselves, and dissatisfied with all about us.

Providence has therefore wisely provided for the gener|ality of mankind, by compelling them to use that labour which not only procures them the necessaries of life, but peace and health to enjoy them with delight. Nay far|ther,

we find how essentially necessary it is that the greatest part of mankind should be obliged to earn their bread by labour, from the ill use that is almost universally made of those riches which exempt men from it. Even the advantages of the best education are generally found to be insufficient to keep us within the limits of reason and moderation. How hard do the very best of men find it, to force upon themselves that abstinence or labour which the narrowness of their circumstances does not immediately compel them to? Is there really one in ten, who, by all the advantages of wealth and leisure, is made more happy in respect to himself, or more useful to mankind? What numbers do we daily see of such per|sons, either rioting in luxury, or sleeping in sloth, for one who makes a proper use of the advantages which riches give for the improvement of himself, or the hap|piness of others! And how many do we meet with, who, for their abuse of the blessings of life, are given up to perpetual uneasiness of mind, and to the greatest agonies of bodily pain?

Whoever seriously considers this point, will discover, that riches are by no means such certain blessings as the poor imagine them to be: on the contrary, he will per|ceive, that the common labours and employments of life are much better suited to the majority of mankind, than prosperity and abundance would be without them.

It was a merciful sentence which the Creator passed on man for his disobedience, By the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat thy bread; for to the punishment itself he stands indebted for health, strength, and all the enjoyments of life. Though the first paradise was forfeited for his transgres|sion, yet by the penalty inflicted for that transgression the earth is made into a paradise again, in the beautiful fields and gardens which we see daily produced by the labour of man.

And though the ground was pronounced cursed for his disobedience, yet is that curse so ordered, as to be the punishment, chiefly and almost solely of th••se, who, by intemperance or sloth, inflict it upon themselves.

Even from the wants and weaknesses of mankind are the bonds of mutual support and affection derived. The necessities of each, which no man himself can sufficiently supply, compel him to contribute towards the benefit of others; and while he labours only for his own advantage, he is promoting the universal good of all around him.

Health is the blessing that every one wishes to enjoy; but the multitude are so unreasonable, as to desire to purchase it at a cheaper rate than it is to be obtained. The continuance of it is only to be secured by exercise or labour. But the misfortune is, that the poor are too apt to overlook their own enjoyments, and to view with envy the ease and affluence of their superiors, not considering that the usual attendants upon great fortunes are anxiety and disease.

If it be true, that those persons are the happiest who have the fewest wants, the rich man is more the object of compassion than envy. However moderate his inclina|tions may be, the custom of the world lays him under a kind of necessity of living up to his fortune. He must be surrounded by an useless train of servants: his appetite must be palled with plenty, and his peace invaded by crowds. He must give up the pleasures and endearments of domestic life, to be the slave and party of faction. Or, if the goodness of his heart should incline him to acts of humanity and benevolence, he will have the frequent mortification of seeing his charities ill bestowed; and by his inability to relieve all, the constant one of making more enemies by his refusals, than friends by his benefac|tions. If we add to these considerations a truth, which I believe few persons will dispute, namely, that the greatest fortunes, by adding to the wants of their possessors, usually render them the most necessitous of men, we shall find greatness and happiness to be at a wide distance from one another. If we carry our inquiries still higher; if we examine into the state of a King, and even enthrone him, like our own, in the hearts of his people; if the life of a father be a life of care and anxiety, to be the father of a people is a pre-eminence to be honored, but not envied.

This happiness of life is, I believe, generally to be found in those stations, which neither totally subject men to labour, nor absolutely exempt them from it. Power is the parent of disquietude, ambition of disappointment, and riches of disease.

I will conclude these reflections with the following fable:

Labour, the offspring of want, and the mother of Health and Contentment, lived with her two daughters in a little cottage by the side of a hill, at a great distance from town. They were totally unacquainted with

the great, and had kept no better company than the neighbouring villagers: but having a desire of seeing the world, they forsook their companions and habita|tion, and determined to travel. Labour went soberly along the road, with Health on her right hand, who, by the sprightliness of her conversation, and songs of cheerfulness and joy, softened the toils of the way; while Contentment went smiling on the left, supporting the steps of her mother, and, by her perpetual good humour, increasing the vivacity of her sister.

In this manner they travelled over forests, and through towns and villages, till at last they arrived at the capital of the kingdom. At their entrance into the great city, the mother conjured her daughters never to lose fight of her; for it was the will of Jupiter, she said, that their separation should be attended with the utter ruin of all three; but Health was of too gay a disposi|tion to regard the counsels of Labour: she suffered her|self to be debauched by Intemperance, and at last died in childbed of Disease. Contentment, in the absence of her sister, gave herself up to the enticements of Sloth, and was never heard of after: while Labour, who could have no enjoyment without her daughters, went every where in search of them, till she was at last seized by a lassitude in her way, and died in misery.

The Art of HAPPINESS.

Love, hope, and joy—fair pleasure's smiling train; Hate, fear, and grief—the family of pain. POPE.

A GOOD temper is one of the principal ingredients of happiness. This, it will be said, is the work of nature, and must be born with us: and so in a good measure it is; yet oftentimes it may be acquired with art, and always improved by culture. Almost every ob|ject that attracts our notice, has its bright and its dark side: he that habituates himself to look at the displeasing side, will ••our his disposition, and consequently impart his happiness; while he who constantly beholds it on the bright side, insensibly meliorates his temper, and in consequence of it, improves his own happiness, and the happiness of all about him.

Arachne and Melissa are two friends. They are both of them women in years, and alike in birth, fortune, edu|cation, and accomplishments. They were originally alike in temper too; but by different management are grown the reverse of each other. Arachne has accustom|ed herself to look only on the dark side of every object. If a new play or poem makes its appearance, with a thou|sand brilliancies, and but one or two blemishes, she slightly skims, over the passages that should give her pleasure, and dwells upon those only that fill her with dislike. If you shew her a very excellent portrait, she looks at some part of the drapery that has been neglected, or to a hand or finger which has been left unfinished. Her garden is a very beautiful one, and kept with great neatness and elegance; but if you take a walk with her into it, she talks to you of nothing but blights and storms, of snails and catterpillars, and how impossible it is to keep it from the litter of falling leaves, and worm casts. If you sit down in one of her temples, to enjoy a delight|ful prospect, she observes to you, that there is too much wood, or too little water; that the day is too sunny, or too gloomy; that it is sultry or windy; and finishes with a long harangue upon the wretchedness of our climate. When you return with her to the company, in hopes of a cheerful conversation, she casts a gloom over all, by giving you the history of her own bad health, or of some melancholy accident that has befallen one of her daughter's children. Thus, she insensibly sinks her own spirits, and the spirits of all around her, and at last discovers, she knows not why, that her friends are grave.

Melissa is the reverse of all this. By constantly habit|uating herself to look only on the bright side of objects, she preserves a perpetual cheerfulness in herself, which, by a kind of happy contagion, she communicates to all about her. If any misfortune has befallen her, she con|siders it might have been worse, and is thankful to Prov|idence for an escape. She rejoices in solitude, as it gives her an opportunity of knowing herself; and in society, because she can communicate the happiness she enjoys. She opposes every man's virtues to his failings, and can find out something to cherish and applaud in the very worst of her acquaintance. She opens every book with a desire to be entertained or instructed, and therefore sel|dom

misses what she looks for. Walk with her, though it he but on a heath or a common, and she will discover numberless beauties unobserved before in the hills, the dales, the brooks, brakes, and the variegated flowers of weeds and poppies. She enjoys every change of weather and of season, as bringing with it something of health or convenience. In conversation, it is a rule with her, never to start a subject that leads to any thing gloomy o•• disagreeable; you therefore never hear her repeating her own grievances, or those of her neighbours, or (what is worst of all) their faults and imperfections. If any thing of the latter kind be mentioned in her hearing, she has the address to turn it into entertainment, by changing the most odious railing into pleasant raillery. Thus Melissa like the bee, gathers honey from every weed; while Arachne, like the spider, sucks poison from the fairest flowers. The consequence is, that of two tempers, once very nearly allied, the one is for ever sour and dissatisfied, the other always gay and cheerful: the one spreads an universal gloom; the other a continual sunshine.

There is nothing more worthy of our attention th•••• this art of happiness. In conversation as well as life, happiness very often depends upon the slightest inci|dents. The taking notice of the badness of the weather, a north-east wind, the approach of winter or any trifling circumstance of the disagreeable kind, shall insensibly rob a whole company of its good humour, and fling every member of it into the vapours. If, therefore, we would be happy in ourselves, and are desirous of communica|ting that happiness to all about us, these minutiae of con|versation ought carefully to be attended to. The bright|ness of the sky, the lengthening of the days, the increa|sing verdure of the spring, the arrival of any little piece of good news, or whatever carries with it the most distant glimpse of joy, shall frequently be the parent of a social and happy conversation. Good manners exact from us this regard for our company. The clown may repine at the sunshine that ripens his harvest, because his turnips are burnt up by it; but the man of refinement will ex|tract pleasure from the thunder storm to which he is ex|posed, by remarking on the plenty and refreshment which may be expected from such a shower.

That does good manners, as well as good sense, direct

us to look at every object on the bright side; and by thus acting, we cherish and improve both the one and the other. By this practice it is that Melissa is become the wisest and the best-bred woman living; and by this prac|tice may every man and woman arrive at that easy benev|olence of temper, which the world calls Good Nature, and the scripture Charity, whose natural and never-Fail|ing fruit is Happiness.

On the INFLUENCE of INNOCENCE and HONOUR.

When innocence and beauty both combine, What soul but melts?—Their force is all divine. Anon.

A FRENCH author, giving an account of a very agreeable man, in whose character he mingles good qualities and infirmities, rather than vices and virtues, tells the following story:

"Our author, says he, was pretty much addicted to the most fashionable of all faults. He had a loose rogue for a lacquey, not a little in his favour, though he had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 other name for him when he spoke of him but the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, or to him but Sirrah. One morning when he was dressing, Sirrah, says he, be sure you bring home this evening a pretty wench. The fellow was a person of diligence and capacity, and had for some time addressed himself to a decayed old gentlewoman, who had a young maiden to her daughter, beauteous as an angel, not sixteen years of age. The mother's extreme poverty, and the insinuations of this artful lacquey, concerning the soft disposition, and generosity of his master, made her consent to deliver up her daughter. But many were the intreaties and representations of the mother to gain the child's consent•••••• an action, which she said, she ab|horred, at the same time she exhorted her to it▪ but, child, says she, can you see your mother die for hunger? The virgin argued no longer, but bursting into tears, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 she would go any where. The lacquey conveyed her with great obsequiousness and secrecy 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his master's lodging, and placed her in a commodious apartment till he came home. The Knight, who knew his man never failed of bringing in his prey, indulged his genius at a banquet, and was in high humour at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 entertain|ment

with ladies, expecting to be, received in the even|ing by one as agreeable as the best of them. When he came home, his lacquey met him with a saucy and joy|ful familiarity, crying out. She is as handsome as an angel, (for there is no other simile on these occasions) but the tender fool has wept till her eyes are swelled and bloated; for she is a maid and a gentlewoman. With that he conducted his master to the room where she was, and retired. The Knight, when he saw her bathed in tears, said in some surprize, Do you not know, young woman, why you are brought hither? The unhappy maid fell on her knees, and with many interruptions of sighs and tears said to him, I know, alas! too well, why I am brought hither: my mother, to get bread for her and myself, has sent me to do what you pleased; but I wish it would please Heaven I could die, before I am added to the number of those miserable wretches who live without honour! With this reflection she wept anew, and beat her bosom. The Knight, stepping back from her, said, I am not so abandoned as to hurt your innocence against your will.

"The novelty of this accident surprised him into vir|tue; and covering the young maid with a cloak, he led her to a relation's house, to whose care he recommended her for that night. The next morning he sent for her mother, and asked her if her daughter was a maid? The mother assured him, that when she delivered her to his servant, she was a stranger to man. Are you not then, replied the Knight, a wicked woman, to contrive the debauchery of your own child? She held down her face with fear and shame, and in her confusion uttered some broken words concerning her poverty. To your shame be it, said the gentleman, that you should relieve your|self from want by a much greater evil: your daughter is a fine young creature; do you know of none that ever spoke of her for a wife? The mother answered, There is an honest man in the neighbourhood that loves her, who has often said he would marry her with two hundred pounds. The Knight ordered his man to reckon out that sum, with an addition of fifty to buy the bride clothes, and fifty more as an help to her mother."

I appeal to all the gallants in town, whether possessing all the beauties in Great Britain could give half the plea|sure

that this young gentleman had in the reflection of having relieved a miserable parent from guilt and pov|erty, an innocent virgin from public shame, and bestow|ing a virtuous wife upon an honest man.

INGRATITUDE punished. An Eastern Tale.

He that's ungrateful has no fault but one, All other crimes may pass for virtues in him. YOUNG.

A DERVISE, venerable by his age, fell ill in the house of a woman who had been long a widow, and lived in extreme poverty in the suburbs of Balsora. He was so touched with the care and zeal with which she assisted him, that at his departure he said to her, I have remarked that you have wherewith to subsist alone, but that you have not subsistence enough to share it with your only son the young Abdallah. If you will trust him to my care, I will endeavour to acknowledge, in his person, the obligations. I have to you for your care of me. The good woman received this proposal with joy; and the Dervise departed with the young man, advertising her, that they must perform a journey which would last near two years. As they travelled, he kept him in affluence, gave him excellent instructions, cured him of a danger|ous disease with which he was attacked; in fine, he took the same care of him as if he had been his own son. Abdallah a hundred times testified his gratitude to him for all his bounties; but the old man always answered,

My son, it is by actions that gratitude is proved; we shall see, in a proper time and place, whether you are so grateful as you pretend.

One day, as they continued their travels, they found themselves in a solitary place, and the Dervise said to Abdallah,

My son, we are now at the end of our jour|ney; I shall employ my prayers to obtain from heaven, that the earth may open and make an entrance wide enough to permit thee to descend into a place, where thou wilt find one of the greatest treasures that the earth incloses in her bowels. Hast thou courage to descend into this subterraneous vault?

continued he, Abdallah swore to him, he might depend upon his obe|dience and zeal. Then the Dervise lighted a small fire.

into which he cast a perfume: he read and prayed for some moments, after which the earth opened, and the Dervise said to him,

Thou mayest now enter, my dear Abdallah; remember that it is in thy power to do me a great service; and that this is, perhaps, the only op|portunity tha•• canst ever have of testifying to me that thou art not ungrateful: do not let thyself be dazzled by all the riches thou wilt find there; think only of seizing upon an iron candlestick with twelve branches, which thou wilt find close to a door, that is absolutely necessary to me; come up immediately, and bring it to me.

—Abdallah promised every thing, and de|scended boldly into the vault. But forgetting what had been expressly recommended to him, whilst he was filling his vest and his bosom with gold and jewels, which this subterraneous vault inclosed in prodigious heaps, the opening by which he entered closed of itself. He had, however, presence of mind enough to seize upon the iron candlestick, which the Dervise had so strongly recommended to him; and though the situation he was in was very terrible, he did not abandon himself to des|pair; and thinking only in what manner he should get out of a place which might become his grave, he thought that the vault had closed only because he had not follow|ed the order of the Dervise; he recalled to his memory the care and goodness he had loaded him with; reproach|ed himself with his ingratitude, and finished his medita|tion by humbling himself before God. At length, after much pains and inquietude, he was fortunate enough to find a narrow passage which led him out of this obscure cave•• though it was not till he had followed it a consid|erable way, that ••e perceived a small opening covered with briars and thorns, through which he returned to the light of the sun. He looked on all sides, to see if he could perceive the Dervise, but in vain; he designed to deliver to him the iron candlestick he so much wished for, and formed a design of quitting him, being rich enough with what he had taken out of the cavern, to live in affluence without his assistance.

Not perceiving the Dervise, nor remembering any of the places through which he had passed, he went on as fortune had directed him, and was extremely astonished to find himself opposite to his mother's house, which

he imagined he was at a great distance from. She imme|diately inquired after the holy Dervise. Abdallah told her frankly what had happened to him, and the danger he had run to satisfy his unrea••onable desires; he after|wards shewed her the riches with which he was loaded. His mother concluded, upon the sight of them, that the Der|vise only designed to make trial of his courage and obedi|ence, and that they ought to make use of the happiness which fortune had presented to them; adding, that doubtless such was the intention of the holy Dervise. While they contemplated upon these treasures with avid|ity; while they were dazzled with the lustre of them, and formed a thousand projects in consequence of them, they all vanished away before their eyes. It was then that Abdallah sincerely reproached himself for his ingrat|itude and disobedience; and perceiving that the iron candlestick had resisted the inchantment, or rather the just punishment which those deserve who do not execute what they promise, he said, prostrating himself—

What has happened to me is just; I have lost what I had no design to restore, a••d the candlestick which I intended to deliver to the Dervise remains with me: it is a proof that it rightly belongs to him, and that the rest was unjustly acquired.

As he finished these words, he placed the candlestick in the midst of their little house.

When the night was come, without reflecting upon it, he placed the light in the candlestick. Immediately they saw a Dervise appear, who turned round for an hour, and disappeared, after having thrown them an asper. The candlestick had twelve branches. Abdallah, who was meditating all the day upon what he had seen the night before, was willing to know what would happen the next night, if he put a light in each of them; he did so, and twelve Dervises appeared that instant; they turn|ed round also for an hour, and each of them threw an asper as they disappeared. He repeated every day the same ceremony, which had always the same success, but he never could make it succeed more than once in twen|ty four hours. This trifling sum was enough to make his mother and himself subsist tolerably: there was a time when they would have desired no more to be happy; but it was not considerable enough to change their for|tune.

It is always dangerous for the imagination ••o be fixed upon the idea of riches. The sight of what he be|lieved he should possess; the projects he had formed for the employment of it; all these things had left such pro|found traces in the mind of Abdallah, that nothing could efface them. Therefore, seeing the small advantage he drew from the candlestick, he resolved to carry it back to the Dervise, in hopes that he might obtain of him the treasure he had seen, or at least find again the riches which had vanished from their sight, by restoring to him a thing for which he testified so earnest a desire. He was so fortunate as to remember his name, and that of the city where he inhabited. He departed therefore imme|diately for Magrebi, carrying with him his candlestick, which he lighted every night, and by that means fur|nished himself with what was necessary on the road, without being obliged to implore the assistance and com|passion of the faithful.

When Abdallah arrived at Magrebi, his first care was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 inquire in what house, or in what convent, Abounadar lodged; he was so well known that every body told him his habitation. He repaired thither directly, and found fifty porters who kept the gate of his house, having each a staff with a head of gold in their hands: the court of his palace was filled with slaves and domestics; in 〈◊〉〈◊〉, the residence of a prince could not expose to view greater magnificence. Abdallah, struck with astonishment and admiration, feared to proceed. Certainly, thought he, I either explained myself wrong, or those to whom I ad|dressed myself designed to make a ••est of me, because I was a stranger: this is not the habitation of a Dervise, it is that of a King. He was in this embarrassment, when a man approached him, and said to him, Abdallah, thou art welcome; my master Abounadar has long expected th••. He then conducted him to an agreeable and magnificent pavillion, where the Dervise was seated. Abdallah, struck with the riches which he beheld on all sides, would have prostrated himself at his feet, but Abounadar prevented him, and interrupted him when he would have made a merit of the candlestick, which he presented to him.

Thou art but an ungrateful wretch, said he to him dost thou imagine thou canst impose upon me? I am not ignorant of any one of thy thoughts; and if thou ha••••t

known the value of this candlestick, thou wouldst never have brought it to me; I will make thee sensible of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 true use.

Immediately he placed a light in each of its branches; and when the twelve Dervises had turned round for some time, Abounadar gave each of them a blow with a cane, and in a moment they were convert|ed into twelve heaps of sequins, diamonds, and other precious stones.

This, said he, is the proper use to be made of this marvellous candlestick. As to me, I never desired it, but to place it in my chamber, as a talisman composed by a sage whom I revere, and am pleased to expose it sometimes to those who come to visit me; and to prove to thee, added he, that curiosity was the only occasion of my search for it, here are the keys of my magazines, open them, and thou shalt judge of my riches; thou shalt tell me whether the most insatiable miser would not be satisfied with them.

Abdallah obeyed him, and examined twelve magazines of great extent, so full of all manner of riches, that he could not distinguish what merited his admiration most; they all deserved it, and produced new desires. The regret of having restored the candlestick, and that of not having found out the use of it, pierced the heart of Abdallah. Abounadar seemed not to perceive it: on the contrary, he loaded him with caresses, kept him some days in his house, and commanded him to be treated as himself. When he was at the eve of the day which he had fixed for his de|parture, he said to him,

Abdallah, my son, I believed, by what has happened to thee, thou art corrected of the frightful vice of ingratitude; however, I owe thee a mark of my affection, for having undertaken so long a journey, with a view of bringing me the thing I had desired; thou mayest depart, I shall detain thee no longer. Thou shalt find to-morrow, at the gate of my palace, one of my horses to carry thee; I make thee a present of it, as well as of a slave who shall conduct thee to thy house; and two camels loaded with gold and jewels, which thou shalt chuse thyself out of my treasures.

Abdallah said to him all that a heart sensi|ble to avarice could express, when its passion was satisfied, and went to lie down till the morning arrived which was fixed for his departure.

During the night he was still agitated, without being

able to think of any thing but the candlestick, and what it had produced.

I had it, said he, so long in my power; Abounadar, without me, had never been the possessor of it: what risks did I not run in the subterraneous vault? Why does he now possess this treasure of treasures? Because I had the probity, or rather the folly, to bring it back to him. He profits by my labour, and the danger I have incurred in so long a journey: and what does he give me in return? Two camels loaded with gold and jewels; in one moment the candlestick will furnish him with ten times as much. It is Abounadar who is ungrateful: what wrong shall I do him in taking this candlestick? None certainly; for he is rich: and what do I possess?

These ideas determined him, at length, to make all possible attempts to seize upon the candlestick. The thing was not difficult, Abounadar hav|ing trusted him with the keys of his magazines. He knew where the candlestick was placed; he seized upon it, hid it in the bottom of one of the sacks, which he filled with pieces of gold and other riches that he was allowed to take, and loaded it, as well as the rest, upon his camels. He had no other eagerness now than for his departure; and after having hastily bid adieu to the generous Abouna|dar, he delivered him his keys, and departed with his horse, and slave, and two camels.

When he was some days journey from Balsora, he sold his slave, resolving not to have a witness of his former poverty, nor of the source of his present riches. He bought another, and arrived without any obstacle, at his mother's, whom he would scarce look upon, so much was he taken up with his treasure. His first care was to place the loads of his camels, and the candlestick, in the most private room of the house; and, in his impatience to feed his eyes with his great opulence, he placed lights imme|diately in the candlestick: the twelve Dervises appearing, he gave each of them a blow with a cane with all his strength, lest he should be failing in the laws of the talis|man: but he had not remarked that Abounadar, when he struck them, had the cane in his left hand. Abdallah, by a natural motion, made use of his right; and the Der|vises, instead of becoming heaps of riches, immediately drew from beneath their robes each a formidable club, with which they struck him so hard and so long, that they

left him almost dead, and disappeared, carrying with them all his treasure, the camels, the horse, the slave, and the candlestick.

Thus was Abdallah punished by poverty, and almost by death; for his unreasonable ambition, which perhaps might have been pardonable, if it had not been accom|panied by an ingratitude as wicked as it was audacious; since he had not so much as the resource of being able to conceal his perfidies from the too piercing eyes of his benefactor.

The FORCE of HABIT.

Ill habits gather by unseen degrees; As brooks run rivers, rivers run to seas. DRYDEN.

THERE is not a common saying which has a better turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that custom is a second nature. It is indeed able to form the man a new, and give him inclina|tions and capacities altogether different from those he was born with. Dr. Plot, in his history of Staffordshire, tells us of an idiot that chanced to live within the sound of a clock, and always amused himself with counting the hour of the day whenever the clock struck; the clock being spoiled by some accident, the idiot continued to strike and count the hour without the help of it, in the same manner as he had done when it was entire. Though I dare not vouch for the truth of this story, it is very certain, that custom has a mechanical effect upon the body, at the same time that it has a very extraordinary influence upon the mind.

I shall in this paper consider one very remarkable effect which custom has upon human nature; and which, if rightly observed, may lead us into very useful rules of life. What I shall here take notice of in custom, is its wonderful efficacy in making every thing pleasant to us. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for relishing that to which he has

been for some time disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to pass away his time without it, not to mention how our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises and improves in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments are changed into our diversions. The mind grows fond of those actions she is accustomed to; and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which she has been used to walk.

Not only such actions as were at first indifferent to us, but even such as were painful, will, by custom and prac|tice, become pleasant. Sir Francis Bacon observes in his Natural Philosophy, that our taste is never pleased better than with those things which at first created a disgust in it. He gives particular instances of claret, coffee, and other liquors, which the palate seldom approves upon the first taste; but when it has once got a relish of them, generally retains it for life. The mind is constituted after the same manner, and after having habituated herself to any particular exercise or employment, not only loses her first aversion towards it, but conceives a certain fondness and affection for it. I have heard one of the greatest geniuses this age has produced, who had been trained up in all the polite studies of antiquity, assure me, upon his being obliged to search into several rolls and records, that notwithstanding such an employment was at first very dry and irksome to him, he at last took an incredi|ble pleasure in it, and preferred it even to the reading of Virgil or Cicero. The reader will observe, that I have not here considered custom as it makes things easy, but as it renders them delightful; and though others have often made the same reflection, it is possible they may not have drawn those uses from it, with which I intend to fill the remaining part of this paper.

If we consider attentively this property of human na|ture, it may instruct us in very fine morality.

In the first place, I would have no man discouraged with that kind of life or series of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, may have enga|ged him. It may, perhaps, be very disagreeable to him at first; but use and application will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory.

In the second place, I would recommend to every one that admirable percept which Pythagoras is said to have given to his disciples; and which that philosopher must have dr••wn from the observation I have enlarged upon: Optimum vitae genus eligiro; na•••• consuetude f••cier jucundiffi|••••rm: "Pitch upon that course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the most delightful." Men, whose circumstances will permit them to chuse their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pur|sue that which their judgment tells them is the most lau|dable. The voice of reason is more to be regarded 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the bent of any present inclination; since, by the rules above mentioned, inclination will at length come over to reason though we can never force reason to comply with inclination.

In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and irreligious man to overlook those hardships and difficulties, which are apt to discourage him fro•••• the prosecution of a virtuous life.

The gods, said Hesied, have placed Labour before Virtue: the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther you advance in it.

The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, will in a little time find, that her ways are Ways 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of plea|santness, and all her paths are 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

To enforce the consideration, we may further observe, that the practice of religion will not only be attended with that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, but with those super|numerary joys of heart that arise from the consciousness of such a pleasure, from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason, and from the prospect of an happy immortality.

In the fourth place, we may learn from this observa|tion which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in any of the most innocent diversions and entertain|ments, since the mind may insensibly f••ll off from the relish of virtuous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights of a much more inferior and unprofitable nature.

The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property in human nature, of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is to shew how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state 〈…〉〈…〉 we call Heaven, will not be capable of affecting 〈…〉〈…〉 which are not thus qualified for it; we must in this world gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and perfec|tion which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity, must ••e planted in her during this her present state of probation. In short, Heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life.

On the other hand, those evil spirits who by long cus|tom, have contracted in the body habits of lust and sen|suality, makes and revenge an aversion to every thing that is good, just, or laudable are naturally seasons and prepared for pain and misery. Their torments have already taken roo•• in them, they cannot be happy when divested of the body, unless we may suppose that Provi|dence will, in a manner, create them anew, and work 〈◊〉〈◊〉 miracle in the rectification of their faculties. They may indeed, taste a kind of malignant pleasure in those ac|tions to which they are accustomed while in this life; but when they are removed from all those objects which are here apt to gratify them, they will naturally become their own tormentors, and cherish in themselves those painful habits of mind which are called, i•• scripture phrase, the worm which never dies. This notion of Heaven and Hell is so very conformable to the light of nature that it was discovered by several of the most exalted Heathens. It has been finely improved by many eminent! divines of the last age, as in particular by Archbishop Tillotson, and Dr. Sherlock; but there is none who has raised such noble speculations upon it as Dr. Scots, in the first book of his Christian Life; which is one of the fine•••• and most rational schemes of divinity that is written in our tongue or any other. That excellent author 〈◊〉〈◊〉 shewn how every particular custom and habit of virtue will, in its own nature, produce the heaven, or a state of happiness, in him who shall hereafter practise it: as, on

the contrary, how every custom, or habit of vice, will be the natural hell of him in whom it subsists.

The ABSURDITY of EXTREMES.

'Tis education forms the youthful mind: Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd. POPE.

I AM an humble cousin to two sisters, who, though they are good-humoured, good sort of people, and (all things considered) behave to me tolerably well; yet their manners and dispositions are so extremely opposite, that the task of pleasing them is rendered very difficult and troublesome. The elder of my cousins is a very jolly, free hearted girl, and so great an enemy to all kinds of form, that you seldom see her with so much as a pin in her gown; while the younger, who thinks in her heart that her sister is no better than a slattern, runs into ••he contrary extreme▪ and is in every thing she does, an ab|solute fid fad. She takes up almost as much time in put|ting on her gown, as her sister does to dirty one. The elder is too thoughtless to remember what she is to do; and the other so redious in doing it, that the time is always elapsed in which it was necessary for it to be done. If you lend any thing to the elder, you are sure of hav|ing it lost; or if you would borrow any thing of the younger, it is odds but she refuses it, from an opinion that you will be less careful of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••an herself. What|ever work is done by one sister, is too slight to hang to|gether for an hour's wear; and whatever is undertaken by the other, is generally too nice and curious to be fin|ished.

As they are constantly bed-fellows, the first sleep of the elder is sure to be broken by the younger, whose usual time of undressing and folding up her clothes is at least an hour and an half, allowing a third part of that time for hindrance, occasioned by her eldest sister's things, which lie scattered every where in her way.

If they had lovers, I know exactly how it would be the elder would lose her's by saying Yes too soon, and the younger by saying No too often. If they were wives, the one would be too hasty to do any thing right, and the other too tedious to do any thing pleasing: or were they mothers, the

daughters of the elder would be playing at taw with the boys, and the sons of the younger dressing dolls with the 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

I wish, Sir, you would be so kind to these cousins of mine, as to favour them with your advice. I have said already that they are both good humoured; and if you could prevail upon the elder to borrow from the younger a little thought and neatness, and upon the younger to add to her exactness a little of the careless freedom of the elder, you would make them very amiable women, and me the happiest of all humble cousins.

On BEAUTY and FLATTERY.

Beauties, like Princes, from their very youth, Are perfect strangers to the voice of truth. POPE.

A FRIEND of mine has two daughters, whom I will call Laetitia and Daphne; the former is one of the greatest beauties of the age in which she lives, the latter no way remarkable for any charms in her person. Upon this one circumstance of their outward form, the good and ill of their lives seemed to turn. Laetitia has not, from her very childhood, heard any thing else but commen|dations of her features and complexion, by which means she is no other than nature made her; a very beautiful outside. The consciousness of her charms has rendered her insupportably vain and insolent towards all who have to do with her. Daphne, who was 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 before one civil thing had ever been said to her, found herself obliged to acquire some accomplishments to make up for the want of those attractions which she saw in her sister. Poor Daphne was seldom submitted to in a a debate wherein she was concerned; her discourse had nothing to recommend it but the good sense of it; and she was always under a necessity to have very well con|sidered what she was to say, before she uttered it; while Laetitia was listened to with partiality, and appro|bation sat on the countenances of those she conversed with, before she communicated what she had to say.

These causes have produced suitable ••ffects, and Laetitia is as insipid a companion as Daphne is an agreeable one. Laetitia•• confident of favour, has studied no arts to please. Daphne, despairing of any inclination towards her person,

has depended only on her merit. Laetitia, has always something in her air that is sullen, grave, and disconso|late. Daphne has a countenance that appears cheerful, open, and unconcerned.

A young gentleman saw Laetitia this winter at a play, and became her captive. His fortune was such, that he wanted very little introduction to speak his sentiments to her father. The lover was admitted with the utmost freedom into the family, where a constrained behaviour, severe looks, and distant civilities, were the highest fa|vours he could obtain of Laetitia; while Daphne used him with the good humour, familiarity, and innocence of a sister: insomuch, that he would often say to her, dear Daphne, wert thou but as handsome as Laetitia!—She received such language with that ingenuous and pleasing mirth which is natural to a woman without design. He still sighed in vain for Laetitia, but found certain relief in the agreeable conversation of Daphne. At length, hearti|ly tired with the haughty impertinence of Laetitia, and channel with the repeated instances of good humour he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 observed in Daphne, he one day told the latter, that he had something to say to her he hoped she would be pleased with—Faith, Daphne, continued he, I am in love with thee, and despise thy sister sincerely.—The manner of his declaring himself ••ave his mistress occasion for a very hearty laughter.—Way, says he, I knew you would laugh at 〈◊〉〈◊〉, but I will ask your father. He did so: the father received his intelligence with no less joy than surprise, and was very glad he had now no care left but for his beauty, which he thought he could carry to market a•• leisure.

I do not know any thing that has pleased me so much a great while, as the conquest of my friend Daphne's. All her acquaintances congratulate her upon her chance medley, and laugh at that premeditating murderer, her sister. As it is an argument of a light mind, to think the worst of ourselves for the imperfections of our persons, it is equally below us to value ourselves upon the advan|tages of them. The female world seem to be almost incorrigibly gone astray in this particular; for which reason I shall recommend the following extract out of a friend's letter to the Professed Beauties, who are a people almost as insufferable as the Professed Wits.

"Monsieur St. Ev••emont has concluded one of his essays with affirming, that the last sighs of a handsome woman are not so much for the loss of her life as of her beauty. Perhaps this raillery is pursued too for, yet it is turned upon a very obvious remark, that a woman's strongest passion is for her own beauty, and that she values it as her favorite distinction. From hence it is, that all arts, which pretend to improve or preserve it, meet with so general a reception among the sex. To say nothing of many false helps, and contraband wares of beauty, which are daily vended in this great market, there is not a maiden gentlewoman, of a good family, in any county of South Britain, who has not heard of the virtue of May dew, or is unfurnished with some receipt or other in fa|vour of her complexion: and I have known a physician of learning and sense, after eight years study in the uni|versity, and a course of travels into most countries in Europe, owe the first rising of his fortune to a cosmetic wash.

This has given me occasion to consider, how so uni|versal a disposition in woman-kind, which springs from a laudable motive, the desire of pleasing, and proceeds from an opinion not altogether groundless, that nature, helped by art, may be turned to their advantage. And, methinks, is would be an acceptable service to take them out of the hands of quacks and pretenders, and to pre|vent their imposing upon themselves, by discovering to them the true secret and art of improving beauty.

In order to do this, before I touch upon it directly, it will be necessary to lay down a few preliminary maxims, viz.

That no woman can be handsome by the force of fea|tures alone, any more than she can be witty only by the help of speech.

That pride destroys all symmetry and grace, and affec|tation is a more terrible enemy to fine faces than the small-pox.

That no woman is capable of being beautiful who is not incap••ble of being false.

And, that what would be odious in a friend, is deformity in a mistress.

From these few principles, thus laid down, it will be easy to prove, that the true art of assisting beauty, con|sists

in embellishing the whole person, by the proper ornaments of virtuous and commendable qualities. By this help alone it is, that those who are the favourite work of nature, or, as Mr. Dryden expresses it, the por|celain clay of human kind, become animated, and are in a capacity of exerting their charms; and those who seem to have been neglected by her, like models wrought in haste, are capable, in a great measure, of finishing what she has left imperfect.

It is, methinks, a low and degrading idea of that sex, which was created to refine the joys, and soften the cares of humanity, by the most agreeable participation, to consider them merely as objects of sight. This is abridg|ing them of their natural extent of power, to put them upon a level with their pictures at Knellers's. How much nobler is the contemplation of beauty heightened by vir|tue, and commanding our esteem and love, while it draws our observation! how faint and spiritless are the charms of a coquette, when compared with the real loveliness of Sophronia's innocence, piety, good-humour, and truth; virtues which add a new softness to her sex, and even beautify her beauty! that agreeableness, which must otherwise have appeared no longer in the modest virgin, is now preserved in the tender mother, the prudent friend, and the faithful wife. Colours artfully spread upon canvas, may entertain the eye, but not affect the heart; and she who takes no care to add to the natural graces of her person any excellent qualities, may be allowed still to amuse as a picture, but not to triumph as a beauty.

When Adam is introduced by Milton, describing Eve in Paradise, and relating to the Angel the Impressions he felt upon seeing her at her first creation, he does not represent her like a Grecian Venus, by her shape or fea|tures, but by the lustre of her mind which shone in them, and gave them their power of charming:

Grace was in all her steps, Heav'n in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love.

Without this irradiating power, the proudest fair one ought 〈◊〉〈◊〉 know, whatever her glass may tell her to the contrary, that her most perfect features are uninformed and dead.

I cannot better close this moral, than by a short epitaph written by Ben Johnson, with a spirit which noth|ing could inspire but such an object as I have been describing."

Underneath this stone doth lie As much Virtue as could die: Which, when alive, did vigour give To as much beauty as could live.

On AFFECTATION.

But one admirer has th' affected lass; Nor meets that one—but in her locking-glass. YOUNG.

A LATE conversation which I fell into, gave me an opportunity of observing a great deal of beauty in a very handsome woman, and as much wit in an ingenious man, turned into deformity in the one, and absurdity in the other, by the mere force of affectation. The fair one had something in her person upon which her thoughts were fixed, that she attempted to shew to advantage in every lo••k, word, and gesture. The gentleman was as diligent to do justice to his fine parts as the lady to her beauteous form. You might see his imagination on the stretch to find out something uncommon, and what they call bright, to entertain her; while she writhed herself into as many different postures to engage him. When she laughed, her lips were to sever at a greater distance than ordinary to shew her teeth: her fan was to point to something at a distance, that in the reach she might dis|cover the roundness of her arm; then she is utterly mistaken in what she saw, falls back, smiles at her own folly, and is so wholly discomposed, that her tucker is to be adjusted, her bosom exposed, and the whole woman put into new airs and graces. While she was doing this, the gallant had time to think of something very pleasant to say next to her, or make some unkind observation on some other lady to feed her vanity. These unhappy effects of affec|tation, naturally led me to look into that strange state of mind which so generally discolours the behaviour of most people we meet with.

The learned Dr.Burnet, in his theory of the earth, takes occasion to observe, that every thought is attended with

consciousness and representativeness. The mind has nothing presented to it, but what is immediately followed by a reflection or conscience, which tells you whether that which was so presented is graceful or unbecoming. This act of the mind discovers itself in the gesture by a proper behaviour in those whose consciousness goes no further than to direct them in the just progress of their present thought or action; but betrays an interruption in every second thought, when the consciousness is employed in too fondly approving a man's own conceptions; which sort of consciousness is what we call Affectation.

As the love of praise is implanted in our bosom as a strong incentive to worthy actions, it is a very difficult task to get above a desire of it for things that should be wholly indifferent. Women, whose hearts are fixed upon the pleasures they have in the consciousness that they are the objects of love and admiration, are ever changing the air of their countenances, and altering the attitude of their bodies, to strike the hearts of their beholders with new sense of their beauty. The dressing part of our sex, whose minds are the same with the sillier part of the other, are exactly in the like uneasy condition to be regarded for a well tied cravat, a hat cocked with an unusual briskness, a very well chosen coat, or other instances of merit, which they are impatient to see unobserved.

But this apparent affectation, arising from an ill-govern|ed consciousness, is not so much to be wondered at, in such loose and trivial minds as these: but when you see it reign in characters of worth and distinction, it is what you cannot but lament, nor without some indignation. It creeps into the heart of the wise man, as well as that of the coxcomb. When you see a man of sense look about for applause, and discover an it••••••ing inclination to be commended, lay traps for a little increase, even from those whose opinion he values in nothing but his own favour; who is safe against this weakness? Or who knows whether he is guilty of it or not? The best way to get clear of such a light fondness for applause, is, to take all possible care to throw off the love of it upon occasions that are not in themselves laudable; but, as it appears, we hope for no praise from them. Of this nature are all graces in men's p••••••ons, dress, and bodily deportments; which will naturally be winning and attractive if men think not of

them, but lose their force in proportion to our endeavours to make them such.

When our consciousness turns upon the main design of life, and our thoughts are employed upon the chief pur|pose, either in business or pleasure, we shall never betray an affectation, for we cannot be guilty of it; but when we give the passion for praise an unbridled liberty, our pleasure, in little perfections, robs us of what is due to us for great virtues and worthy qualities. How many excellent speeches and honest actions are lost for want of being indifferent where we ought! Men are oppressed with regard to their way of speaking and acting, instead of having their thoughts bent upon what they should do or say; and by that means bury a capacity for great things by their fear of failing in indifferent things. This, perhaps, cannot be called Affectation; but it, has some tincture of it, at least, so far, as that their fear of erring in a thing of consequence argues they would be too much pleased in performing it.

It is only from a thorough disregard to himself in such particulars, that man can act with a laudable sufficiency; his heart is fixed upon one point in view; and he com|mits no error, because he thinks nothing an error but what deviates from that intention.

The wild havoc affectation makes in that part of the world which should be most polite, is visible wherever we turn our eyes: it pushes men not only into imperti|nence in conversation, but also in their premeditated speeches. At the bar it torments the bench, whose business it is to cut off all superfluities in what is spoken before it by the practitioner; as well as several little pieces of injustice which arise from the law itself. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have seen it make a man run from the purpose before 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Judge, who was, when at the bar himself, so close and logical a pleader, that, with all the pomp of eloquence in his power, he never spoke a word too much.

It might be borne even here, but it often ascends th•••• pulpit itself; and the declaimer, in that sacred place, i•• frequently so impertinently witty, speaks of the last day itself with so many quaint phrases, that there is no man who understands raillery, but must resolve to sin no more: nay, you may behold him sometimes in prayer for a proper delivery of the great truth he is to utter,

humble himself with so well-turned a phrase, and men|tion his own unworthiness in a way so every becoming, that the air of the pretty gentleman is preserved under the lowliness of the preacher.

I shall end this with a short letter I writ the other day to a very witty man, over-run with the fault I am speak|ing of.

Dear Sir,

I spent some time with you the other day, and must take the liberty of a friend to tell you of the unsuffera|ble affectation you are guilty of in all you say or do. When I gave you a hint of it, you asked me whether a man is to be cold to what his friends think of him? No; but praise is not to be the entertainment of every mo|ment: he that hopes for it, must be able to suspend the possession of it until proper periods of life, or death it|self. If you would not rather be commended than be praise-worthy, contemn little merit; and allow no man to be so free with you as to praise you to your face. Your vanity by this means will want its food. At the same time, your passion for esteem will be more fully gratified. Men will praise you in their actions: where you now receive one compliment, you will then receive twenty civilities. Until then, you will never have of either, further than,

SIR,

Yours, &c.

On MODESTY.

True modesty is ashamed of every thing that is criminal: False modesty of every thing that is unfashionable. ADD.

MODESTY is not only an ornament, but also a guard to virtue. It is a kind of quick and delicate feel|ing in the soul, which makes her shrink and withdraw herself from every thing that has danger in it. It is such an exquisite sensibility, as warns her to shun the first appearance of every thing that is hurtful.

I cannot at present recollect either the place or time of what I am going to mention; but I have read somewhere in the history of ancient Greece, that the women of the

country were seized with an unaccountable melancholy, which disposed several of them to make away with them|selves. The Senate, after having tried many expedients to prevent this self-murder, which was so frequent among them, published an edict, that if any women whomsoever should lay violent hands upon herself, her corpse should be exposed naked in the street, and dragged about the city in the most public manner. This edict immediately put a stop to the practice which was before so common. We may see in this instance the strength of female modesty, which was able to overcome the vio|lence even of madness and despair. The fear of shame, in the fair sex, was, in those days, more prevalent than that of death.

If modesty has so great an influence over our actions, and is in many cases, so impregnable a fence to virtue, what can more undermine morality than that politeness which reigns among the unthinking part of mankind, and treats as unfashionable the most ingenious part of our behaviour; which recommends impudence as good-breeding, and keeps a man always in countenance, not because he is innocent, but because he is shameless?

Seneca thought modesty so great a check to vice, that he prescribed to us the practice of it in secret, and advises us to raise it in ourselves upon imaginary occasions, when such as are real do not offer themselves: for this is the meaning of his precept, that when we are by ourselves, and in our greatest solitudes, we should fancy that Can stands before us, and sees every thing we do. In short, if you banish modesty out of the world, she carries away with her half the virtues that are in it.

After those reflections on modesty, as it is a virtue, I must observe, that there is a vicious modesty, which justly deserves to be ridiculed, and which those persons very often discover who value themselves most upon a well-bre•• confidence. This happens when a man is ashamed to act up to his reason, and would not, upon any consideration, be surprised in the practice of those duties, for the per|formance of which he was sent into the world. Many a•••• impudent libertine would blush to be caught in a serious discourse, and would scarce be able to shew his head, after having disclosed a religious thought. Decency of beha|viour, all outward shew of virtue, and abhorrence of vice,

are carefully avoided by this set of shame faced people, as what would disparage their gaiety of temper, and infalli|bly bring them to dishonour. This is such a poorness of spirit, such a despicable cowardice, such a degenerate, abject state of mind, as ou•• would think human nature incapable of, did we not meet with frequent instances of it in ordinary conversation.

There is another kind of vicious modesty, which makes a man ashamed of his person, his birth, his profession, his poverty, or the like misfortunes, which it was not his choice to prevent, and is not in his power to rectify. If a man appears ridiculous by any of the aforementioned circumstances, he becomes much more so by being out of countenance for them. They should rather give him occasion to exert a noble spirit, and to palliate those im|perfections which are not in his power, by those perfec|tions which are 〈◊〉〈◊〉, to use a very witty allusion of an eminent author, he should imitate Caesar, who, because his head was bald, covered that defect with laurels.

VIRTUE under AFFLICTION, represented in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of AMANDA.

For blessings 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••ait ••n virtuous deeds; And though a 〈◊〉〈◊〉—a sure reward succeeds. CONGREVE.

I HAVE more than once had occasion to mention a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 noble saying 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Seneca the philosopher, that a virtu|••••s was person struggling with misfortunes, and rising above them, is an object on which the gods themselves may ••cok down with delight. I shall therefore set before my readers a scene of this kind of distress in private life for the speculation of this day.

An eminent citizen, who had lived in good fashion and credit, was, by a train of accidents, and by an una|voidable perplexity in his affairs, reduced to a low con|dition. There is a modesty usually attending faultless poverty, which made him rather chuse to reduce his manner of living to his present circumstances, than sol|icit his friends in order to support the shew of an estate when the substance was gone. His wife, who was a wo|man of sense and virtue, behaved herself on this occasion with uncommon decency, and never appeared so amiable

in his eyes as now. Instead of upbraiding him with the ample fortune she had brought, or the many great offers she had refused for his sake, she redoubled all the instan|ces of her affection, while her husband was continually pouring out his heart to her in complaints that he had ruined the best woman in the world. He sometimes came home at a time she did not expect him, and surpri|sed her in tears, which she endeavoured to conceal, and always put on an air of cheerfulness to receive him. To lessen their expences, their eldest daughter, (whom I shall call Amanda) was sent into the country, to the house of an honest farmer, who had married a servant of the family. This young woman was apprehensive of the ruin which was approaching, and had privately engaged a friend in the neighbourhood, to give her an account of what passed from time to time of her father's affairs. Amanda was in the bloom of her youth and beauty, when the lord of the manor, who often called in at the farmer's house as he followed his country sports, fell passionately in love with her. He was a man of great generosity; but from a loose education, had contracted an hearty aversion to marriage. He therefore entertained a design upon Amanda's virtue, which at present he thought fit to keep private. The innocent creature, who never sus|pected his intentions, was pleased with his person; and having observed his growing passion for her, hoped, by so advantageous a match, she might quickly be in a ca|pacity of supporting her impoverished relations. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 day as he called to see her, he found her in tears over a letter she had just received from her friend, which gave an account that her father had lately been stripped of every thing by an execution. The lover, who with some difficulty found out the cause of her grief, took this occasion to make her a proposal. It is impossible to express Amanda's confusion, when she found his preten|sions were not honourable. She was now deserted of all her hopes, and had no power to speak: but rushing from him in the utmost disturbance, locked herself up in a chamber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to her father with the following letter:

SIR,

I have heard of your misfortunes, and have offered your daughter, if she will live with me, to settle on her

four hundred pounds a year, and to lay down the sum for which you are now distressed. I will be so ingenu|ous as to tell you, that I do not intend marriage: but if you are wise, you will use your authority with her not to be too nice, when she has an opportunity of saving you and your family, and of making herself happy.

I am, &c.

This letter came to the hands of Amanda's mother; she opened and read it with great surprize and concern. She did not think it proper to explain herself to the mes|senger; but desiring him to call again the next morning, she wrote to her daughter as follows:

Dearest Child,

Your father and I have just now received a letter from a gentleman who pretends love to you, with a proposal that insults our misfortunes, and would throw us to a lower degree of misery than any thing which is come upon us. How could this barbarous man think, that the tenderest of parents would be tempted to supply their wants, by giving up the best of children to infamy and ruin? It is a mean and cruel artifice, to make this propo|sal at a time when he thinks our necessities must compel us to any thing; but we will not eat the bread of shame; and therefore we charge thee not to think of us, but to avoid the ••nare which is laid for thy virtue. Beware of pitying us; it is not so bad as you have perhaps been told. All things will yet be well, and I shall write my child better news.

I have been interrupted: I know not how I was moved to say things would mend. As I was going on, I was startled by a noise of one that knocked at the door, and has brought us an unexpected supply of a debt which had long been owing. Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some days I have lived almost without support, having conveyed what little money I could raise to your poor father. Thou wilt weep to think where he is; yet be assured he will be soon at liberty. That cruel letter would have broken his heart; but I have concealed it from him. I have no companion at present beside little Fanny, who stands watching my looks as I write, and is crying for her sister: she says she is sure you are not well, having discovered that my present trouble is about you. But do not think that I would thus repeat my sorrows to

grieve thee: no, it is to intreat thee not to make them insupportable, by adding what would be worse than all. Let us bear cheerfully an affliction, which we have not brought upon ourselves; and remember there is a power who can better deliver us out of it, than by the loss of thy innocence.

—Heaven preserve my child!

Thy affectionate mother,—

The messenger, notwithstanding he promised to deliv|er this letter to Amanda, carried it first to his master, who, he imagined, would be glad to have an opportunity of giving it into her hands himself. His master was im|patient to know the success of his proposal, and there|fore broke open the letter privately to see the contents. He was not a little moved at so true a picture of virtue in distress; but, at the same time, was infinitely surprised to find his offers rejected. However, he resolved not to suppress the letter, but carefully sealed it up again, and carried it to Amanda. All his endeavours to see her were in vain, till she was assured he brought a letter from her mother. He would not part with it, but upon condition that she would read it without leaving the room. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the deepest attention: her concern gave a new softness to her beauty; and when she burst into tears, he could no longer refrain from bearing a part in her sorrow, and telling her, that he too had read the letter, and was re|solved to make reparation for having been the occasion of it. My readers will not be displeased to see the second epistle, which he now wrote to Amanda's mother.

MADAM,

I am full of shame, and will never forgive myself, if I have not your pardon for what I lately wrote. It was far from my intention to add trouble to the afflicted; nor could any thing but my being a stranger to you, have betrayed me into a fault, for which, if I live, I shall en|deavour to make you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy while Amanda is your daughter; nor shall be, if any thing can prevent it which is in the power of,

MADAM,

Your most obedient,

Humble Servant,—."

This letter he sent by his steward, and soon after went up to town himself, to complete the generous act he had no•• resolved on. By his friendship and assistance Aman|da's father was quickly in a condition of retrieving his perplexed affairs. To conclude, he married Amanda, and enjoyed the double satisfaction of having restored a worthy family to their former prosperity, and of making himself happy by an alliance to their virtues.

Preliminary Address prefixed to the Pennsylvania Almanack for 1758.

On OECONOMY and FRUGALITY.

Spare not, nor spend too much; be this thy care, Spare but to spend, and only spend to spare. RANDOLPH.

Courteous Reader,

I HAVE heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by many learned authors. This pleasure I have seldom enjoyed; for though I have been, if I may say it without vanity, an eminent author (of Almanacks) annually, now a full quarter of a century, my brother authors in the same way, for what reason I know not, have ever been very sparing in their applauses, and no other au|thor has taken the least notice, of me; so that did not my writings produce me some solid pudding, the great deficiency of praise would have quite discouraged me.

I concluded at length, that the people were the best judges of my merit, for they buy my works; and besides, in my rambles, where I am not personally known, I have frequently heard one or other of my adages repeated▪ with, as poor Richard says, at the end of it; this gave me some satisfaction, as it shewed not only that my instruc|tions were regarded, but discovered likewise some res|pect for my authority; and I own, that to encourage the practice of remembering and repeating those wise senten|ces, I have sometimes quoted myself with great gravity.

Judge then how much I must have been gratified by an accident I am going to relate to you. I stopt my horse lately, where a great number of people were collected at a vendue•••• merchant goods. The hour of sale not be|ing come, they were conversing on the badness of the

times, and one of the company called to a plain clean old man, with white locks, "Pray, father Abraham, what think you of the times? Will not these heavy taxes quite ruin the country? How shall we be ever able to pay them? What would you advise us to?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, "If you would have my advice, I will give it you in short; for a word to the wise is enough, and many words will not fill a bushel, as poor Richard says." They joined in desiring him to speak his mind, and ga|thering round him, he proceeded as follows:

"Friends, says he, and neighbours, the taxes are in|deed very heavy, and if those laid on by government were the only ones we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing any abatement. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us. "God helps them that help themselves," as poor Richard says, in his Alman|ack for 1733.

"It would be thought a hard government that should tax its people one tenth part of their time, to be em|ployed in its service: but idleness taxes many of us much more, if we reckon all that is spent in absolute ••loth, or in doing of nothing, with that which is spent in idle employments or amusements, that amount to nothing. Sloth, by bringing on diseases absolutely shortens life. "Sloth, like rust, consumes faster than labour wears, while the used key is always bright," as poor Richard says. But dost thou love life, then do not squander time, for this is the stuff life, is made of, as poor Richard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep! for|getting that, "the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there will be sleeping enough in the grave," as poor Richard says. "If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time must be, as poor Richard says, the greatest prodigality; since, as he elsewhere tells us, "Lost time is never found again; and what we call time enough, always proves little enough;" let us then up and be do|ing, and doing to the purpose; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. "Sloth makes all things

difficult, but industry easy, as poor Richard says; and he that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce over|take his business at night. While laziness travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him," as we read in poor Richard, who adds, "drive thy business, let not that drive thee; and early to bed, and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise."

So that what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We may make these times better if we bestir ourselves. "Industry needs not wish, as poor Richard says; and he that lives upon hope, will die fasting." There are no gains without pains; "then help hands, for I have no lands," or if I have, they are smartly taxed. And, as poor Richard likewise observes, "He that hath a trade hath an estate; and he that hath a calling hath an office of profit and honour; but then the trade must be worked at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious we shall never starve; for, as poor Richard says, "At the working man's house hunger looks in, but dares not enter." Nor will the bailiff or the con|stable enter; for, "Industry pays debts, while Despair increaseth them," says poor Richard. What though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left you a legacy. "Diligence is the mother of Good luck, as poor Richard says, and God giveth all things to industry." "Then plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you shall have corn to sell and to keep," says poor Dick. "Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindered to-morrow;" which makes poor Richard say, "One to-day is worth two to-morrows;"—and farther, "Have you somewhat to do to-morrow, do it to-day." If you were a servant, would you not be asha|med a good master should catch you idle? Are you then your own master, "and not ashamed to catch yourself idle?" as poor Dick says. When there is so much to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your gracious king, be up by peep of day: "Let not the sun look down and say, Inglorious here he lies." Handle your tools without mittens; remember, "that the cat in gloves catches no mice," as poor Dick says. 'Tis true, there is much to be done, and perhaps you are weak-handed, but stick to it steadily, and you will see great

effects; for, "constant dropping wears away stones, and by diligence and patience the mouse eats into the cable; and little strokes fell great oaks." as poor Richard says in his Almanack, the year I cannot just now remember.

Methinks I hear some of you say, "Must a man afford himself no leisure?" I will tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard says. "Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; and since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour." Leisure is time doing some|thing useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the lazy man never; so that as poor Richard says," "A life of leisure, and a life of laziness are two things." Do you imagine that sloth will afford you more comfort than labour? No, for, as poor Richard says, "Trouble springs from idleness, and grievous toil from needless ease. Many, without labour, would live by their wits only, but they break for want of stock." Whereas in|dustry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect: "Fly pleasures, and they will follow you. The diligent spin|ner has a large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every body bids me good-morrow;" all which is well said by poor Richard.

But with our industry, we must likewise be steady, settled, and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and not trust too much to others; for, as poor Richard says,

I never saw an oft removed tree, Nor yet an oft removed family, That throve so well as those that settled be.

And again, "three removes are as bad as a fire;" and again, "keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee:" and again, "if you would have your business done, go; if not, send;" and again,

He that by the plough would thrive, Himself must either hold or drive.

And again, "the eye of a master will do more work than both his hands;" and again, "want of care does us more damage than want of knowledge;" and again, "not to oversee workmen is to leave them your purse open." Trusting too much to others care is the ruin of many; for, as the Almanack says, "In the affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but by the want

of it; but a man's own care is profitable; for, saith poor Dick, "Learning is to the studious, and riches to the careful, as well as power to the bold, and heaven to the virtuous." And further, "If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve yourself." And again, he adviseth to circumspection and care, even in the smallest matters, because sometimes, "A little neg|lect may breed great mischief; adding, for want of a nail the shoe was lost; and for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for want of a horse the rider was lost; being overtaken and slain by the enemy; all for want of care about a horse shoe nail."

So much for industry, my friends, and attention to one's own business; but to these we must add frugality, if we would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life at the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at the last. "A fat kitchen makes a lean will," as poor Richard says; and,

Many estates are spent in the getting, Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting, And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.

"If you would be wealthy, says he in another Alman|ach, think of saving as well as getting: the Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are greater than her incomes." Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes and chargeable families: for, as poor Dick says,

Women and wine, game and deceit, Make the wealth small, and the wants great.

And farther, "What maintains one vice, would bring up two children." You may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but remember what poor Richard says, "Many a little makes a mickle;" and farther, "Beware of little expences; a small leak will sink a great ship;" and again, "Who dainties love, shall beggars prove;" and moreover, "Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them."

Here you are all got together, at this vendue of fineries

and knicknacks. You call them goods, but if you do not take care, they will prove evils to some of you. You expect that they will be sold cheap, and perhaps they may for less than they cost, but if you have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what poor Richard says, "Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries." And again, "At a great pennyworth pause a while:" he means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparently only, and not real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy busi|ness, may do thee more harm than good. For in ano|ther place he says, "many have been ruined by buying good pennyworths." Again, poor Richard says, "'Tis foolish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;" and yet this folly is practised every day at vendues, for want of minding the Almanack. "Wise men, as poor Dick says, learn by others harms, fools scarcely by their own; but felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum." Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back, have go•••• with a hungry belly, and half-starved their families: "Silks and sattins, scarlets and velvets, as poor Richard says, put out the kitchen fire." These are not the neces|saries of life; they can scarcely be called the convenien|cies, and yet only because they look pretty, how many want to have them! The artificial wants of mankind thus become more numerous than the natural; and, as poor Dick says, "For one poor person, there are an hundred indigent." By these and other extravagancies, the gen|teel are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who through industry and frugality have maintained their standing: in which case it appears plainly, that "a ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees,"as poor Rich|ard says. Perhaps they have had a small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of; they think, "It is day, and will never be night; that a little to be spent out of so much is not worth minding:" a child and a fool, as poor Richard says, imagine twenty shillings and twenty years can never be spent; but, always taking out of the meal tub, and never putting in, soon comes to the bottom; then, as poor Dick says, "When the well is dry, they know the worth of water." But this they might have known before, if they had taken his advice: "If you would know

the value of money, go and try to borrow some; for he that goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing; and indeed so he does that lends to such people, when he goes to get it again." Poor Dick, farther advises, and says,

Fond pride in dress is sure a very curse; Ere fancy you consult—consult your purse.

And again, "Pride is as loud a beggar as Want, and a great deal more saucy." When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more, that your appearance may he all of a piece; but poor Dick says, "It is easier to suppress the first desire, than to satisfy all that follow it. And that it is as truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox."

Great estates may venture more, But little boats should keep near shore.

"It is however a folly soon punished; for pride that dines on vanity, sups on content," as poor Richard says. And, in another place, "Pride breakfasted with plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with infamy." And, after all, for what use is the pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, or ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person, it creates envy, it hastens misfortune.

" What is a butterfly? At best " He's but a caterpillar drest; " The gaudy fop's his picture just!"

But what madness must it be to run in debt for these superfluities! we are offered, by the terms of this vendue, six months credit; and that perhaps has induced some of us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine without it. But, ah! think what you do when you run in debt; you give to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in fear when you speak to him; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking excuses, and by degrees come to lose your verac|ity, and sink into base downright lying; for, as poor Richard says, "the second vice is lying, the first is running into debt." And again, to the same purpose, "lying rides upon debt's back." Whereas a freeborn Englishman ought not to be ashamed or afraid to see or speak to any

man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and virtue; "It is hard for an empty bag to stand up|right," as poor Richard truly says. What would you think of that prince, or that government, who would issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman, or gentle|woman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not say, that you are free, have a right to dress as you please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you are about to put yourselves under that tyranny, when you run in debt for such dress! your creditor has authority at his pleasure to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you in a jail for life, or by selling you for a ser|vant, if you should not be able to pay him. When you have got your bargain, you may, perhaps, think little of payment; but "Creditors," as poor Dick tells us, "have better memories than debtors;" and, in another place, says, "Creditors are a superstitious sect, great observers of set days and times." The day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made before you are pre|pared to satisfy it. Or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely short. Time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well as his shoulders. "Those have a short Lent, saith poor Richard, who owe money to be paid at Easter." Then since, as he says, "The borrower is a slave to the lender, and the debtor to the creditor, disdain the chain; preserve your freedom, and maintain your independency: be industrious and free; be frugal and free." At present, perhaps, you may think yourself in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance without injury; but,

For age and want, save while you may; No morning sun lasts a whole day.

As poor Richard says.—Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever while you live, expence is continual and certain; and, "'tis easier to build two chimnies, than to keep one in fuel, as poor Richard says: so rather go to bed supperless than rise in debt."

Get what you can, and what's got fairly, hold; 'Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold?

As poor Richard says.—And when you have got the phil|osopher's stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes.

This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom; but, after all, do not depend too much upon your own indus|try, and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things, for they may all be blasted without the blessing of hea|ven; and therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards prosperous.

And now to conclude, "Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other, and scarce in that; for it is true, we may give advice, but we cannot give conduct," as poor Richard says. However, remember this, "They that will not be counselled, cannot be helped," as poor Richard says. And farther, "That if you will not hear Reason, she will surely rap your knuckles."

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people heard it, and approved the doctrine; but imme|diately practised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the vendue opened, and they be|gan to buy extravagantly, notwithstanding all his cau|tions, and their own fear of taxes. I found the good man had thoroughly studied my Almanacks, and digested all I had dropt on these topics during the course of five-and-twenty years. The frequent mention he made of me might have tired any one else, but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own which he ascribed to me, but rather the gleanings I had made of the sense of all ages and nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the echo of it; and though I had at first determined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away resolving to wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as great as mine.

I am, as ever,

Thine to serve thee, RICHARD SANDERS.

July 7, 1757.

On CLEANLINESS.

'Tis beauty paints, but neatness guides the dart. POPE.

I HAD occasion to go a few miles out of town, some days since, in a stage-coach, where I had for my fel|low-travellers, a dirty bean, and a pretty young Quaker woman. Having no inclination to tal•••• much at that time, I placed myself backward with a design to survey them, and to pick a speculation out of my two compan|ions. Their different figures were sufficient of them|selves to draw my attention. The gentleman was dressed in a suit, the ground whereof had been black, as I per|ceived from some few spaces that had escaped the pow|der, which was incorporated with the greatest part of his coat: his perriwig, which cost no small sum, was after so slovenly a manner cast over his shoulders, that it seem|ed not to have been combed since the year 1712; his linen, which was not much concealed, was daubed with plain Spanish, from the chin to the lowest button; and the diamond upon his finger (which naturally dreaded the water) put me in mind how it sparkled amidst the rubbish of the mine, where it was first discovered. On the other hand, the pretty Quaker appeared in all the elegance of cleanliness. Not a speck was to be found upon her. A clear, clean, oval face, just edged 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with little thin plaits of the purest can bric, received great advantages from the shade of her black hood; as did the whiteness of her arms from that sober-coloured stuff, in which she had clothed herself. The plainness of her dress was very well suited to the simplicity of her phrases; all which put together, though they could not give me a great opinion of her religion, they did of her innocence.

This adventure occasioned my throwing together a few hints upon cleanliness, which I shall consider as one of the half-virtues, as Aristotle calls them, and shall rec|ommend it under the three following heads: as it is a mark of politeness; as it produces love; and as it bears analogy to purity of mind.

First, It is a mark of politeness. It is universally agreed upon, that no one unadorned with this virtue can go into company without giving a manifest offence. The easier or higher any one's fortune is, this duty rise,

proportionally. The different nations of the world are as much distinguished by their Cleanliness, as by their arts and sciences. The more any country is civilized, the more they consult this part of politeness. We need but compare our ideas of a female Hottentot and an English beauty, to be satisfied of the truth of what has been advanced.

In the next place, cleanliness may be said to be the foster-mother of love. Beauty indeed most commonly produces that passion in the mind, but cleanliness pre|serves it. An indifferent face and person, kept in per|petual neatness, hath won many a heart from a pretty flattern. Age itself is not unamiable, while it is pre|served clean and unsullied: like a piece of metal con|stantly kept smooth and bright, we look on it with more pleasure than on a new vessel that is cankered with rust.

I might observe farther, that as cleanliness renders us agreeable to others, so it makes us easy to ourselves; that it is an excellent preservative of health; and that several vices destructive both to mind and body, are in|consistent with the habit of it. But these reflections I shall leave to the leisure of my readers, and shall observe in the third place, that it bears a great analogy to purity of mind, and naturally inspires refined sentiments and passions.

We find from experience, that through the prevalence of custom, the most vicious actions lose their horror, by being made familiar to us. On the contrary, those who live in the neighbourhood of good examples, fly from the first appearance of what is shocking. It fares with us much after the same manner, as to our ideas. Our senses which are the inlets of all the images conveyed to the mind, can only transmit the impressions of such things as usually surround them. So that pure and unsullied thoughts are naturally suggested to the mind, by those objects that perpetually encompass us, when they are beautiful and elegant in their kind.

In the East, where the warmth of the climate makes cleanliness more immediately necessary than in colder countries, it is made one part of their religion: the Jew|ish law, (and the Mahometan, which in some things copies after it) is filled with bathings, purifications, and other rites of the like nature. Though there is the above-named convenient reason to be assigned for their cere|monies,

the chief intention undoubtedly was to typify inward purity and cleanliness of heart by those outward washings. We read several injunctions of this kind in the book of Deuteronomy, which confirm this truth; and which are but ill accounted for by saying, as some do, that they were only instituted for convenience, in the desart, which otherwise could not have been habitable for many years.

I shall conclude this essay, with a story which I have somewhere read in an account of Mahometan superstitions.

A Dervise of great sanctity, one morning had the mis|fortune, as he took up a crystal cup which was conse|crated to the prophet, to let it fall upon the ground, and dash it to pieces. His son coming in, some time after, he stretched out his hand to bless him, as his manner was every morning; but the youth going out, stumbled over the threshold, and broke his arm. As the old man wondered at these events, a caravan passed by in its way from Mecca. The Dervise approached it to beg a bles|sing; but as he stroked one of the holy camels, he re|ceived a kick from the beast that sorely bruised him. His sorrow and amazement increased upon him, till he recollected, that through hurry and inadvertency, he had that morning come abroad without washing his hands.

On CHUSING COMPANY.

If, with a fool or knave I Carus see, A knave or fool, Carus I'll sentence thee. SANDYS.

TO be courteous to all, but familiar to few, is a max|im which I once despised, as originally proceeding from a mean and contracted mind, the frigid caution of weakness and timidity. A tame and indiscriminate civ|ility I imputed to a dread of the contempt or petulency of others, to fears from which the wit and the gentleman are exempted by a consciousness of their own dignity, by their power to depress insolence, and silence ridicule and a general shyness and reserve, I considered as the reproach of our country, as the effect of an illiberal edu|cation, by which neither a polite address, an easy confi|dence, nor a general acquaintance with public life are to be acquired. This opinion, which continued to flat|ter the levity and pride that produced it, was strength|ened

by the example of those whose manner in the diffi|dence of youth I wished to imitate, who entered a mixed, company with an air of serene familiarity, accosted every man like an old acquaintance, and thought only of ma|king sport of any of the rest with whom their caprice should happen to be offended, without regard to their age, character or condition.

But now I wish that I had regulated my conduct by the maxims which I despised, for I should then have escaped a misfortune which I shall never retrieve; and the sense of, which I am now endeavouring to suspend, by relating it to you as a lesson to others, and considering my loss of happiness as an acquisition of wisdom.

While I was in France with a travelling tutor, I receiv|ed a letter which acquainted me that my father, who had been long declining, was dead; and that it was ne|cessary I should immediately return to England, to take possession of his estate, which was not inconsiderable, though there were mortgages upon it to near half its value.

When I arrived, I found a letter which the old gen|tleman had written and directed to me with his own hand. It contained some general rules for my conduct, and some animadversions upon his own: he took notice of the incumbrances under which he left me the pater|nal inheritance, which had descended through many generations; and expressed the most earnest desire that it might yet be transmitted entire to posterity. With this view, he said, he had negociated a marriage between me and the only daughter of his old friend Sir George Homestead, of the North; an amiable young lady, whose alliance would be an honour to my family, and whose fortune would much more than redeem my estate.

He had given the Knight a faithful account of his affairs, who, after having taken some time to consider the proposals, and consult his friends, had consented to the match, upon condition that his daughter and I should be agreeable to each other, and that my behaviour should confirm the character that had been given of me. My father added, that he hoped to have lived till this alliance had taken place; but as Providence had other|wise determined, he intreated, as his last request, that as soon as my affairs should be settled, and decency would permit, I would make Sir George a visit, and neglect noth|ing to accomplish this purpose.

I was touched with the zeal and tenderness of pater|nal affection, which was then directing me to happiness, after the heart ••hat felt it had ceased to beat, and the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that expressed it was mouldering in the dust. I had also seen the lady not indeed since we were chil|dren; but I remembered that her person was agreeable, and her temper sweet: I did not, therefore, hesitate a moment, whether my father's injunctions should be obey|ed. I proceded to fettle his affairs; I took an account of debts and credits, visited the tenants, recovered my usual gaiety, and at the end of about nine months set out for Six George's feat in the North; having before opened an epistolary correspondence, and expressed my impatience to possess the happiness which my father had so kindly secured.

I was better pleased to be well mounted, than to ••oll in a chariot, or be jumbled in a post chaise: and I knew that Sir George was an old sportsman, a plain hearty blade, who would like me better in a pair of buckskin breeches on the back of a good hunter, than in a trimmed suit, and gaudy equipage: I therefore set out on horseback with only one servant, and reached Stilton the first night.

In the morning, as I was mounting, a gentleman, who had just got on horseback before me, ordered his servant to make some inquiry about the road, which I happened to overhear, and told him with great familiarity, that I was going the same way, and if he pleased we would tra|vel together: to this he consented, with as much frank|ness, and as little ceremony; and I set forward, greatly delighted that chance had afforded me a companion.

We Immediately entered into conversation, and I soon found that he had been abroad: we extolled the roads and the polity of France, the cities, the palaces, and the villas; entered into a critical examination of the most celebrated seats in England, the peculiarity of the build|ings and situation, cross ways, market towns, the impo|sition of innkeepers, and the sports of the field: topics, by which we mutually recommended ourselves to each other, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 we had both opportunities to discover equal knowledge, and to display truth with such evidence as prevented diversity of opinion.

After we had rode about two hours, we overtook ano|ther gentleman whom we accosted with the same famil|iarity

that we had used to each other: we asked him how 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he was going, and which way; at what rate he trav|elled, where ••e put up, and many other questions of the same kind. The gentleman, who appeared to be near fifty, received our address with great coldness, re|turned short and indirect answers to our inquiries, and often looking with great attention on us both, sometimes put forward that he might get before us, and sometimes checked his horse that he might remain behind. But we were resolved to disappoint him; and finding that his reserve increased, and that he was visibly displeased, we winked at each other, and determined the old Put should afford us some sport. After we had rode together upon very ill terms more than half an hour, my compan|ion, with an air of ceremonious gravity, asked him if he knew of any house upon the road where he might be ac|commodated with a wench. The gentleman, who was I believe afraid of giving us a pretence to quarrel, did not resent this insult any otherwise than by making no reply. I then began to talk to my companion as if we had been old acquaintances, reminding him, that the gentleman extremely resembled a person from whom we had taken a girl that he was carrying to the bagnio, and indeed, that his present reserve made me suspect him to be same; but that as we were willing to ask his pardon, we hoped it would be forgotten, and that we should still have the pleasure of dining together at the next inn. The gen|tleman was still silent; but as his perplexity and resent|ment visibly increased, he proportionably increased our entertainment, which did not, however, last long, for he suddenly turned down a lane; upon which we set up a horse-laugh, that continued till he was out of hearing, and then pursuing our journey, we talked of the adven|ture, which afforded us conversation and merriment for the rest of the day.

The next morning we parted, and in the evening I arrived at Homestead-Hall. The old Knight received me with great affection, and immediately introduced me to his daughter, whom I now thought the finest woman I had ever seen. I could easily discover that I was not unwelcome to her, merely upon her father's recommen|dation, and I enjoyed by anticipation the felicity which I considered as within my grasp. But the pleasing scene, in which I had suffered my imagination to wander, sud|denly

disappeared as by the power of inchantment•••• without any visible motive, the behaviour of the whole family was changed; my assiduities to the lady were repressed; she was never to be found alone; the Knight treated me with a cold civility: I was no longer a party in their visits, nor was willingly attended even by the servants. I made many attempts to discover the cause of this misfortune, but without success; and one morning, when I had drawn Sir George into the garden by himself, and was about to urge him upon the subject, he prevented me, by saying, that his promise to my father, for whom he had the highest regard, as I well knew, was condition|al; that he had always resolved to leave his daughter a free choice; and that she had requested him to acquaint me, that her affections were otherwise engaged, and to intreat that I would therefore discontinue my addresse••. My surprise and concern at this declaration, were such as left me no power to reply; and I saw Sir George turn from me, and go into the house, without making any attempt to stop him, or to obtain a farther explanation. Afterwards indeed, I frequently expostulated, intreated, and complained; but, perceiving that all was ineffectual, I took my leave, and determined that I would still solicit by letter; for the lady had taken such possession of my heart, that I would joyfully have married her, though I had been sure that her father would immediately have left all his fortune to a stranger.

I meditated on my epistolary project all the way to London; and before I had been three days in town, I wrote a long letter to Sir George, in which I conjured him, In the strongest terms, to account for the change in his be|haviour; and insisted, that, on this occasion, to conceal the truth, was in the highest degree dishonourable to himself, and injurious to me.

To this letter, after about ten days, I received the following answer

SIR,

It is with great reluctance that I reveal the motives of my conduct, because they are much to your disadvan|tage. The inclosed is a letter which I received from a worthy gentleman in the country, and contains a full answer to your inquiries, which I had rather you should receive in any hand than in mine.

I am,

your humble Servant, GEO. HOMESTEAD.

I immediately opened the paper inclosed, in which, with the utmost impatience, I read as follows:

SIR,

I saw a person with your family yesterday at the races, to whom I was soon after informed you intended to give your daughter. Upon this occasion, it is my in|dispensible duty to acquaint you, that if his character is to be determined by his company, he will inevitably en|tail diseases and beggary upon his posterity, whatever be the merit of his wife, or the affluence of his fortune▪ He overtook me on the road from London, a few weeks ago, in company with a wretch, who by their discourse appeared to be his old and familiar acquaintance, and whom I well remember to have seen brought before my friend Justice Worthy, when I was accidentally at his house, as the keeper of a brothel in Covent-garden. He has since won a considerable sum with false dice at the mas|querade, for which he was obliged to leave the kingdom, and is still liable to a prosecution. Be assured that I have a perfect knowledge of both; for some incidents, not necessary to mention, kept me near them so long on the road, that it is impossible I should be mistaken.

I am,

Sir

,

your's, &c. JAMES TRUEMAN.

The moment I had read this letter, the riddle was solved. I knew Mr. Trueman to be the gentleman whom I had concurred with a stranger, (picked up by accident.) to insult without provocation on the road. I was in a moment covered with confusion; and though I was alone, could not help covering my face with my hands. I ab|horred my folly, which appeared yet more enormous every time it was reviewed.

I courted the society of a stranger, and a stranger I persecuted with insult: thus I associated with infamy, and thus my associate became known. I hoped, however, to convince, Sir George, that I had no knowledge of the wretch whose infamy I had shared, except that which I had ac|quired from the letter of his friend. But before I had taken proper measures for my justification, I had the mortification to hear that the lady was married to a neighbouring gentleman, who had long made his addresses to her, and whom Sir George had before rejected in the ardour of his friendship for my father.

How narrow, Sir, is the path of rectitude, and how much may be lost by the slightest deviation!

I am,

your humble servant, ABULUS.

On the Justice of PROVIDENCE in the distribution of RICHES.

To whom can riches, give repute or trust, Content or pleasure, but the good and just? POPE.

CHREMYLUS, who was an old and a good man, and withal exceeding poor, being desirous to leave some riches to his son, consults the oracle of Apollo upon the subject. The oracle bid him follow the first man he should see upon his going out of the temple. The person he chanced to see was to appearance an old, sordid, blind man; but upon his following him from place to place, he at last found, by his own confession, that he was Plutus the god of riches, and that he was just come out of the house of a miser. Plutus further told him, that when he was a boy he used to declare, that as soon as he came to age, he would distribute wealth to none but virtuous and just men; upon which Jupiter, considering the pernicious consequences of such a resolution, took his sight away from him, and left him to stroll about the world in the blind condition wherein Chremylus beheld him. With much ado Chremylus prevailed upon him to go to his house, where he met an old woman in a tattered raiment, who had been his guest for many years, and whose name was Poverty. The old woman refusing to turn out so readily as he would have her, he threatened to banish her, not only from his own house, but cut of Greece, if she made any more words upon the matter. Poverty on this occa|sion pleads her cause very notably, and represents to her old landlord, that should she be driven out of the country, all their trades, arts, and sciences, would be driven out with her; and that if every one was rich, they would never be supplied with those pomps, ornaments, and convenien|cies of life, which made riches desirable. She likewise represented the several advantages which she bestowed upon her votaries, in regard to their shape, their health, and their activity, by preserving them from gouts, dropsies,

unwieldiness, and intemperance. But whatever she had to say for herself, she was at last forced to move off. Chremy|lus immediately considered how he might restore Plutus to his sight; and in order to do it, conveyed him to the temple of Esoulapius, who was famous for cures and mira|cles of this nature. By this means the deity recovered his eyes, and began to make a right use of them, by enrich|ing every one that was distinguished by piety towards the gods, and justice towards men; and at the same time by taking away his gifts from the impious and undeserving. This produced several merry incidents 'till in the last act Mercury descends with great complaints from the gods, that since the good men were grown rich they had received no sacrifices, which is confirmed by a priest of Jupiter, who enters with a remonstrance, that since these late innovations he was reduced to a starving condition, and could not live upon his office. Chremylus, who in the beginning of the play was religious in his poverty, concludes with a proposal which was relished by all the good men, who were now grown rich as well as himself, (i. e.) that they should carry Plutus in solemn procession to the temple, and install him in the place of Jupiter. This allegory instructed the Athenians in two points; first, as it vindica|ted the conduct of Providence in its ordinary distribution of wealth; and, in the next place, as it shewed the great tendency of riches to corrupt the morals of those who possessed them.

On the FORCE of AFFECTION.

Tears of compassion are nature's mark to know an honest heart by. VOLTAIRE.

A YOUNG gentleman and lady of ancient and honor|able houses in Cornwall, had from their childhood entertained for each other a generous and noble passion, which had long been opposed by their friends, by reason of the inequality of their fortunes; but their constancy to each other, and obedience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much upon their relations, that those celebrated lovers were at length joined in marriage. Soon after the nuptials, the bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country to take care of a considerable

fortune which was left him by a relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moderate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all the country upon this occasion; and I remember it was a common sentence in every one's mouth, You see how faithful love is rewarded.

He took his agreeable voyage, and sent home every post fresh accounts of his success in his affairs abroad; but at last (though he designed to return with the next ship) he lamented in his letters, that business should detain him some time longer from home, because he would give him|self the pleasure of an unexpected arrival.

The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every evening on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a familiar friend, her husband's kinswoman, and diverted herself with what objects they met with there, or upon discourse of the future methods of life in the happy change of their circumstances. They stood one evening on the shore together in a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the sun, the calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves, which gently rolled to|wards them, and broke at their feet; when, at a distance, her kinswoman saw something floating on the water, which she fancied was a chest; and, with a smile, told her, she saw it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels, she had a right to it. They both fixed their eyes upon it, and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, the cousin still asserting her right; but promising, if it was a prize, to give her a very rich coral for her child, of which she was then big, provided she might be godmother. Their mirth soon abated when they obser|ved, upon the nearer approach, that it was a human bo|dy. The young lady, who had a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many melancholy reflec|tions on the occasion. Who knows, (said she) but this man may be the only hope and heir of a wealthy house, the darling of indulgent parents, who are now in imper|tinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with the thoughts of offering him a bride they have got ready for him? Or, may he not be the master of a family that wholly depended on his life? There may, for aught we know, be half a dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, now exposed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have promised himself in the different wel|comes

he was to have from her and them? But let us go away, it is a dreadful sight! ••he best office we can ••o is to take care that the poor man, whoever he is, may be decently buried. She turned away, when a wave threw the carcase on shore. The kinswoman immedi|ately shrieked out. Oh, my cousin! and fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her friend, when she saw her own husband at her feet, and dropt in|to a swoon upon the body. An old woman, who had been the gentleman's nurse, came about this time to call the ladies into supper, and found her child (as she always called him) dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswo|man both lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her ••rance; but the wife was gone for ever.

When the family and neighbourhood got together round the bodies, no one asked any questions, but the objects before them told the story.

Incidents of this nature are the more moving, when they are drawn by persons concerned in the catastrophe, notwithstanding they are often oppressed beyond the power of giving them in a distinct light, except we ga|ther their sorrow from their inability to speak it.

I have two original letters, written both on the same day, which seem to be exquisite in their kinds. The oc|casion was this: a gentleman who had courted a most agreeable young woman, and won her heart, obtained also the consent of her father, to whom she was an only child. The old man had a fancy that they should be married in the same church where he himself was, in a village in Westmoreland, and made them set out, while he was laid up with the goat at London. The bridegroom took only his man, and the bride her maid: they had the most agreeable journey imaginable to the place of marriage; from whence the bridegroom wrote the fol|lowing letter to his wife's father:

March 18, 167••

SIR,

After a very pleasant journey hither, we are prepar|ing for the happy hour in which I am to be your son. I assure you the bride carries it in the eye of the vicar, who married you much beyond her mother; though he says, your open sleeves, pataloons, and shoulder-knots, made a much better shew than the finical dress I am in.

However, I am contented to be the second fine man this village ever saw, and shall make it very merry before night, because I shall write myself from thence.

Your most dutiful Son, T. D.

☞ "The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an angel. I am the happiest man breathing."

The villagers were assembled about the church, and the happy couple took a walk in a private garden. The bridegroom's man knew his master would leave the place on a sudden after the wedding, and seeing him draw his pistols the night before, took this opportunity to go in|to the chamber and charge them. Upon their return from the garden, they went into the room; and after a little fond raillery on the subject of their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which he knew he had unloaded the night before, and presenting it to her, said with the most graceful air, while she looked pleased with his agreeable flattery, Now, Madam, repent of all these cru|elties you have been guilty of to me; consider, before you die, how often you have made a poor wretch freeze under your casement; you shall die, you tyrant! you shall die, with all those instruments of death and destruc|tion about you, with that inchanting smile, those killing ringlets of your hair!—Give fire, said she, laughing. He did so, and shot her dead. Who can speak his condition! but he bore it so patiently as to call up his man. The poor wretch entered, and his master locked the door up|on him. Will, said he, did you charge these pistols! He answered Yes. Upon which he shot him dead with that remaining.—After this, amidst a thousand broken sobs, piercing groans, and distracted motions, he wrote the following letter to the father of his dead mistress:

SIR,

"I, who two hours hours ago told you truly I was the happiest man alive, am now the most miserable. Your daughter lies dead at my feet, killed by my own hands, through a mistake of my man's charging my pistols un|known to me. Him I have murdered for it. Such is my wedding day! I will immediately follow my wife to her grave. But before I throw myself upon my sword, I command my distraction so far as to explain my story to you. I fear my heart will not keep together till I have

stabbed it. Poor, good man!—Remember, he that kill|ed your daughter died for it: in the article of death, I give you my thanks, and pray for you, though I do not for myself. If it be possible, do not curse me.

On CRUELTY to ANIMALS.

Take not away the life you cannot give, For all things have an equal right to live. DRYDEN.

I CANNOT think it extravagant to imagine, that mankind are no less, in proportion, accountable for the ill use of their dominion over creatures of the lower rank of beings, than for the exercise of tyranny over their own species. The more intirely the inferior crea|tion is submitted to our power, the more answerable we should seem for our mismanagement of it; and the rather, as the very condition of nature renders these creatures incapable of receiving any recompence in ano|ther life for their ill treatment in this.

It is observable of those noxious animals which have qualities more powerful to injure us, that they naturally avoid mankind, and never hurt us, unless provoked or necessitated by hunger. Man, on the other hand, seeks out and pursues even the most inoffensive animals, on purpose to persecute and destroy them.

Montaigne thinks it some reflection upon human nature itself, that few people take delight in seeing beasts caress or play together, but almost every one is pleased to see them lacerate and worry one another. I am sorry this temper has become almost a distinguished character of our own nation, from the observation which is made by foreigners of our beloved pastimes, bear-beating, cock|fighting, and the like. We should find it hard to vindi|cate the destroying any thing that has life, merely out of wantonness; yet in this principle our children are bred up, and one of the first pleasures we allow them is the licence of inflicting pain upon poor animals; almost as soon as we are sensible what life is ourselves, we make it our sport to take it from other creatures. I cannot but believe a very good use might be made of the fancy which children have for birds and insects. Mr. Locke takes notice of a mother who permitted them to her chil|dren,

but rewarded or punished them as they treated them well or ill. This was no other than entering them be times into a daily exercise of humanity, and improving their very diversion into a virtue.

I fancy too, some advantage might be taken of the common notion, that it is ominous or unlucky to destroy some sorts of birds, as swallows or martins; this opinion might possibly arise from the confidence these birds seem to put in us by building under our roofs, so that it is a kind of violation of the laws of hospitality to murder them. As for robin red-breasts in particular, it is not improbable they owe their security to the old ballad of the Children in the Woods. However it be, I do not know, I say, why this prejudice, well improved and carried as far as it would go, might not be made to conduce to the preservation of many innocent creatures, 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 now exposed to all the wantonness of an ignorant ••••••barity.

There are other animals that have the misfortune, for no manner of reason, to be treated as common enemies, Wherever found. The conceit that a cat has nine lives, has cost at least nine lives in ten of the whole race of them: scarce a boy in the street but has in this point outdone Hercules himself, who was famous for killing a monster that had but three lives. Whether the unac|countable animosity against this useful domestic may be any cause of the general persecution of owls, (who are a sort of feathered cats) or whether it be only an unreason|able pique the moderns have taken to a serious counte|nance, I shall not determine; though I am inclined to believe the former; since I observe the whole reason al|ledged for the destruction of frogs 〈◊〉〈◊〉 because they are like roads. Yet amidst all the misfortunes of these un|friendly creatures, it is some happiness that we have not yet taken a fancy to eat them; for should our country|men refine upon the French ever so little, it is not to be conceived to what unheard-of torments, owls, cats, and frogs may yet be reserved.

When we grow up to man, we have another succession of sanguinary sports; in particular hunting. I dare not attack a diversion, which has such authority and custom to support it, but must have leave to be of opinion, that the agitations of that exercise, with the example and number of the chasers, not a little contribute to resist those checks,

which compassion would naturally suggest in behalf of the animal pursued. Nor shall I say with Monsieur Fleury, that this sport is a remain of Gothic barbarity; but I must animadvert upon a certain custom yet in use with us, and barbarous enough to be derived from the Goths, or even the Scythians; I mean the savage compliment our hunts|men pass upon the ladies of quality, who are present at the death of a stag, when they put the knife into their hand to cut the throat of a helpless, trembling, and weeping creature,

—That lies beneath the knife, Looks up, and from her butcher begs her life.

But if our sports are destructive, our gluttony is more so, and in a more in human manner. Lobsters roasted alive-pigs whipt to death, fowls sewed up, are testimonies of our outrageous luxury. Those who (as Seneca expresses it) divide their lives betwixt an anxious conscience, and a nauseated stomach, have a just reward of their gluttony in the diseases it brings with it: for human savages, like other wild beasts, find snares and poisons in the provisions of life, and are allured by their appetites to their de|struction. I know nothing more shocking or horrid than the prospect of one of their kitchens covered with blood, and filled with the cries of creatures expiring in tortures. It gives one an image of the Giant's den in a romance, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with the scattered heads and mangled limbs of those who were slain by his cruelty.

The excellent Plutarch, (who has more strokes of good-nature in his writings than I remember in any author) cites a saying of Cato to this effect, "That it is no easy task to preach to the belly, which has no ears. Yet if (says he) we are ashamed to he so out of fashion, as not to offend, let us at least offend with some discretion and measure. If we kill an animal for our provision, let us do it with the meltings of compassion; and without tor|menting it. Let us consider that it is in its own nature cruelty to put a living creature to death; we at least de|stroy a soul that has sense and perception." In the life of Cato the censor, he takes occasion, from the severe dis|position in man, to discourse in this manner: it thought to be esteemed a happiness to mankind, that our humanity has a wider sphere to exert itself in, than bare justice. It

is no more than the obligation of our very birth to prac|tise equity to our kind; but humanity may be extended through the whole order of creatures, even to the mean|est: such actions of charity are the overflowings of a mild good nature on all below us. It is certainly the part of a well-natured man to take care of his horses and dogs, not only in expectation of their labour, while they are foals and whelps, but even when their old age has made them incapable of service.

History tells of a wise and polite nation that rejected a person of the first quality, who stood for a justiciary office, only because he had been observed in his youth to take pleasure in tearing and murdering birds. And of another, that expelled a man out of the senate, for dash|ing a bird against the ground which had taken shelter in his bosom.

Every one knows how remarkable the Turks are for their humanity of this kind: I remember an Arabian au|thor, who had written a treatise, to shew how far a man, supposed to have subsisted in a desart island, without any instruction, or so much as the sight of any other man, may, by the pure light of nature, attain the knowledge of philosophy and virtue. One of the first things he makes him observe, is that universal benevolence of na|ture in the protection and preservation of its creatures. In imitation of which, the first act of virtue he thinks this self-taught philosopher would of course fall into, is to relieve and assist all the animals about him in their wants and distresses.

In Dryden's Ovid are some very tender and pathetic lines applicable to this occasion:

The sheep was sacrific'd on no pretence, But meek and unresisting innocence; A patient, useful creature, born to bear The warm and wooly fleece that cloth'd her murd'rer. And daily to give down the milk she bred, A tribute for the grass on which she ••ed; Living both, ••••ed and raiment she supplies, And is of least advantage when she dies. How did the toiling ox his death deserve? A downright simple drudge, and born toserve. O ••••••ant! with what justice canst thou•• pope The promise of the year, a plenteous crop

When thou destroy'd thy labouring steer, who till'd, And plough'd with pain thy else ungrateful field? From his yet reeking neck to draw the yoke, That neck with which the surly clods be broke: And to the batchet yield thy bush and man, Who finish'd autumn, and the spring began.

What more advance can mortals make in sin, So near perfection, Who with blood begin? Deaf to the calf that lies beneath the knife, Looks up, and from her butcher begs her life. Deaf to the harmless kid, that are he dies, All methods to procure thy mercy tries, And imitates in vain the children's cries.

Perhaps that voice or cry so nearly resembling the hu|man, with which Providence has indued so many differ|ent animals, might purposely be given them to move our pity, and prevent those cruelties we are too apt to in|flict on our fellow-creatures.

The VISION of JUSTICE.

At dead of night imperial Reason sleeps; And Fancy, with her train, loose vigils keeps. DRYDEN.

I WAS last week taking a solitary walk in the gardens of Lincoln's Inn; (a favour that is indulged me by sev|eral of the benchers who are my intimate friends, and grown old with me in this neighbourhood) when, accord|ing to the nature of men in years who have made but little progress in the advancement of their fortunes or their same, I was repining on the sudden rise of many persons who are my juniors, and indeed at the unequal distribu|tion of wealth, honour, and all other blessings 'of life. I was lost in this thought, when the night came upon me, and drew my mind into a far more agreeable con|templation. The heaven above me appeared in all its glories, and presented me with such a hemisphere of stars, as made the most agreeable prospect imaginable to one who delights in the study of nature. It happened to be a freezing night, which had purified the whole body of air into such a bright transparent aether, as made every

constellation visible; and at the same time, gave such a particular glowing to the stars, that I thought it the richest sky I had ever seen. I could not but behold a scene so wonderfully adorned and lifted up (if I may be allowed that expression) without suitable meditations on the Author of such illustrious and amazing objects. For, on these occasions, philosophy suggests motives to reli|gion, and religion adds pleasure to philosophy.

As soon as I had recovered my usual temper and seren|ity of soul, I retired to my lodgings, with the satisfaction of having passed away a few hours in the proper employ|ment of a reasonable creature; and promising myself that my slumbers would be sweet; I no sooner fell into them, but I dreamed a dream, or saw a vision, (for I knew not which to call it) that seemed to rise out of my even|ing meditation, and had something in it so solemn and serious, that I cannot forbear communicating it; though I must confess the wildness of imagination (which in a dream is always loose and irregular) discovers itself too much in several parts of it.

Me thought I saw the same azure sky diversified with the same glorious luminaries which had entertained me a little before I fell asleep. I was looking very atten|tively on that sign in the heavens which is called by the name of the Balance, when on a sudden there appeared in it an extraordinary light, as if the sun should rise at mid|night. By its increasing in breadth and lustre, I soon found that it approached towards the earth; and at length could discern something like a shadow hovering in the midst of a great glory, which in a little time after I distinctly perceived to be the figure of a woman. I fan|cied at first it might have been the angel, or intelligence, that guided the constellation from which it descended; but, upon a nearer view, I saw about her all the emblems with which the Goddess of Justice is usually described. Her countenance was unspeakably awful and majestic, but exquisitely beautiful to those whose eyes were strong enough to behold it; her smiles transported with rap|ture; her frowns terrified to despair. She held in her hand a mirror, endowed with the same qualities as that which the painters put into the hand of Truth.

There streamed from it a light, which distinguished itself from all the splendor that surrounded her, more

than a flash of lightning shines in the midst of day-light. As she moved it in her hand, it brightened the heavens, the air, or the earth. When she had descended so low as to be seen and heard by mortals, to make the pomp of her appearance more supportable, she threw darkness and clouds about her, that tempered the light into a thousand beautiful shades and colours, and multiplied that lustre, which before was too strong and dazzling, into a variety of milder glories.

In the mean time, the world was in alarm, and all the inhabitants of it gathered together upon a spacious plain; so that I seemed to have the whole species before my eyes. A voice was heard from the clouds, declaring the intention of this visit, which was to restore and appro|priate to every one living what was his due. The fear and hope, joy and sorrow, which appeared in that great assembly after this solemn declaration, are not to be ex|pressed. The first edict was then pronounced, that all titles and claims to riches and estates, or to any part of them, should be immediately vested in the rightful owner. Upon this the inhabitants of the earth held up the instruments of their tenures, whether in parchment, paper, wax, or any other form of conveyance; and as the goddess moved the mirror of truth, which she held in her hand, so that the light which flowed from it fell upon the multitude, they examined the several instruments by the beams of it: the rays of the mirror had a particular quality of setting fire to all forgery and falsehood. The blaze of papers, the melting of seals, and the crackling of parch|ments, made a very odd scene. The fire very often ran through two or three lines only, and then stopped. Though I could not but observe the flames chiefly broke out among the interlineations, and codicils: the light of the mirror, as it was turned up and down, pierced into all the dark corners and recesses of the universe, and by that means detected many writings and records which had been hidden or buried by time, chance, or design. This occasioned a wonderful revolution among the people. At the first time, the spoils of extortion, fraud, robbery, with all the fruits of bribery and corruption, were thrown together in a prodigious pile, that almost reached to the clouds, and was called the mount of restitution; to which all injured persons were invited, to receive what belonged to them.

One might see crowds of people in tattered garments come, up, and change cloaths with others that were dress|ed with lace and embroidery. Several who were plumbs, or very near it, became men of moderate fortunes; and many others, who were overgrown in wealth and posses|sions, had no more left than what they usually spent. What moved my concern most, was to see a certain street of the greatest credit in Europe, from one end to the other become bankrupt.

The next command was for the whole body of mankind to separate themselves into their proper families: which was no sooner done, but an edict was issued requiring all children to repair to their true and natural fathers. This put a great part of the assembly in motion; for as the mirror was moved over them, it inspired every one with such a natural instinct, as directed them to their real parents. It was a very melancholy spectacle to see the fathers of very large families become childless, and bach|elors undone by a charge of sons and daughters. You might see a presumptuous heir of a great estate ask blessings of his coachman; and a celebrated toast paying her duty to a valet de chambre. Many, under vows of celibacy, ap|peared surrounded with a numerous issue. The change of parentage would have caused great lamentation, but, that the calamity was pretty common; and that gener|ally those who lost their children had the satisfaction of seeing them put into the hands of their dearest friends. Men were no sooner settled in their right to their pos|sessions and their progeny, but there was a third order proclaimed, that all the posts of dignity and honour in the uni|verse should be conferred on persons of the greatest merit, abilities, and perfections. The handsome, the strong, and the weal|thy, immediately pressed forward; but not being able to bear the splendor of the mirror which played upon their faces, they immediately fell back upon the crowd: but as the goddess tried the multitude by her glass, as the eagle does its young ones by the lustre of the sun, it was remarkable, that every one turned away his face from it who had not distinguished himself either by virtue, knowl|edge, or capacity in business, either military or civil. This select assembly was drawn up in the centre of a pro|digious multitude, which was diffused on all sides, and stood observing them as idle people used to gather about

a regiment that were exercising their arms. They were drawn up in three bodies: in the first were the men of virtue, in the second the men of knowledge, and in the third the men of business. It was impossible to look at the first column without a secret veneration, their aspects were so sweetened with humanity, raised with contempla|tion, emboldened with resolution, and adorned with the most agreeable airs, which are those that proceed from secret habits of virtue, I could not but take notice, that there were many faces among them which were unknown, not only to the multitude, but even to several of their own body.

In the second column, consisting of the men of knowl|edge, there had been great disputes before they fell into their ranks, which they did not do at last, without the positive command of the goddess who presided over the assembly. She had so ordered it, that men of the greatest genius and strongest sense were placed at the head of the column: behind these were such as had formed their minds very much on the thoughts and writings of others. In the rear of the column were men who had more wit than sense, or more learning than understanding. All living authors of any value were ranged in one of these classes; but I must confess I was very much surprised to see a great body of editors, critics, commentators, and grammarians meet with so ill a reception. They had formed themselves into a body, and, with a great deal of arrogance, demanded the first station in the column of knowledge; but the goddess, instead of complying with the request, clapped them all into liveries, and bid them know themselves for no other but the lacquies of the learned.

The third column were men of business, and consisted of persons of military and civil capacities. The former marched out from the rest, and placed themselves in the front; on which the other shook their heads at them, but did not think fit to dispute the post with them. I could not but make several observations upon this last column of people; but I have certain private reasons why I do not think fit to communicate them to the public. In order to fill up all the posts of honour, dignity, and profit, there was a draught made out of each column of men, who were masters of all the three qualifications in some degree,

and were preferred to stations of the first rank. The sec|ond draught was made out of such as were possessed of any two of the qualifications, who were disposed of in stations of a second dignity. Those who were left, and were endowed only with one of them, had their suitable posts. When this was over, there remained many places of trust and profit unfilled, for which there were fresh draughts made out of the surrounding multitude, who had any appearance of those excellencies, or were recom|mended by those who possessed them in reality.

All were surprised to see so many new faces in the most eminent dignities; and, for my own part, I was very well pleased to see that all my friends either kept their present posts, or were advanced to higher.

Having filled my paper with those particulars of my vision which concerned the male part of mankind, I must reserve for another occasion the sequel of it, which relates to the fair sex.

A Continuation of the VISION.

Dreams are but interludes, which Fancy makes, When monarch Reason sleeps—this mimic wakes; Compounds a medley of disjointed things, A Court of coblers—and a mob of kings. DRYDEN.

THE male world were dismissed by the goddess of justice, and disappeared, when on a sudden the whole plain was covered with women. So charming a multitude filled my heart with unspeakable pleasure; and as the celestial light of the mirror shone upon their faces, several of them seemed rather persons descended in the trai•• of the goddess, than such as were brought before her for their trial. The clack of tongues, and confusion of voices, in this new assembly, were so very great, that the goddess was obliged to command silence several times, and with some severity, before she could make them atten|tive to the edicts. They were all sensible, that the most important affair among womankind was then to be settled, which every one knows to be the point of place. This had raised innumerable disputes among them, and put the whole sex into a tumult. Every one produced her claim, and pleaded her pretensions. Birth, beauty, wit, or wealth, were words that rang in my ears from all parts

of the plain. Some boasted of the merit of their husbands, others of their own power in governing them. Some pleaded their unspotted virginity; others their numerous issue. Some valued themselves as they were the mothers, and others as they were the daughters of considerable per|sons. There was not a single accomplishment, unmen|tioned, or unpractised. The whole congregation was full of singing, dancing, tossing, ogling, speaking, smiling, sighing, fanning, frowning, and all those other irresistible arts which women put in practice to captivate the hearts of reasonable creatures. The goddess, to end the dispute, caused it to be proclaimed, That every one should take place according as she was more or less beautiful.

This declaration gave great satisfaction to the whole assembly, which immediately bridled up, and appeared in all its beauties. Such as believed themselves graceful in their motions, found an occasion of falling back, advanc|ing forward, or making a false step, that they might shew their persons in the most becoming air. Such as had fine necks and bosoms, were wonderfully curious to look over the heads of the multitude, and observe the most distant parts of the assembly. Several clapped their hands on their foreheads, as helping their sight to look upon the glories that surrounded the goddess, but in reality to shew their fine hands and arms. The ladies were yet better pleased when they heard, that in the decision of this great controversy, each of them should be her own judge, and take her place according to her own opinion of herself, when she consulted her looking-glass.

The goddess, then let down the mirror of truth in a golden chain, which appeared larger in proportion as it descended, and approached nearer to the eyes of the be|holders. It was the particular property of this looking-glass to banish all false appearances, and shew people what they really are. The whole women were repre|sented without regard to the usual external features, which were made entirely conformable to their real cha|racters. In short, the most accomplished (taking the whole circle of female perfections) were the most beauti|ful; and the most defective, the most deformed. The goddess so varied the motion of the glass, and placed it in so many different lights, that each had an opportuni|ty of seeing herself in it.

It is impossible to describe the rage, the pleasure, or astonishment, that appeared in each face upon its repre|sentation in the mirror; multitudes started at their own form, and would have broken the glass if they could have reached it. Many saw their blooming features wither as they looked upon them, and their self-admira|tion turning into a loathing and abhorrence. The lady who was thought so agreeable in her anger, and was so often celebrated for a woman of fire and spirit, was fright|ed at her own image, and fancied she saw a fury in the glass. The interested mistress beheld a Happy, and the subtle jilt a Sphynx. I was very much troubled in my own heart, to see such a destruction of fine faces; but at the same time had the pleasure of seeing several improved, which I had before looked upon as the greatest master|pieces of nature. I observed that some few were so hum|ble as to be surprized at their own charms; and that ma|ny a one, who had lived in the retirement and severity of a vestal, shined forth in all the graces and attractions of a Syren. I was ravished at the sight of a particular image in the mirror, which I thought the most beautiful object that my eyes ever beheld. There was something more than human in her countenance; her eyes were so full of light that they seemed to beautify every thing they looked upon. Her face was so enlivened with such a florid bloom, as did not so properly seem the mark of health as of immortality. Her shape, her stature, and her whole mein, were such as distinguished her even there, where the whole fair sex were assembled.

I was impatient to see the lady represented by so divine an image, whom I found to be the person that stood at my right hand, and in the same point of view with myself. This was a little old woman, who in her prime had been about five feet high, though at present shrunk to about three quarters of that measure; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 natural aspect was puckered up with wrinkles, and her•••• and covered with grey hairs. I had observed all along an innocent cheerfulness in her face, which was now height•••• into rapture, as she beheld herself in the glass. It was an odd circum|stance in my dream, (but I cannot ••••bear relating it) I conceived so great an inclination towards her, that I had thoughts of discoursing her upon the point of marriage, when on a sudden she was carried from me; for the word

was now given, that all who were pleased with their own images should separate, and place themselves at the head of their sex.

This detachment was afterwards divided into three bodies, consisting of maids, wives, and widows; the wives being placed in the middle, with the maids on the right, and the widows on the left: though it was with difficulty that these two last bodies were hindered from falling into the centre. This separation of those who I ed their real selves, not having lessened the number of the main body so considerably as it might have been wished, the goddess, after having drawn up her mirror, thought fit to make new distinctions among those who did not like the figures they saw in it. She made several wholesome e••••cts, which are slipt out of my mind; but there were two which dwelt upon it, as being very ex|traordinary in their kind, and executed with great sever|ity. Their design was to make an example of two ex|tremes in the female world; of those who were very se|vere on the conduct of others, and of those who were very regardless of their own. The first sentence therefore the goddess pronounced was. That all females addicted to censoriousness and detraction 〈◊〉〈◊〉 lose the use of speech: a punishment which would to most grievous to the offen|der, and what should be the ••nd of all punishments, effectual for rooting out the crime. Upon this edict, which was as soon executed as published, the noise of this assembly considerably abated. It was a melancholy spact••c••e to see so many who had the reputation of rigid virtue struck dumb. A lady who stood by me, and saw my concern, told me, she wondered how I could be concerned for such a pack of—. I found, by the shaking of her head, she was going to give me their cha|racters; but by her saying no more, I perceived she had lost the command of her tongue. This calamity fell very heavy upon that part of women who are distinguished by the name of Prudes, a courtly word for female hypocrites, who have a short way of being virtuous, by shewing that others are vicious. The second sentence was then pro|nounced against the loose part of the sex, That all should immediately be pregnant, who in any part of their life had run the hazard of it. This produced a very goodly appearance, and revealed so many misconducts, that made

that who were lately struck dumb, repine more than ever at their want of utterance; though, at the same time, (as afflictions seldom come single) many of the mutes were also seized with this new calamity. The ladies were now in such a condition that they would have wanted room, had not the plain been large enough to let them divide their ground, and extend their lines or all sides. It was sensible affliction to me, to see such a multitude of fair ones, either dumb, or big bellied. But 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was something more at case, when I found that they agreed upon several regulations to cover such misfortunes. Among others, that it should be an estab|lished maxim in all nations, that a woman's first child might or me into the world within six months after the acquaintance with her husband; and that grief might retard the birth of her last still fourteen months after his decease.

This vision ••asted till my usual hour of waking, which I did with some surprize to find myself alone, after hav|ing been engaged almost a whole night in so prodigious a multitude. I could not but reflect with wonder, at the partiality and extravagan••t of my vision; which, accord|ing to my thoughts, had not done justice to the sex. If virtue in men is more venerable, it is in women more love|ly; which Milton has very finely expressed in his Paradise Lost, where Adam, speaking of Eve, after having exerted his own pre-eminence, as being first in creation and in|ternal faculties, breaks out into the following rapture.

—Yet when I approach Her loveliness so absolute she seems, And in herself complete; so well to know Her own, that what she wills to do or say, Seems wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best: All higher knowledge in her presence falls Degraded 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Wisdom in discourse with her Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shews. Authority and reason on her wait, As one intended first, not after made Occasionally 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and, to consummate all, Greatness of mind, and nobleness, their seat Build in her loveliest, and creation awe About her, as a guard angelic plac'd.

No Life pleasing to GOD that is not useful to MAN. An Eastern STORY.

Thus God and nature link'd the general frame, And bade Self-love and Social be the same. POPE.

IT pleased the mighty sovereign Abbas-Carascan, from whom the kings of the earth derive honour and do|minion, to set Mirza his servant over the province of Tauris. In the hand of Mirza the balance of distribu|tion was splendid with impartiality; and under his ad|ministration the weak were protected, the learned receiv|ed honour, and the diligent became rich: Mirza, there|fore, was beheld by every eye with complacency, and every tongue pronounced blessings on his head. But it was observed that he derived no joys from the benefits which he diffused; he became pensive and melancholy; he spent his leisure in solitude: In his palace he sat motion|less upon a sofa; and when he went out, his walk was slow, and his eyes were fixed upon the ground: he ap|plied to the business of state with reluctance; and resol|ved to relinquish the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 government, of which he could no longer enjoy the reward.

He therefore obtained permission to approach the throne of his Sovereign; and being asked what was his request, he made this reply, "May the Lord of the world forgive the slave whom he has honoured, if Mirza pre|sume he again to lay the bounty of Abbas at his feet. Thou hast given me the dominion of a country, fruitful as the gardens of Damascus; and of a city, glorious above all others, except that only which reflects the splendor of thy presence. But the longest life is a period scarce suf|ficient to prepare for death: all other business is vain and trivial, as the toil of emmets in the path of the trav|eller, under whose foot they perish for ever; and all enjoyment is unsubstantial and evanescent, as the colours of the bow that appear in the interval of a storm. Suffer me therefore, to prepare for the approach of eternity; let me give up my soul to meditation; let solitude and silence acquaint me with the mysteries of devotion; let me forget the world, and by the world be forgotten, till the moment arrives in which the veil of eternity shall fall, and I shall be found at the bar of the Almighty." Mirza then bowed himself to the earth, and stood silent.

By the command of Abbas it is recorded, that at these words he trembled upon that throne at the footstool of which the world pays homage. He looked round upon his nobles; but every countenance was pale, and every eye was upon the earth. No man opened his mouth; and the King first broke silence, after it had continued an hour.

"Mirza, terror and doubt are come upon me: I am alarmed, as a man who suddenly perceives that he is near the brink of a precipice, and is urged forward by an irre|sistible force; but yet I know not whether my danger is a reality or a dream. I am, as thou art, a reptile of the earth; my life is a moment; and eternity, in which days and years, and ages are nothing; eternity is before me, for which I also should prepare: but by whom the must the faithful be governed? By those only who have no fear of judgment; by those alone whose life is brutal; because, like brutes, they do not consider that they shall die. Or who, indeed, are the faithful? Are the busy multitudes that crowd the city in a state of perdition? And is the cell of the Dervise along 〈◊〉〈◊〉 are of paradise? To all, the life of a Dervise is not possible; to all, there|fore, it cannot be a duty. Depart to the house which has in the city been prepared for thy residence; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 meditate the reason of they request: and may he who illumes the mind of the humble, enable me to determine with wisdom!"

Mirza departed, and on the third day, having receiv|ed no commands, he again requested an audience, and it was granted. When he entered the royal presence, his countenance appeared more cheerful; he drew a letter from his bosom, and having kissed it, he presented it with his light hand.

"My Lord, said he, I have learned by this letter, which I received from Cosrou the Iman, who now stands before thee, in what manner life may be best improved. I am enabled to look back with pleasure, and forward with hope; and I shall now rejoice still to be the shadow of thy power at Tauris, and to keep those honours which I so lately wished to resign." The king, who had listened to Mirza with a mixture of surprize and curiosity, imme|diately gave the letter to Cosrou, and commanded that it should be read. The eyes of the court were at once

turned on the hoary sage, whose countenance was suffu|sed with an honest blush; and it was not without some hesitation that he read these words:

"To Mirza, whom the wisdom of Abbas our mighty Lord has honoured with dominion, be everlasting health! When I heard thy purpose to withdraw the blessings of thy government from the thousands of Tauris, my heart was wounded with the arrow of affliction, and my eyes became dim with sorrow. But who shall speak before the King, when he is troubled? And who shall boast of knowledge, when he is distressed by doubt? To thee I will relate the events of my youth, which thou hast re|newed before me; and those truths which they taught me, may the Prophet multiply to thee.

"Under the instruction of the physician Aluazer, I ob|tained an early knowledge of his art. To those who were smitten with diseases, I could administer plants which the sun had impregnated with the spirit of health. But the scenes of pain, languor, and mortality, which were perpetually rising before me, made me often trem|ble for myself. I saw the grave open at my feet: I de|termined therefore, to contemplate only the regions be|yond it, and to despise every acquisition which I could not keep. I conceived an opinion, that as there was no merit but a voluntary poverty, and silent meditation, those who desired money were not proper objects of boun|ty; therefore money was despised. I buried mine in the earth; and renouncing society, I wandered into a wild and sequestered part of the country; my dwelling was a cave by the side of a hill; I drank the running water from the spring, and eat such fruits and herbs as I could find. To increase the austerity of my life, I frequently watched all night, sitting at the entrance of the cave with my face to the east, resigning myself to the secret influ|ences of the Prophet, and expecting illumination from above. One morning after my nocturnal vigil, just as I perceived the horizon glow at the approach of the sun, the power of sleep became irresistible, and I sunk under it. I imagined myself still sitting at the entrance of my cell; that the dawn increased, and that as I looked earn|estly for the first beam of day, a dark spot appeared to intercept it. I perceived that it was in motion: it in|creased in size as it drew near, and at length I discovered

it to be an eagle. I still kept my eye fixed stedfastly up|on it, and saw it alight at a small distance; where I now descried a fox, whose two fore legs appeared to be broken. Before this fox the eagle laid part of a kid, which it had brought in its talons, and then disappeared. When I awoke, I laid my forehead upon the ground, and blessed the Prophet for the instruction of the morning. I re|viewed my dream, and said thus to myself, "Cosrou, thou hast done well to renounce the tumult, the business, and the vanities of life; but thou hast as yet only done it in part: thou art still every day busied in search of food; thy mind is not wholly at rest, neither is thy trust in Providence complete. What art thou taught by this vision? If thou hast seen an eagle commissioned by hea|ven to feed a fox that was lame, shall not the hand of heaven also supply thee with food; when that which pre|vents thee from procuring it to thyself is not necessity, but devotion?" I was now so confident of a miraculous supply, that I neglected to walk out for my repast, which, after the first day, I expected with an impatience that left me little power of attending to any other object: this impatience, however, I laboured to suppress, and persisted in my resolution; but my eyes at length began to fail me, and my knees smote each other: I threw my|self backward, and hoped my weakness would soon in|crease to insensibility. But I was suddenly roused by the voice of an invisible being, who pronounced these words: "Cosrou, I am the angel who, by the command of the Almighty, have registered the thoughts of thy heart, which I am now commissioned to reprove. Whilst thou waft attempting to become wise above that which is re|vealed, thy fully has perverted the instructions which were vouchsafed to thee. Art thou disabled as the fox 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Hast thou not rather the powers of the eagle? Arise, let the eagle be the object of thy emulation. To pain and sickness be thou again the messenger of ease and health. Virtue is not rest, but action. If thou dost good to man, as an evidence of thy love to God, thy virtue will be ex|alted from moral to divine; and that happiness, which is the pledge of paradise, will be thy reward upon earth."

"At these words, I was not less astonished than if a mountain had been overturned at my feet. I humbled myself in the dust; I returned to the city. I dug up

my treasure; I was liberal, yet I became rich. My skill in restoring health to the body gave me frequent opportunities of curing the diseases of the soul. I put on the sacred vestments; I grew eminent beyond my merit; and it was the pleasure of the King that I should stand before him. Now, therefore, be not offended; I boast of no knowledge that I have not re|ceived. As the sands of the desart drink up the drops of rain, or the dew of the morning; so do I also, who am but dust, imbibe the instructions of the Prophet. Believe, then, that it is he who tells thee, all knowledge is profane which terminates in thyself; and by a life wasted in speculation, little even of this can be gained. When the gates of paradise are thrown open before thee, thy mind shall be irradiated in a moment. Here thou canst little more than pile error upon error; there thou shall build truth upon truth. Wait, therefore, for the glorious vision; and, in the mean time, emulate the ea|gle. Much is in thy power, and therefore much is ex|pected of thee. Though the Almighty only can give virtue; yet, as a prince, thou mayst stimulate those to beneficence, who act from no higher motive than imme|diate interest; thou canst not produce the principle, but mayst enforce the practice. The relief of the poor is equal, whether they receive it from ostentation or charity; and the effect of example is the same, whether it be in|tended to obtain the favour of God or man. Let thy virtue be thus diffused; and if thou believest with rever|ence, thou shalt be accepted above. Farewell.—May the smile of him who resides in the Heaven of heavens be upon thee! and against thy name, in the volume of his will, may Happiness be written!"

The King, whose doubts, like those of Mirza, were now removed, looked up with a smile that communicated the joy of his mind. He dismissed the prince to his gov|ernment; and commanded those events to be recorded, to the end that posterity may know, "That no life is pleasing to God, but that which is useful to mankind!"

The JUDGMENT of COMMON SENSE: A VISION.

No glass or colouring will avail, But Truth and Justice here prevail. R.

I WAS the other day buried in the deepest contemplation, on reading that paper of the Guardian in which we are presented with a view of that impartial court of justice in the infernal regions, where mankind (according to the ancient mythology) are supposed to be dealt with in pro|portion to their good or evil actions while or earth. In the midst of this reverie, I was seized with a profound sleep when methought I was in that part of the lower regions I had been reading of. The great hurry and fatigue of busi|ness made Minos (who then sat as judge) to be desirous of some respite; for which reason he left Common Sense, lately arrived from the upper world, to officiate in his room.

The first who appeared before this new substitute of Minos, was a figure that approached with an easy assurance in his countenance; he smiled on the court with a seeming complacency; and laid-claim to Elysium, from the many generous and friendly actions of his life. No public sub|scription was attempted, but he was among the first to encourage it; no acquaintance in distress, but he contri|buted to their relief: In short, he was looked upon, while on earth, as a humane, generous man; beloved by his neighbours, and esteemed by his acquaintances; but on further examination, it was proved, that this very person was mean enough to become a slave to a party for a pen|sion; that though seemingly humane to individuals, he was a betrayer and ruiner of his country's interest; and his seeming virtues proceeded not from any goodness of heart, but an ostentation to keep up the empty shews of consequential grandeur. On which Common Sense with a look of severity, telling him, that of all cruelty, that towards the public was the most unpardonable, nodded towards a black officer on the left to take him into custody. This was no sooner done, than another ghost was brought forward, who amazed the whole court with his unac|countable behaviour. When asked to what purpose he had lived fifty-three years and some odd months; in the most careless, pick-tooth manner, with his eyes half shut, he replied, None: and being told that was not a satisfactory answer, he retorted with a gape—Perhaps so. In

a word, he was found to be such a one as Prior describes:

He soundly slept the night away, And just did nothing all the day.

This pretty gentleman being informed that indolence was not the road to Elysium, was ordered to cast off to the left. To him succeeded a first minister of state: but it being proved, on his trial, that nature had designed him for a juggler, and that he had by mistake been forced to animate the wrong body, he was remanded back again to earth, to shine in his proper sphere. I was buried in thought for some time at what I saw, when I awakened out of my reverie, at the appearance of a ghost with a bloated countenance; who, on being asked what sort of a life he had led; answered, A very harmless one; that from the moment he had come to his estate, he had never known what it was to be thoroughly sober; and that he had consequently been a friend to his country by promo|ting the excise; and as it was his fortune to be taken off in a drunken fit▪ he humbly hoped he might be ranked among those who died in the service of their country. The court was some time puzzled to find out a proper punishment for a life so scandalously mispent: they knew flames would be thrown away upon him: but at length his station was fixed among the suicides, the most dismal, melancholy spot in hell.

Quite different from the former was the next that was called upon. It was a young creature, with an unspeak|able innocence and sweetness in her countenance, attend|ed with a melancholy and wanness, which seemed deeply rooted in her. When the usual question was put, in|stead of answering, she burst into a flood of tears, nor was she able to utter one word; but a neighbouring ghost, who happened to arrive about the same time, in|formed Common Sense that she had an unblemished cha|racter, and was universally esteemed for her good nature and sense, till unfortunately she had given credit to the protestations of a young gentleman, who had avowed in the most sacred manner to make her his bride; but after gaining his ends, had basely deserted her, which flung her into a melancholy that soon put an end to her life. The whole court was moved at the relation; but Common Sense telling her she had already sufficiently expiated for

her credulity, and that the villain who betrayed her was principally to answer for the crime, ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her into his protection; which he had no sooner done, than sorrow fled away, her bloom return|ed, and modesty and loveliness shone with the most be|coming sweetness. Upon s••eing this a whole shoal of coquettes flocked to their trial, not doubting to meet with the same good fortune; but their gambols had no other effect on Common Sense than to hasten their filing off to the left. As for Fops, Methodists, Jansenists, Humbuggers, and others of the same species, as they were known enemies to Common Sense, their trials were deferred till the return of Minos, left justice from him might seem partial. What seemed to me remarkable was, that Common Sense often mistook Methodists for Jansenists, and Jansenists for Methodists; so greatly seemed to him the resemblance between those two sectaries.

Room was now made for a lady of figure, who pressed forward with an easy freedom in her air, that bespoke her used to the best of company. The question being put, she declared she had led a life quite gay and polite; that drums, routs, balls, intrigues, dress, &c. had taken up her whole time; and that in the end she had died a martyr to her politeness, by a violent cold she had got at a masquerade. On being demanded what good she had done? What charities bestowed, &c. &c. What good! what charities! replied she; these are very odd sort of questions: why, my dear, dear Sir, do you think we fine ladies can have time to think of such things? No, no; our whole life is taken up with the more important arti|cles of cards, scandal, dress, &c. Away with her, cries Common Sense; to the left with her; make room for her ladyship. Hey-day, what have we got here, continues he to a Harlequin, who entered playing his antic tricks, to the great amusement, as he expected, of the spectators; but no sooner did the keeper of Tartarus spy him, than (without waiting for orders) he laid his clutches on him, and poor Lunn was immediately dragged from the bar, amidst the repeated hisses of the whole court. Pray, friend, says Common Sense to the next, why that dejected countenance? I lived thirty seven years a farmer, (answered the ghost) had three sons and one daughter, by a wife whom I tenderly loved, as I did my poor children

whose education I was particularly careful of, and should have been the happiest of mankind, had not the distem|per among the cattle, in a few weeks deprived me of my whole stock; my landlord threw me into prison for a debt he knew it was impossible for me at that time to pay. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this situation I did what I could to contribute to the maintenance of my family, by making nets, purses, &c. but it was insufficient, and I died for want of common necessaries.* 9.1 Pray take care of him, cried Common Sense to the Elysium keeper, and convince him, that the more unfortunate virtue is in the other world, the great|er the reward here; and though your children are de|prived of you, they are more particularly the care of a superior power and better parent, who never fails, sooner or later, to reward goodness. The keeper of Elysium smiling, bid him enter the happy portal; telling him he would meet with his wife there, whom it seems, a broken heart had kindly delivered from a troublesome world about six months before.

The next who mounted was a grave looking gentle|man, who no sooner mentioned his being of the sacer|dotal order, than Common Sense cut him short, by telling him it was a rule of court, when a band of cassocks appeared, to have inquiry made through Elysium if any were in the least indebted to the reverend claimant for the happiness they enjoyed; and if such evidence ap|peared in his behalf, he was to be admitted; if not, he was obliged to take the contrary road. Upon his dis|mission appeared two duellists, who had honourably ex|pired in their vocation; no sooner were they known than Common Sense acquainted the black officer, that duellists were always his property, and desired he would lend them his hand. On their disappearing, a gay young fellow was introduced, hallooing and shouting with the most impudent stare, and settled assurance imaginable, in his countenance: hey day, says Common Sense, who have we go here? Pray, good bashful Sir, what may you be? D—e, old gentleman, returns the spark, do you know what a buck, what a wit is? But I cannot answer imper|tinent questions now: I have kept a long fast, d—'s.

Can you help me to a fresh bit of game? Z—ds, I wish I had a few brother bucks here, we would soon shew them we could play hell and the devil as well as the best of them below stairs. Pray, good Mr. Buck, cries Common Sense, move off to the left; and you, Sir, (speak|ing to the black officer) let his buckship be well hunted when you get him into the dark regions.

Well, friend, says Common Sense to a ghost who thrust forward, what may your passport be to Elysium? I have been, replied the ghost, all my life-time a most zealous churchman, a true orthodox believer, a staunch advocate.—Look you, friend, replied Common Sense, we never in this court inquire into the faith, but into the actions of those who appear before us; how did you spend the fifty three years you were confined to the upper world? In shewing my zeal, replies the ghost, to the true religion: by reviling, slandering, and persecuting all unbelievers, and forcing into the pale of the church all who were in the wrong road to—Hold, hold, cries Common Sense, you have been in the wrong road yourself all y•••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 time. Charity and benevolence are the sure 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to Elysium, as persecution and fiery zeal never fail ••••••ding their followers to Tartarus; move off, pray—aw•••••• with him.

The next called up was a ghost who boasted m•••••• of his ingenuity and superior talents, and gloried it several inventions which were of the utmost consequence (as he said) to mankind. I hope, says Common Sense, the world is at present reaping the benefit of your ingenuity. It did while I lived, answered the ghost; but as I did not care to publish those secrets in my life-time, they died with me. Wretch, cries Common Sense, to imagine supe|rior qualifications were granted by Heaven but for the good of the society in which they were placed. Wise men are designed to be vehicles of blessings from above: nor are misers of any sort so detestable as those, who through mean, selfish views, bury in oblivion what might prove a public and lasting benefit to their fellow-crea|tures: take him away.

On this gentleman's disappearance, a ghost advanced, who brought a copy of his epitaph (by way of credentials) with him from the other world, in which he was extolled beyond the skies for a loving husband, a tender father, a

sincere friend, &c. &c. which is as much as to say, cries Common Sense, that you died rich, and your heirs were glad to dismiss you with a fulsome compliment: what say your actions for you? On examination, this loving hus|band was found to have kept a brace of mistresses; for whose support he had abridged his wife of the common necessaries of life. This tender father took such care of his children, that they were unacquainted with every kind of knowledge, but a few of the fashionable vices: and as for friendship, though it was a word often in his 〈◊〉〈◊〉, he never knew any strong enough to withstand the least impulse of interest: he was profuse to extrava|gance, and yet the greatest of misers where merit in indi|gence 〈◊〉〈◊〉 distress called for his assistance. Common Sense, on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••koned to the keeper of Tartarus, who, without 〈◊〉〈◊〉, enlisted himself among his finister acquain|tance.

〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••rt about this time was interrupted by a noise at a distance, occasioned by a dispute between Charon and ••••ailor, who had, unperceived by him, slipt into his boa•• ••nd when he landed refused to pay the usual fare. Th•• ••lunt tar, without paying much regard to those he was before, called Charon an old fool; swore he had not a drop of sailor's blood in his whole carcase, or he would have known better than to have asked a brother for pas|sage-money: that, for his part, it had been his fortune to be killed in a naval engagement, fighting against the enemies of his country, and had left all above stairs at sixes and sevens; yet that nothing vexed him so much, as that a fellow who wore trousers, should have a merce|nary temper. Common Sense, who knew the value of his blunt honesty, ordered him, with a smile, to veer of to the Elysium side, to make way for a ghost who had been born to a good estate, but had foolishly squandered it away among parasites and sharping gamesters, and left behind him a numerous progeny of beggars. This wretch was condemned to wear long asses ears, a fool's coat, and a rattle with dice; to be the scoff and jest of all hell, and in short, to be the most despicable among the damned: nor was this all; for the sins of his poste|rity, whom he by his folly had reduced to the necessity of committing many crimes, were to be doubly punished in him. No sooner was he taken into custody, than I was

called to the bar; but my conscience accusing me of a multitude of unrepented crimes, threw me into such a fright, that luckily for me, it put an end to my dream.

CARAZAN'S VISION: or, SOCIAL LOVE and BENEFICENCE recommended.

Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense, In one close system of benevolence; Happier, as kinder, in whate'er degree, A height of bliss is height of charity. POPE.

CARAZAN, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent throughout all the East for his avarice and wealth; his original is obscure as that of the spark, which by the collision of steel and adamant is struck out of the dark|ness; and the patient labour of persevering diligence alone had made him rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent he was thought to be generous; and he was still acknowledged to be inflexibly just. But whether in his dealings with men he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold; or whether in proportion as he accumulated wealth, he-discovered his own importance by increase, Carazan prized it more as he used it less: he gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power; and as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freezing influ|ence extended to his bosom.

But though the door of Carazan was never opened by hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer: he performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and he had thrice paid his vows at the temple of the Prophet. That devotion which arises from the love of God, and necessarily includes the love of man, as it connects gratitude with beneficence, and exalts that which was mortal to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the object not only of affection but of reverence. On the contrary, the devo|tion of the selfish, whether it be thought to avert the punishment which every one wishes to be inslicted, or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy with guilt, never fails to excite indignation and abhorrence. Cara|zan,

therefore, when he had 'locked his door, and turn|ing round with a look of circumspective suspicion, pro|ceeded to the mosque, was followed by every eye with silent malignity; the poor suspended their supplications when he passed by; though he was known by every man, yet no man saluted him.

Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such was the character which he had acquired, when notice was given by proclamation, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the center of the city; that his table should be spread for the hungry, and that the stranger should be welcome to his bed. The multitude soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they beheld him distributing bread to the hungry, and apparel to the naked, his eye softened with compassion, and his cheeks glowing with delight. Every one gazed with astonish|ment at the prodigy; and the murmur of innumerable voices increasing like the sound of approaching thunder. Carazan beckoned with his hand: attention suspended the tumult in a moment; and be thus gratified the curi|osity which procured him audience.

To Him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the Almighty and the most merciful, be everlasting hon|our!—he hath ordained sleep to be the minister of in|struction, as his visions have reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my Haram, with my lamp burn|ing before me, computing the product of my merchan|dize, and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I fell in|to a deep sleep, and the hand of him who dwells in the third heaven was upon me. I beheld the angel of death coming forward like a whirlwind, and he smote me be|fore I could deprecate the blow. At the same moment I found myself lifted from the ground, and transported with astonishing rapidity through the region of the air. The earth was contracted to an atom between; and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of paradise was now in sight; and I was intercepted by a sudden brightness which no human eye could behold: the irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced: my day of probation was past, and from the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor could any thing be added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the powers of

nature could reverse, my con••••••ence totally forsook me; and while I stood trembling and silent, covered with con|fusion, and chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by the radiance that flamed before me.

"Carazan, thy worship has not been accepted, be|cause it was not prompted by the love of God; neither can thy righteousness be rewarded, because it was not produced by the love of man: for thy own sake only hast thou rendered to every man his due: and thou hast approached the almighty only for thyself. Thou hast not looked up with gratitude, nor round thee with kind|ness. Around thee thou hast indeed beheld vice and fol|ly: but if vice and folly could justify thy parsimony, would they not condemn the bounty of heaven? If not upon the foolish and the vicious, where shall the sun dif|fuse his light, or the clouds distil their dew? Where shall the lips of the spring breathe fragrance, or the hand of autumn diffuse plenty? Remember, Carazan that thou hast shut compassion from thy heart, and grasped thy treasures with an hand of iron: thou hast lived for thyself; and, therefore, henceforth for ever thou shalt subsist alone. From the light of heaven, and from the society of all beings, shalt thou be driven; sol|itude shall protract the lingering hours of eternity, and darkness aggravate the horror of despair."

At this moment I was driven, by some secret and irre|sistible power, through the glowing system of creation, and passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As I ap|proached the verge of nature, I perceived the shadows of total and boundless vacuity deepen before me, a dreadful region of eternal silence, solitude, and darkness! unutterable horror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation burst from me with all the vehemence of desire: Oh! that I had been doomed for ever to the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt! their society would have alleviated the torment of despair, and the rage of fire could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or, if I had been con|demned to reside on a comet, that would return but once in a thou|sand years to the regions of light and life, the hope of these periods, however distant, would cheer me in the dreary interval of cold, and darkness, and the vicissitude would divide eternity into time. While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was

quenched in utter darkness. The agonies of despair in|creased every moment, as every moment augmented my distance from the last habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thousand thousand years had carried me beyond the reach of all but that power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward into an immense abyss of darkness, through which I ••••ould still drive without succour and without society, ••••••ther and f••rther still, for ever and ever. I then stretched out my hands towards the regions of existence, with an emotion that awaked me. Thus have I been taught to estimate society, like every other blessing, by its loss. My heart is warmed to liberality; and I am zealous to communicate the happiness which I feel, to those from it is derived; for the society of one wretch, whom, in the pride of prosperity, I would have spurned from my door, would, in the dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, have been more highly prized than the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda.

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly silent, and looked upwards in an ecstacy of gratitude and devotion. The multitude was struck at once with the precept and the example; and the Caliph, to whom the event was related, that he might be liberal beyond the power of gold, commanded it to be recorded for the benefit of posterity.

On CREATION and the ANIMAL WORLD.

Range where you please, in water, earth, and air— God is in ev'ry thing, and ev'ry where. R.

THOUGH there is a great deal of pleasure in contem|plating the material world, by which I mean that system of bodies into which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with the several rela|tions which those bodies bear to one another; there is still, methinks, something more wonderful and surpri|sing in contemplations on the world of life, by which I mean all those animals with which every part of the uni|verse is furnished. The material world is only the shell of the universe: the world of life are its inhabitants.

If we consider those parts of the material world which

lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our ob|servations and inquiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals with which it is stocked. Every part of matter is peopled: every green leaf swarms with in|habitants. There is scarce a single humour in the body of man, or of any other animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. The surface of animals is also covered with other animals; which are in the same manner the basis of other animals that live upon them: nay, we find in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, innumerable cells and cavities, that are crowded with such imperceptible inhabitants, as are too little for the naked eye to discover. On the other hand, if we look into the ••ore bulky parts of nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming with numberless kinds of living creatures, we find every mountain and marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked with birds and beasts, and every part of matter affording proper necessa|ries and conveniencies for the livelihood of multitudes which inhabit it.

The author of the Plurality of Worlds draws a very good argument from this consideration for the peopling of every planet; as indeed it seems very probable, from the anal|ogy of reason, that if no part of matter which we are acquainted with lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which are at such a distance from us, should not be de|sart and unpeopled, but rather that they should be fur|nished with beings adapted to their respective situations.

Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are endowed with perception, and is in a manner thrown away upon dead matter, any farther than as it is subser|vient to beings which are conscious of their existence. Accordingly we find, from the bodies which lie under our observation, that matter is only made as the basis and support of animals; and that there is no more of the one than what is necessary to the existence of the other.

Infinite goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it seems to delight in the conferring of existence upon every degree of perceptive being. As this is a specula|tion which I have often pursued with great pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge farther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of being which comes within our knowledge.

There are some living creatures which are raised but just above dead matter. To mention only that species of shell fish which is formed in the fashion of a cone, that grow to the surface of several rocks, and immediately die upon their being severed from the place where they grow. There are many other creatures but one remove from these, which have no other sense besides that of feeling and taste. Others have still an additional one of hear|ing: others of small, and others of sight. It is wonder|ful to observe, by what a gradual progress the world of life advances through a prodigious variety of species, be|fore a creature is formed that is complete in all its senses; and even among these there is such a different degree of perfection in the sense which one animal enjoys, beyond what appears in another, that though the sense in differ|ent animals be distinguished by the same common denom|inations, it seems almost of a different nature. If, after this, we look into the several inward perfections of cun|ning and sagacity, or what we generally call instinct, we find them rising after the same manner imperceptibly one above another, and receiving additional improvements according to the species in which they are implanted. This progress in nature is so very gradual, that the most perfect of an inferior species comes very near to the most imperfect of that which is immediately above it.

The exuberant and overflowing goodness of the supreme Being, whose mercy extends to all his works, is plainly seen, as I have before ••••inted, from his having made so very little matter, at least what falls within our knowl|edge, that does not swarm with life: no•• is his goodness less seen in the diversity, than in the multitude of living creatures. Had he only made one species of animals, none of the rest would have enjoyed the happiness of ex|istence; he has, therefore, specified in his creation every degree of life, every capacity of beings. The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is filled up with diverse kinds of creatures, rising one over another, by such a gentle and easy ascent, that the little transitions and deviations from one species to another are almost in|sensible. This intermediate space is so well husbanded and managed, that there is scarce a degree of perception which does not appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the goodness or wisdom of the divine Being more manifested in this his proceeding?

There is a consequence, besides those I have already mentioned, which seems very naturally deducible from the foregoing considerations. If the scale of being rises by such a regular progress so high as a man, we may, by a parity of reason, suppose that it still proceeds gradually through those beings which are of a superior nature to him; since there is an infinitely greater space and room for different degrees of perfection between the supreme Being and man, than between man and the most despica|ble insect. This consequence of so great a variety of beings which are superior to us, from that variety which is inferior to us, is made by Mr. Locke, in a passage which I shall here set down, after having premised, that notwith|standing there is such infinite room between man and his Maker for the creative power to exert itself in, it is impossible that it should ever be filled up, since there will be still an infinite gap or distance between the highest created being, and the great power which produced them.

"That there should be more species of intelligent crea|tures above us than there are of sensible and material below us, is probable to me from hence, that in all the visible corporeal world, we see no chasms or gaps. All quite down from us, the descent is by easy steps, and a continued series of things, that each remove differs very little one from the other. There are fishes that have wings, and are no strangers to the airy region: and there are some birds, that are inhabitants of the water, whose blood is cold as fishes, and their ••••••sh so like in taste, that the scrupulous are allowed them on fish days. There are animals so near akin both to birds and beasts, that they are in the middle between both: amphibious ani|mals link the terrestrial and aquatic together: seals live on land and at sea, and porpoises have the warm blood and entrails of a hog; not to mention what is confidently reported of mermaids, or sea-men. There are some brutes that seem to have as much knowledge and reason as some that are called men; and the animal and vege|table kingdoms are so nearly joined, that if you will take the lowest of the one, and the highest of the other, there will scarce be perceived any great difference between them: and so on, until we come to the lowest and the most inorganical parts of matter, we shall find every where that the several species are linked together, and

differ but in almost insensible degrees. And when we consider the infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we have reason to think, that it is suitable to the magnif|icent harmony of the universe, and the great design and infinite goodness of the Architect, that the species of crea|tures should also, by gentle degrees, ascend upwards from us towards his infinite perfection, as we see they gradually descend from us downwards: which, if it be probable, we have reason then to be persuaded, that there are far more species of creatures above us than there are beneath; we being in a degree of perfection much more remote from the infinite being of God than we are from the lowest state of being, and that which approaches nearest to nothing; and yet of all those distinct species we have no clear distinct ideas."

In this system of being there is no creature so wonder|ful in its nature, and which so much deserves our par|ticular attention as man, who fills up the middle space between the animal and the intellectual nature, the visi|ble and invisible world, and is that link in the chain of beings which has been often termed the Nexus utriusque Mundi. So that he who in one respect is associated with angels and archangels, may look upon a being of infin|ite perfection as his father, and the highest order of spirits as his brethren; may, in another respect, say to corruption, Thou art my father; and to the worm, Thou art my mother and sister.

On the DEITY, and the wonderful FRAME of HUMAN and ANIMAL BODIES.

God first made angels bodiless pure minds; Then other things which mindless bodies be. Last he made man, th' horizon' twixt both kinds, In whom we do the world's abridgment see. DAVIS.

THOSE who were skilled in anatomy among the an|cients concluded, from the outward and inward make of a human body, that it was the work of a being transcendently wise and powerful. As the world grew more enlightened in this art, their discoveries gave them fresh opportunities of admiring the conduct of providence in the formation of a human body. Galen was converted by his dissections; and could not but own a supreme

Being upon a survey of this his handy-work. There were, indeed, many parts of which the old anatomists did not know the certain use; but as they saw that most of those which they examined were adapted with admirable art to their several functions, they did not question but those whose uses they could not determine were contrived with the same wisdom for respective ends and purposes. Since the circulation of the blood has been found out, and many other great discoveries have been made by our modern anatomists, we see new wonders in the human frame, and discern several important uses for those parts which the ancients knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is such a subject as stands the utmost test of exam|ination. Though it appears formed with the nicest wisdom, upon the most superficial survey of it, it still mends upon the search, and produces our surprise and amazement in proportion as we pry into it. What I have here said of a human body may be applied to the body of every animal which has been the subject of an anatomical observation.

The body of an animal is an object adequate to our senses. It is a particular system of providence, that lies in a narrow compass. The eye is able to command it, and by successive inquiries can search into all its parts. Could the body of the whole earth, or indeed the whole universe, be thus submitted to the examination of our senses, were it not too big and disproportioned for our inquiries, too unwieldy for the management of the eye and hand, there is no question but it would appear to us as curious and well-contrived a frame as that of a human body. We could see the same concatenation and subser|vience, the same necessity and usefulness, the same beau|ty and harmony in all and every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of every single animal.

The more extended our reason is, and the more able to grapple the immense objects, the greater still are those discoveries which it makes of wisdom and providence in the works of the creation. A Sir Isaac Newton, who stands up as the miracle of the present age, can look through a whole planetary system; consider it in its weight, num|ber, and measure; and draw from it as many demonstra|tions of infinite power and wisdom, as a more confined understanding is able to deduce from the system of a human body.

But to return to our speculations on anatomy. I shall here consider the frabic and texture of the bodies of ani|mals in one particular view; which, in my opinion, shews the hand of a thinking and all-wise Being in their forma|tion, with the evidence of a thousand demonstrations. I think we may lay this down as an incontestible principle, that chance never acts in a perpetual uniformity and con|sistency with itself. If one should always fling the same number with ten thousand dice, or see every throw just five times less, or five times more in number than the throw which immediately preceded it, who would not imagine there is some invisible power which directs the cast? This is the proceeding which we find in the oper|ations of nature. Every kind of animal is diversified by different magnitudes, each of which gives rise to a differ|ent species. Let a man trace the dog or lion kind, and he will observe how many of the works of nature are published, if I may use the expression, in a variety of editions. If we look into the reptile world, or into those different kinds of animals that fill the element of water, we meet with the same repetitions among several species, that differ very little from one another but in size and bulk. You find the same creature that is drawn at large, copied out in several proportions, and ending in minia|ture. It would be tedious to produce instances of this regular conduct in Providence, as it would be superfluous to those who are versed in the natural history of animals. The magnificent harmony of the universe is such, that we may observe innumerable divisions running upon the same ground. I might also extend this speculation to the dead parts of nature, in which we may find matter disposed into many similar systems, as well in our survey of stars and planets, as of stones, vegetables, and other sublunary parts of the creation. In a word, Providence has shewn the richness of its goodness and wisdom, not only in the production of many original species, but in the multiplicity of descents which it has made on every original species in particular.

But to pursue this thought still farther: every living creature considered in itself has many very complicated parts that are exact copies of some other parts which it possesses, and which are complicated in the same manner. One eye would have been sufficient for the subsistence

and preservation of an animal; but, in order to better his condition, we see another placed with a mathematical exactness in the same most advantageous situation, and in every particular of the same size and texture. Is it possible for chance to be so uniform in her operations? Should a million of dice turn up twice together the same number, the wonder would be nothing in comparison of this. But when we see this similitude and resemblance in the arm, the hand, the fingers; when we see one half of the body entirely correspond with the other in all those minute strokes, without which a man might very well have subsisted: nay, when we often see a single part repeated an hundred times in the same body, notwith|standing it consists in the most intricate weaving of num|berless fibres, and those parts differing still in magnitude, as the convenience of their particular situation requires; surely man must have a strange cast of understanding, who does not discover the finger of God in so wonderful a work. These duplicates in those parts of the body, without which a man might have very well subsisted, though not so well as with them, are a plain demonstra|tion of an all-wise Contriver; as those more numerous copyings, which are found among the vessels of the same body, are evident demonstrations that they could not be the work of chance. This argument receives additional strength, if we apply it to every animal and insect within our knowledge, as well as to those numberless living crea|tures that are objects too minute for the human eye: and if we consider how the several species in this whole world of life resemble one another in very many particulars, so far as is convenient for their respective states of exist|ence, it is much more probable, that an hundred million of dice should be casually thrown a hundred million of times in the same number, than that the body of any sin|gle animal should be produced by the fortuitous con|course of matter. And that the like chance should arise in innumerable instances, requires a degree of credulity that is not under the direction of common sense. We may carry this consideration yet farther, if we reflect on the two sexes in every living species, with their resem|blances to each other, and those particular distinctions that were necessary for the keeping up of this great world of life.

There are many more demonstrations of a Supreme Being, and of his transcendent wisdom, power, and goodness, in the formation of the body of a living crea|ture; for which I refer my reader to other writings, par|ticularly to the sixth book of the poem entitled Creation, where the anatomy of the human body is described with great perspicuity and elegance.

On the ATTRIBUTES of GOD, and the STARRY HEAVENS.

Hail sovereign goodness, great productive mind! On all thy works, thyself inscrib'd we find. BLACKLOCK.

I WAS yesterday about sun-set walking in the open fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colours which appeared in the western parts of heaven: in proportion as they faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared, one after another, until the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the aether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and by the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The Galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had before discovered to us.

As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright|ness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought arose in me, which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs man of a serious and contemplative nature. David himself fell into it in that reflection, "When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what is man, that thou art mindful of him! and the son of man, that thou regardest him!" In the same manner, when I con|sider the infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philoso|phically, of suns, which were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds which were moving round their respective suns; when I still enlar|ged

the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns, and worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of lumi|naries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us: in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works.

Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the crea|tion, with all the hosts of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain of sand on the sea shore. The space they possess is so exceeding little in comparison of the whole, that it would scarce make a blank in the creation.—The chasm would be impercept|ible to an eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of creation to the other, as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more ex|alted than ourselves. We see many stars by the help of glasses, which we do not discover with our naked eye; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible but there may be stars whose light has not yet travelled down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the work of infinite power, prompted by infinite good|ness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it?

To return therefore to my first thought, I could not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worthy the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of na|ture, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures which in all probability swarm through all those immea|surable regions of matter.

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow con|ceptions which we are apt to entertain of the divine na|ture. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect

some things, we must of course neglect others. This im|perfection which we observe in ourselves, is an imper|fection which cleaves in some degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every cre|ated being is confined to a certain measure of space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain num|ber of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one crea|ture than another, according as we rise one above ano|ther in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When therefore we re|flect on the divine nature, we are so used and accustom|ed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot for-hear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason, indeed, assures us, that his attributes are infinite; but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, until our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natu|ral to the mind of man.

We should therefore utterly extinguish this melancho|ly thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker in the multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of these ob|jects among which he seems to be incessantly employed; if we consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent; and that, in the second place, he is omniscient.

If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports the whole frame of nature; his creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to remove out of one place into another, or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosopher, he is a Being whose center is every where, and his circumference no where.

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omni|present. His omniscience indeed, necessarily and natu|rally flows from his omnipresence; he cannot but be con|scious of every motion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades, and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is intimately united. Several moralists have considered the creation as the temple of God, which he has built with his own hand, and which is filled with his presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, or rather the habitation of the Almighty: but the noblest and most exalted way of considering this infinite space, is that of Sir Isaac Newton, who calls it the Sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they apprehend the presence, and perceive the actions of a few objects that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observa|tion turn within a very narrow circle. But as God Al|mighty cannot but perceive and know every thing in which he resides, infinite space gives room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omniscience.

Were the soul separated from the body, and with one glance of thought could start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the God|head. Whilst we are in the body, he is not less present with us, because he is concealed from us. "O that I knew where I might find him! (says Job) Behold I go forward, but he is not there! and backward, but I can|not perceive him. On the left hand, where he does work, but I cannot behold him. He hides himself on the right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason, as well as revelation assure us, that he cannot be absent from us, notwithstanding he is undiscovered by us.

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has being, espe|cially such of his creatures who fear they are not regard|ed by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion: for, as it is impossible he should

overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards, with an eye of mercy, those who endea|vour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them.

On the IMMORTALITY of the SOUL.

When my freed soul to its bright sphere shall fly, Through b••andless orbs eternal regions spy, And, like the sun, be all one glorious eye. SHAKESPEAR.

I WAS yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's woods, and lost myself in it very agreeably; as I was running over in my mind the several arguments that establish the great point which is the basis of mor|ality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature, viz. the immortality of the soul. I considered these sev|eral proofs, drawn,

First, From the nature of the soul itself, and particu|larly its immateriality; which, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced to almost a demonstration.

Secondly, From its passions and sentiments, as particu|larly from its love of existence, its horror of annihilation, and its hopes of immortality; with that secret satisfac|tion which it finds in the practice of virtue, and that un|easiness which follows in it upon the commission of vice.

Thirdly, From the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this great point.

But amongst these and other excellent arguments for the immortality 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 seems to me to carry a great ••••ight with it. How can it enter into the thought of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new im|provements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing almost as soon as it is created! are such abilities 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 en|dowments he is capable of, and were he to live ten thou|sand more, would be the same thing ••e is at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in ••••s accomplish|ments—were its faculties to be f••••••••blown, and capable of no farther enlargement, I would imagine it might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihil|ation. But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, 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 its first setting out, and in the very be|ginning of its inquiries?

A man, considered in his present state, seems only sent into the world to propagate his kind. He provides him|self with a successor, and immediately quits his post to make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not sur|prising 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 a man can never have taken his full measure of knowledge; has not time to subdue his passions, estab|lish 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 be delight in the production of such abortive intelligencies, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be ex|erted? Capacities that are not to be gratified? How can we find that wisdom, which shines through all his works, in the formation 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 disappear in such quick successions, are only to re|ceive their first rudiments of existence here, and after|wards 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 tri|umphant 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 it is to shine for ever with new accessions of glory, and brighten to all eternity; that it will still be adding virtue to virtue, and knowl|edge to knowledge; 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 resemblance.

Methinks this single consideration of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior nature, 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 will be as perfect as he himself now is; nay, when it shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as it now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature still advances, he by that means preserves the distance and superiority in the scale of beings; but he knows, 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 own 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 glory that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, consid|ered with its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines that may draw nearer to one another to 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?

On the VICISSITUDE of MATERIAL BEINGS.

Where is the dust that has not been alive? The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors; From human mould we reap our daily bread. YOUNG.

IN a late conversation among some of the great and the wise, Theron, a man of wealth and figure, but unac|quainted with the philosophic science, sat in the midst of his friends of both sexes in a stately room, with rich variety of furniture. Theron complained, that he had often heard it said how much we were all indebted to the country and the plough: but, for his part, he knew no obligation that we had to that low rank of mankind, whose life is taken up in the fields, the woods, and the meadows; but that they paid their rents well, that the gentlemen might live at their ease. Crito was pleased to seize the occasion, and entertained the gay audience with a surprising lecture of philosophy.

"Permit me, Theron, said he, to be an advocate for the peasant, and I can draw up a long account of particulars for which you are indebted to the field and the forest, and to the men that cultivate the ground, and are engaged in rural business. Look around you on all the furniture of the room, survey your own clothing, cast your eyes on all the splendid array of Therina and Persis, and the other ladies near them, and you will find, that, except a few glittering stones, and a little gold and silver which were dug out of the bowels of the earth, you can scarce see any thing that was not once growing green upon the ground, through the various labours of the planter and the ploughman. Whence came the floor you tread on, part where of is inlaid with wood of different colours? Whence these fair pannels of wainscot, and the cornice that encompasses and adorns the room? Whence this lofty room of cedar, and the carved ornaments of it? Are they not all the spoils of the trees of the forest? Were not these once the verdant standard of the grove or mountain? What are your hangings of gay tapestry? Are they not owing to the fleece of the sheep, which borrowed their nourishment from the grass of the mead|ows? Thus the finery of your parlour once was grass: and should you favour me with a turn into your bed-cham|ber, I could shew that the curtains, and the linen, and

costly coverings, where you take your nightly repose, were some years ago all growing in the fields.

But I need not retire from the place where we are seat|ed, to give you abundant discoveries of this truth: is not the hair of camels a part of the materials which compose those rich curtains which hang down by the windows, and the easy chairs which accommodate your friends? And if you think a little, you will find that camels, with their hair, were made of grass, as well as the sheep with their wool. What are the books that lie in the window, and the little implements of paper and wax, pens, and wafers, which I presume may be found in the escrutore? They have all the same original; they were once more vegetables. Paper and books owe their being to the tatters of linen which were woven of the threads of flax, or hemp. The pasteboard covers are composed of paper, and the leather is the skin of the calf, that drew its life and sustenance from the meadows. The pen that you write with was plucked from the wing of the goose, which lived upon the grass of the common: the inkhorn was borrowed from the front of the grazing ox: the wafer is made of the paste of bread-corn; and the wax is originally plun|dered from the bee, who stole it out of a thousand flowers.

Permit me, ladies, said the philosopher, to mention your dress; too nice a subject indeed for a scholar to pretend any skill in: but I persuade myself your candour will not resent my naming the rich materials, since I leave those more important points, the fashion and the air, to be decided entirely by your superior skill. Shall I inquire, then, who gave Persis the silken habit which she wears? Did she not borrow it from the worm that spun those shining threads? And whence did the worm borrow it? From the leaves of the Mulberry-tree, which was planted and nourished for this purpose by the country swain. May I ask again, How came Therina by the fine linen which she is pleased to appear in, and the costly lace of Flanders that surrounds it? Was it not made of the stalks of flax that grew up in the field like other vegetables? And are not the finest of your muslins owing to the Indian cotton-tree? Nor can you tell me, Theron, one upper garment you have, whether co••••, cloak, or night gown, from your shoulders to your very feet, as rich and as new as you think it, which the sheep, or the poor silk-worm has not

worn before you. It is certain the beaver bore your hat upon his skin; that soft fur was his covering before it was yours: and the materials of your very shoes, both the upper part and the soles of them, cover the calf of the heifer before they were put on your feet: all this was grass at first; for we have seen that all the animal world owes its being to vegetables.

Give me leave, Madam, said he to Therina, without offence, to lead you into further wonder. You have seen that the furniture of the place where we are, as well as precious attire in which you are dressed, were lately the production, and the ornament of the forest, the meadow, or the garden. But could you forgive me, if I should attempt to persuade you, that this beautiful body of yours, those lovely limbs, were once growing also in the fields and meadows? I see, Ladies, you are a little shock|ed and surprised at the thought. I confess the idea and sentiments of philosophy are not always so courtly and so favourable to huma•• nature, as to be addressed to the tender sex: but pardon me, Therina, if I inquire, Was not your infancy nursed with milk and bread-corn? Have you not been fed with wheat, though it was of the finest kind? And your drink, what has it been, but either the infusion of barley, or the juice of the grape? Or, for variety, perhaps the cyder grove has supplied you. The flesh with which you have been nourished to such a well proportioned stature, belonged to four footed animals, or to the fowls of the air; and each of these have been either fed with corn or grass. Whence then, Madam, has your body been supported, and what do you think it is made of?

But it is safer to transfer the argument to myself. These limbs of mine, Therina, owe themselves entirely to the animal and vegetable food, to the roots, or the stalks, or the leaves, or the fruit of plants, or the flesh of the brute creatures, which have passed through my mouth for these fifty years, or the mouth of my parents before me. This hand would have been worn to a mere skele|ton, my arms had been dry bones, and my trunk and ribs the statue of death, had they not all received per|petual recruits from the field. These lips which now address you, are of the same materials, and they were once growing like the grass on the earth. This very

flesh, which I call mine now, did belong to the sheep or the ox before it was part of me; and it served to clothe those bones before it covered mine. You know, Theron, you are a gentleman who delight in rural sports, when you reside at your country seat, and you love to feast on the game that you have pursued. Did you ever suppose that any part of yourself was once hurried through the air in the breast of a frightened partridge, which came before night into your net? Or that any piece of you was driven through the fields before the full-mouthed hounds on the legs of a hunted hare, which was the next day prepared for your table? Had you ever so strange a thought as this? And can you believe it now? Or, upon a survey of that argument, can you tell how to deny it? And what are hares and partridges made of, but growing herbage, or shattered corn?

It is true, you have sometimes tasted fish, either from the sea or rivers, but even those in their original are also sorts of grass; they have been fed partly by sea-weeds, and partly by lesser fish, which they have devoured, whose prime and natural nourishment was from some vegetable matter in the watery world. In short, Sir, I am free to declare, that whether I have eaten cheese or butter, bread or milk, whether I have fed on the ox or the sheep, or the fowls of the air, I am certain that this body, and these limbs of mine, even to my teeth and nails, and the hairs of my head, are all borrowed origin|ally from the vegetable creation. Every thing of me that is not a thinking power, that is not mind, or spirit, was once growing like grass on the ground, or was made of the roots which supported some green herbage.

And now, Theron, What do you think of all these para|doxes? Which of them do you cavil at? Which leaves you room for doubt or question? Is not philosophy an entertaining study, that teaches us our original, and the astonishing operations of divine Wisdom and Providence? But it teaches us also to have humble thoughts of our|selves, and to remember from whence we came. Theron, to conclude the discourse, confessed his surprize and conviction; he acknowledged the justice of Crito's whole argument, gave him hearty thanks for his instructive lecture, and resolved to remember those amazing scenes of the operations of nature, and the adorable wisdom of

God his Maker. Nor shall I ever forget, said he, the strange and unexpected dependence of man on all the meaner parts of the creation. I am convinced, that pride was never made for man, when I see how much a-kin his body is to the fowls of the air and brutes of the earth. And I think, said he, I am more indebted to my tenants than ever I could have imagined; nor will I cast such a scornful eye again on the grazier and the farmer, since this flesh and blood of mine, as well as the furniture of my house, and the clothes I wear, were once growing in the fields or woods, under their care and cultivation; and I find I am nearer a-kin to them, since this self of mine, with all the finery that covers it, was made origin|ally of the same materials with them and their coarser coverings.

One the CHOICE of present and future HAPPINESS and MISERY.

The wint'ry blasts of death Kill not the buds of virtue: no, they spread Beneath the heav'nly beams of brighter suns, Through endless ages into brighter powers THOMSON.

ALEWD young fellow seeing an aged Hermit go by him barefooted, 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 condition 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 permanent and lasting. The ques|tion we are all concerned in is this. In which of these two lives is it our chief interest to make ourselves happy? Or, in other words, whether we should endeavour to se|cure to ourselves the pleasures and gratifications of a life which is uncertain and precarious, and at its ut|most length of a very inconsiderable duration; or secure to ourselves the pleasures of a life which is fixed and settled, and will never end? Every man, upon the first hearing of this question, 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 new 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 are placed in this world to get riches and honours? Would not he think that it was our duty to toil after wealth, and station, and title? Nay, would not he be|lieve we are forbidden poverty by threats of eternal pun|ishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pain of damnation? He would certainly imagine, that we are influenced by a scheme of duties quite opposite to those which are indeed prescribed to us. And truly, according to such an imagination, he must conclude, that we are a species of most obedient creatures 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 learned that we were beings not designed to exist in this world above thre score and ten years; and that the greatest part of this 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 endeavours 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 in its beginning, especially when we consider that our endeavours for making our|selves great, rich, or honourable, or whatever else we place our happiness in, may after all prove unsuccessful; whereas, if we constantly and sincerely endeavour to make ourselves happy in the other life, we are sure that our endeavours will succeed, and that we shall not be disappointed 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 should 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 ••••s consuming by this slow method, till there was no grain of it left, on condition you were to be miserable ever after, or supposing that you might be happy for ever after; on condition you should be miserable till the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated at the rate of one grain 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 grains of sand to the supposed heap. Reason, therefore tells us, without any manner of hesitation, which would be the better part in this choice. However, as I have before intimated, our reason might in such a case be so overset by the imagination, as to dispose 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 succeed it. The mind, I say, might give itself 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 chuse to be happy for the space of only threescore and ten, nay perhaps of only twenty or ten years, I might say of only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eterni|ty; 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 would make a wrong choice!

I here put a 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 condemn the stupidity or madness of those

persons 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 cheer|fully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years to those of an eternity.

The MOUNTAIN of MISERIES. A VISION.

—By outward show, Men judge of happiness and woe; Seek virtue—and of that possest, To Providence resign the rest. GAY.

IT is a celebrated thought of Socrates, That if all the misfortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole spe|cies, those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of, be|fore that which would fall to them by such a proper division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further; which implies, that the hardships or misfor|tunes we lie under, are more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we should change conditions with him.

As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated in my elbow chair, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on a sudden, me thought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took my stand in the centre of it, and saw with a great deal of pleasure the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds.

There was a certain lady, of a thin airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose flowing robe embroidered with several figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical shapes, as her garment hovered in the wind. There was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after having very officiously assisted him

in making up his pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me.

There were, however, several persons who gave, me great diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it up|on the heap, I discovered it to be Poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage; which, upon examining, I found to be his wife.

There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical burdens, composed of darts and flames; but what was very odd, though they sighed as if their heart would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap when they came up to it; but after a few faint efforts shook their heads, and marched away as heavy loaded as they came. I saw multitudes of old women throw down wrinkles, and several young ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and ••••••ty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observ|ing one advance towards the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found upon his nearer approach, that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of with great joy of heart among this collection of human miseries. There were likewise distempers of all sorts, though I could not but observe that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice 〈◊〉〈◊〉, which was a complication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people: this was called the Spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was a remark I made, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap: at which I was very much astonished, having concluded within myself, that every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties.

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who I did not question came loaded with his crimes;

but upon searching into his bundle, I found, that instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance.

When the whole race of mankind had thus cast down their burdens, the Phantom, which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when on a sudden she held her magnifying glass full before mine eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in the utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humour with my own countenance, upon which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very luckily that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was indeed extended to a most shameful length: I believe the very chin was, (modestly speaking) as long as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contri|butions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to change his misfortunes for those of another person. But as there arose many new incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall reserve them for the subject of my next paper.

The VISION continued.

All gracious Providence is good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies. POPE.

IN my last paper, I gave my readers a sight of that mountain of miseries which was made up of those several calamities that afflict the minds of men: I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the whole species thus delivered from its sorrows; though, at the same time, as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was scarce a mortal, in this vast multitude, who did not discover what he thought pleasures and blessings of life; and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burdens and griev••nces.

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, that every one was now at ••••••erty to change his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any other such bundle as should be delivered to him.

Upon this, Fancy began to bestir herself, and parcelling up the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and con|fusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some obser|vations which I made upon this occasion I shall communi|cate to the public. A venerable grey-headed man, who had laid down the cholic, and who I found wanted in heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son, that had been thrown into the heap by an angry father.—The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out; so that meeting the true father, who came towards him in a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his chon••; but they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley-slave, who had thrown down his chains, took up the gout in their stead; but made such wry faces, that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and care against pain.

The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering for features: one was trucking a lock of grey hairs for a carbuncle; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders, and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation: but on all these occasions, there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her possession much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observation on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one in the assembly brought upon himself, in lies of what he had parted with: whether it be that all the evils which befall us are in some measure suited and propor|tioned to our strength, or that every ill becomes more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I shall not determine.

I could not from my heart forbear pitying the poor

humpbacked gentleman mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very well-shaped person with a stone in his bladde••; nor the fine gentleman who had struck up a bargain with him that limped through the whole assembly of ladies, who used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping over his head.

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that as I looked upon him I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of coun|tenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done: on the other side, I found that I myself had got no great reason to triumph; for as I went to touch my fore|head, I missed the place, and clapped my finger on my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceeding prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks, as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap-sticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up in the air above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it; while the other made such auk-ward circles as he attempted to walk, that he scarce knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observ|ing him to be a very pleasant kind of a fellow, I stuck my cane into the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not march up to it on a line, that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour.

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter at length, taking com|passion upon the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They discharged them with a great deal of pleasure; after which the Phantom, which had led them into such gross delusion, was commanded to disap|pear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite

different figure: Her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious and cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes towards heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner, placed herself by the Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She after wards returned every man his own proper calamity, and teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it con|tentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evils which fell to his lot.

Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learnt from it, never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbour's sufferings; for which reason also I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-crea|tures with sentiments of humanity and compassion.

The VISION of ALMET. An EASTERN STORY.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose; And these be happy call'd, unhappy those; But heav'n's just balance equal will appear, While these are plac'd in hope, and those in fear. POPE.

ALMET the Dervise, who watched the sacred lamp, in the sepulchre of the prophet, as he one day role from the devotions of the morning, which he had per|formed at the gate of the temple, with his body turned towards the cast, and his forehead upon the earth, saw before him a man in splendid apparel, attended by a long retinue, who gazed stedfastly upon him with a look of mournful complacency, and seemed desirous to speak, but unwilling to offend.

The Dervise, after a short silence, advanced, and salu|ting him with the calm dignity which independence con|fers upon humility, requested that he would reveal his purpose.

"Almet, said the stranger, thou seest before thee a man

whom the hand of Prosperity has overwhelmed with wretchedness. Whatever I once desired as the means of happiness I now possess; but I am not yet happy, and therefore I despair. I regret the lapse of time, because it glides away without enjoyment; and as I expect noth|ing in the future but the vanity of the past, I do not wish it should arrive. Yet I tremble lest it should be cut off; and my heart sinks when I anticipate the moment, in which eternity shall close••••over the vacuity of my life, like the seas upon the path of a ship, and leave no traces of my existence more durable than the furrow which remains after the waves have united. If, in the treasures of wisdom, there is any precept to obtain felicity, vouch|safe it to me: for this purpose have I come; a purpose which yet I fear to reveal, left, like all the former, it should be disappointed." Almet listened with looks of astonishment and pity, to this complaint of a being, in whom reason was known to be a pledge of immortality: but the serenity of his countenance soon returned; and stretching out his hands towards heaven, "Stranger," said he, "the knowledge which I have received from the prophet I will communicate to thee."

"As I was sitting once at the porch of the temple, pensive and alone, mine eyes wandered among the mul|titude that was scattered before me; and while-I remark|ed the wariness and solicitude which was visible in every countenance, I was suddenly struck with a sense of their condition. Wretched mortals, said I, to what purpose are you busy? If to produce happiness, by whom is it enjoyed? Do the linens of Egypt, and the silks of Persia bestow felicity on those who wear them, equal to the wretchedness of yonder slaves whom I see leading the camels that bring them? Is the fineness of the texture, or the splendor of the tints, regarded with delight by those to whom custom has rendered them familiar? Or can the power of habit render others insensible of pain, who live only to traverse the desart; a scene of dreadful uniformity, where a barren level is bounded only by the horizon; where no change of prospect nor variety of images, relieve the traveller from a sense of toil, and dan|ger of whirlwinds, which in a moment may bury him in the ••and; and of thirst, which the wealthy have given half their possessions to allay? Do those on whom hered|itary

diamonds sparkle with unregarded lustre, gain from the possession what is lost by the wretch who seeks them in the mine?—Who lives excluded from the common bounties of nature; to whom even the vicissi|tude of day and night is not known; who signs in per|petual darkness, and whose life is one mournful alterna|tive of insensibility and labour? If those are not happy who possess in proportion as those are wretched who bestow, how vain a dream is the life of man! and if there is indeed such difference in the value of existence, how shall we acquit of partiality the hand by which this difference has been made?

"While my thoughts thus multiplied, and my heart burnt within me, I became sensible of a sudden influ|ence from above. The streets and the crowds of Mecca disappeared. I found myself sitting on the declivity of a mountain, and perceived at my right hand an angel, whom I knew to be Azoran, the minister of reproof. When I saw him I was afraid. I cast my eyes upon the ground, and was about to deprecate his anger, when he commanded me to be silent. "Almet, said he, thou hast devoted thy life to meditation, that thy counsel might deliver ignorance from the mazes of error, and deter pre|sumption from the precipice of guilt; but the book of nature thou hast read without understanding: it is again open before thee; look up, consider it, and be wise."

"I looked up, and beheld an inclosure, beautiful as the gardens of paradise, but of a small extent. Through the middle there was a green walk; at the end a wild desart; and beyond, impenetrable darkness. The walk was shaded with trees of every kind, that were covered at once with blossoms and fruit; innumerable birds were singing in the branches; the grass was intermingled with flowers, which impregnated the breeze with fra|grance, and painted the path with beauty: on the one side flowed a gentle transparent stream, which was just heard to murmur over the golden sands that sparkled at the bottom; and on the other were walks and bowers, fountains, grottos, and cascades, which diversified the scene with endless variety, but did not conceal the bounds."

"While I was gazing in a transport of delight and wonder on this enchanting spot, I perceived a man steal|ing along the walk with a thoughtful and deliberate

pace: his eyes were fixed upon the earth, and his arms crossed on his bosom; he sometimes started as if a sud|den pang had seized him; his countenance expressed solicitude and terror: he looked round with a sigh, and having gazed a moment on the desart that lay before him, he seemed as if he wished to stop, but was impelled forward by some insensible power: his features, how|ever, soon settled again into a calm melancholy; his eyes were again fixed on the ground, and he went on as before with apparent reluctance, but without emotion. I was struck with this appearance; and turning hastily to the angel, was about to inquire what could produce such in|felicity in a being surrounded with every object that could gratify every sense; but he prevented my request: "The book of nature, said he, is before thee; look up, consider it and be wise." I looked, and beheld a valley between two mountains that were craggy and barren: on the path there was, no verdure, and the mountains afforded no shade: the sun burnt in the zenith, and eve|ry spring was dried up: but the valley terminated in a country that was pleasant and fertile, shaded with woods, and adorned with buildings. At a second view, I dis|covered a man in this valley, meagre indeed and naked, but his countenance was cheerful, and his deportment active: he kept his eye fixed upon the country before him, and looked as if he would have run, but that he was restrained, as the other had been impelled, by some secret influence: sometimes, indeed, I perceived a sud|den expression of pain, and sometimes he stepped short as if his foot was pierced by the asperities of the way; but the sprightliness of his countenance instantly return|ed, and he passed forward without appearance of repi|ning or complaint."

I turned again towards the angel, impatient to inquire from what secret source happiness was derived, in a situ|ation so different from that in which it might have been expected? But he again prevented my request: "Almet, said he, remember what thou hast seen, and let this me|morial be written upon the tablet of thine heart. Re|member, Almet, that the world in which thou art placed is but the road to another; and that happiness depends not upon the path, but the end. The value of this pe|riod of thy existence is fixed by hope and fear. The

wretch who wished to linger in the garden, who looked round upon its limits with terror, was destitute of enjoy|ment, because he was destitute of hope, and was perpet|ually tormented by the dread of losing that which he did not enjoy. The song of the birds had been repeated till it was not heard, and the flowers had so often recurred, that their beauty was not seen; the river glided by un|noticed, and he feared to lift his eye to the prospect, left he should behold the waste that circumscribed it. But he that toiled through the valley was happy, because he looked forward with hope. Thus, to the sojourner upon earth, it is of little moment, whether the path he treads be strewed with flowers or with thorns, if he perceive himself to approach those regions, in comparison of which the thorns and the flowers of this wilderness lose their distinction, and are both alike impotent to give pleasure or pain.

"What then has Eternal Wisdom unequally distribu|ted? That which can make every station happy, and without which every station must be wretched, is acqui|red by virtue; and virtue is possible to all. Remember, Almet, the vision which thou hast seen; and let my words be written on the tablet of thy heart, that thou mayst direct the wanderer to happiness, and justify God to man."

While the voice of Azoran was yet founding in my ear, the prospect vanished from before me, and I found my|self again sitting at the porch of the temple. The sun was gone down, the multitude was retired to rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight concurred with the resolu|tion of my doubts to complete the tranquillity of my mind.

Such, my son, was the vision which the prophet vouchsafed me, not for my sake only, but for thine. Thou hast sought felicity in temporal things; and there|fore thou art disappointed. Let not instruction be lost upon thee; but go thy way, let thy flock clothe the na|ked, and thy table feed the hungry; deliver the po•••• from oppression, and let thy conversation be above. Thus shalt thou rejoice in hope, and look forward to the end of life as the consummation of thy felicity.

Almet, in whose breast devotion kindled as he spake, returned into she temple, and the stranger departed in peace.

On OMENS.

Alas! you know the cause too well; The salt is spilt, to me it fell; Then to contribute to my loss, The knife and fork were laid across. Last night, I vow to heav'n 'tis true, Bounce from the fire a coffin flew. GAY.

GOING yesterday to dine with an old acquaintance, I had the misfortune to find his whole family very much dejected. Upon asking him the occasion of it, he told me that his wife had dreamt a very strange dream the night before, which they were afraid portended some misfortune to themselves or to their children. At her coming into the room I observed a settled melancho|ly in her countenance, which I should have been troubled for, had I not heard from whence it proceeded. We were no sooner set down, but after having looked upon me a little while, "My dear, says she, turning to her husband, you may now see the stranger that was in the candle last night." Soon after this, as they began to talk of family affairs, a little boy at the other end of the table told her, that he was to go into joining hand on Thursday: "Thursday! says she, no child, if it please God, you shall not begin upon Childer••as-day; tell your writing-master that Friday will be soon enough." I was reflecting within myself on the oddness of her fancy, and wondering that any body would establish it as a rule to lose a day in every week. In the midst of these my mu|sings, she desired me to reach her a little salt upon the point of my knife, which I did, in such a trepidation and hurry of obedience, that I let it drop by the way; at which she immediately startled, and said it fell towards her.

Upon this I looked very black; and observing the concern of the whole table, began to consider myself, with some confusion, as a person that had brought a dis|aster upon the family. The lady, however, recovering herself, after a little space, said to her husband, with a sigh, "My dear, misfortunes never come single." My friend, I found, acted but an under part at his table, and being a man of more good nature than understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all the passions and

humours of his yoke-fellow: "••o you remember, child, said she, that the pigeon-house ••ell the very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table!" "yes, says he, my dear, and the nex••••••ost brought us an account of the battle of Almanza." The reader may guess at the figure I made, after having done all this mischief. I dispatched my dinner as fast as I could, with my usual taciturnity; when, to my utter confusion, the lady see|ing me quitting my knife and fork, and laying them across one another upon my plate, desired me that I would humour her so far as to take them out of that fig|ure, and place them side by side. What the absurdity was which I had committed I did not know, but I sup|pose there was some traditionary superstition in it; and therefore, in obedience to the lady of the house, I dispo|sed of my knife and fork in two parallel lines, which is a figure I shall always lay them in for the future, though I do not know any reason for it.

It is not difficult for a man to see that a person has conceived an aversion to him. For my own part, I quickly found, by the lady's looks, that she regarded me as a very odd kind of a fellow, with an unfortunate as|pect: for which reason I took my leave immediately after dinner, and withdrew to my own lodgings. Upon my return home, I fell into a profound contemplation on the evils that attend those superstitious follies of man|kind; how they subject us to imaginary afflictions, and additional sorrows, that do not properly come within our lot. As if the natural calamities of life were not sufficient for it, we turn the most indifferent circumstan|ces into misfortunes, and suffer as much from trifling accidents as from real evils. I have known the shooting of a star spoil a night's rest; and have seen a man in love grow pale and lose his appetite, upon the plucking of a merry thought. A screech owl at midnight has alarmed a family more than a band of robbers; nay, the voice of a cricket has struck more terror than the roar|ing of a lion. There is nothing so inconsiderable, which may not appear dreadful to an imagination filled with omens and prognostics. A rusty nail, or crooked pin, shoots up into prodigies.

I remember I was once in a mixed assembly, that was full of noise and mi••••••, when on a sudden an old woman

unluckily observed there were thirteen of us in company. The remark struck a panic of terror into several who were present, insomuch that one or two of the ladies were going to leave the room; but a friend of mine taking notice that one of our female companions was big with child, affirmed there were fourteen in the room, and that instead of portending that one of the company should die, it plainly foretold that one of them should be 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Had not my friend found this experiment to break the omen, I question not but half the women in the company would have fallen sick that very night.

An old maid, that is troubled with the vapours, pro|duces infinite disturbances of this kind among her friends and neighbours. I knew a maiden aunt of a great family, who is one of those antiquated sibyls, that forebodes and prophesies from one end of the year to the other. She is always seeing apparitions, and hear|ing dead watches; and was the other day almost fright|ened out of her wits by the great house-dog, that howled in the stable at the time when she lay ill of the tooth-ach.

Such an extravagant cast of mind engages multitudes of people, not only in impertinent terror, but in super|numerary duties of life; and arises from 〈◊〉〈◊〉 fear and ignorance which are natural to the soul of man. The horror with which we entertain the thought•• of death, (or indeed of any future evil) and the uncertainty of its approach, fill a melancholy mind with innumerable ap|prehensions and suspicions, and consequently dispose it to the observation of such groundless prod••••ies and pre|dictions. For, as it is the chief concern of wise men, to retrench the evils of life by the reasonings of philosophy, it is the employment of fools to multiply them by the sentiments of superstition.

For my own part, I should be very much troubled were I endowed with this divining quality, though it should inform me truly of every thing that can befal me: I would not anticipate the relish of any happiness, nor feel the weight of any misery, before it actually arrives.

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against th••se gloomy presages and terrors of mind; and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection of that Being, who disposes of events, and governs futurity. He

sees, at one view, the whole thread of my existence; not only that part of it which I have already passed through, but that which runs forward into all the depths of eter|nity. When I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to his care; when I awake, I give myself up to his direc|tion. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 help, and question not but he will either avert, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it; because I am sure that he knows them both, and that he will not fail to comfort and support me under them.

On GHOSTS and APPARITIONS.

When apparitions fill the mind. The 〈◊〉〈◊〉's unnerv'd, and reason's blind. R.

I REMEMBER last winter there were several young girls of the neighbourhood sitting about the fire with my landlady's daughters, and telling stories of spirits 〈◊〉〈◊〉 apparitions. Upon my opening the door, the young women broke off their discourse; but my landlady's daughter telling them that it was no body but the gen|tleman, (for that is the name I go by in the neighbour|hood, as well as in the family) they went on without minding me. I seated myself by the candle that stood on a table at one end of the room; and pretending to read a book that I took out of my pocket, heard several dreadful stories of ghosts as pale as-ashes that had stood at the foot of a be•• or walked over a church-yard by moon-light; and of others that had been conjured into the Red-Sea, for disturbing people's rest, and drawing their curtains at midnight; with many other old women's ••ables of the like nature. As one spirit raised another, I observed that at the end of every story the whole com|pany closed their ranks, and crowded about the fire. I took notice, in particular, of a little boy, who was so at|tentive to every story, that I am mistaken if he ventures to go to bed by himself these twelve months. Indeed they talked so long, that the imaginations of the who•••• assembly were manifestly crazed, and I am sure will be the worse for it as long as they live. I heard one of the girls, that had looked upon me over her shoulder, asking

the company how long I had been in the room, and whether I did not look paler than I used to do. This put me under some apprehensions that I should be forced to explain myself, if I did not retire; for which reason I took the candle in my hand, and went up into my cham|ber, not without wondering at this unaccountable weak|ness in reasonable creatures, that they should love to astonish and terrify one another. Were I a father, I should take particular care to preserve my children from these little horrors of imagination which they are apt to contract when they are young, and are not able to ••••ake off when they are in years. I have known a soldier that has entered a breach, affrighted at his own shad|ow, and look pale at a little scratching at his door, who the day before had marched up against a battery of can|non. There are instances of persons who have been ter|rified even to distraction at the figure of a tree, or the shaking of a bull-rush. The truth of it is, I look upon a ••ound imagination as the greatest blessing of life, next to a clear judgment and a good conscience. In the mean time, since there are very few whose minds are not more or less subject to those dreadful thoughts and apprehen|sions, we ought to arm ourselves against them by the dictates of reason and religion, to pull the old 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hearts, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 extinguish those impertinent notions which 〈…〉〈…〉 at a time when we were not able to judge of their absurdity.

The IMPORTANCE of the early CHOICE of a CALL|ING, and the Perseverance in it.

Be well advis'd, and wary council make, Ere thou dost any business undertake; When undertaken, thy endeavours bend, To bring thy actions to a perfect end. RANDOLPH.

IT is never without very melancholy reflections that we can observe the misconduct or miscarriage of those men who seem by the force of understanding, or extent of knowledge, exempted from the general frailties of human nature, and privileged from the common infelici|ties of life. Though the world is crowded with scenes of calamity, we look for the most part upon the general mass of wretchedness with very little regard, and fix our

eyes upon the state of particular persons, whom the emi|nence of their qualities marks out from the multitude: as in reading the account of a battle, we seldom reflect on the vulgar heaps of slaughter, but follow the here with our whole attention through all the varieties of his fortunes, without a thought of the thousands that are falling round him.

With the same kind of anxious veneration I have, for many years, been making observations on the life of Poly|philus, a man whom all his acquaintances have, from his first appearance in the world, feared for the quickness of his discernment, and admired for the multiplicity of his attainments; but whose progress in life, and whose use|fulness to mankind, have perhaps been hindered by the superfluity of his knowledge, and the celerity of his mind.

Polyphilus was remarkable at the school for surpassing all his companions, without any visible application. And at the university was distinguished equally for his successful progress, as well through the rough and thorny mazes of science, as the smooth and ••••••wing parts of po|liter literature; without any strict confinement to hours of study, or any remarkable forbearance of the common amusements of young men.

When Polyphilus was at the age in which men usually chuse their profession, and prepare to enter into a pub|lic character, 〈…〉〈…〉 eye was fixed upon him; and all were curious to inquire what this universal genius would fix upon for the employment of life: and no doubt was made but that he would leave all his cotem|poraries behind him; and mount to the highest honours of that class in which he should enlist himself, without those delays and pauses which must always be endured by meaner abilities.

Polyphilus, though by no means insolent or assuming, had been sufficiently encouraged by uninterrupted suc|cess, to place great confidence in his own parts; and was not below his companions in the indulgence of his hopes, and expectations of the astonishment with which the world would be struck, when first his lustre should break ou•• upon it; nor could he help (for whom does not constant flattery intoxicate?) to join sometimes in the mirth of his friends, at the sudden disappearance of those who, having shone a while, and drawn the eyes of the public upon

their feeble lustre, were now doomed to fade away before him.

It is natural for a man to catch advantageous notions of the condition which those with whom he converses, are striving to attain. Polyphilus, in a ramble to London, fell accidentally among the physicians; and was so much pleased with the prospect of turning philosophy to profit, and so highly delighted with a new theory of fevers, which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 into his imagination, and which, after having con|sidered in a few hours, he found himself able to maintain against all the advocates for the ancient system, that he resolved to apply himself to anatomy, botany, and chym|istry; and to leave no part unconquered, either of the animal, mineral, or vegetable kingdoms.

He therefore read authors, constructed systems, and fried experiments. But unhappily, as he was going to see a new plant in flower at Chelsea, he met, (in crossing Westminster to take the water,) the chancellor's coach. He had the curiosity to follow him into the hall; where a remarkable cause happened to be tried; he found himself able to produce so many arguments which the lawyers had omitted on both sides, that he determined to quit physic for a profession in which he found it would be so easy to excel; and which promised higher honors and larger profits, without melancholy attendance upon misery, mean submission to peevishness, and continued interruption to rest and pleasure.

He immediately took chambers in the Temple, bought a common place book, and confined himself for some 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to the perusal of the statutes, year-books, plead|ings, and reports. He was a constant hoarer of the pro|ceedings in the courts, and began to put cases with reason|able accuracy.—But he soon discovered, by considering the fortune of lawyers, that preferment was not to be got by acuteness, learning, and eloquence. He was perplex|ed by the absurdities of attornies, and misrepresentations made by his clients of their own causes; by the useless anxiety of one, and the incessant importunity of another. He began to repent of having devoted himself to a study, which was so narrow in its comprehension, which could never carry his name to any other country; and thought it unworthy of a man of parts, to sell his life only for money. The barrenness of his fellow-students forced

him generally into other company, at his hours of enter|tainment: and, among the varieties of conversation through which his curiosity was daily wandering, he, by chance, mingled at a tavern with some intelligent officers of the army. A man of letters was easily dazzled with the gaiety of their appearance, and softened into kindness by the politeness of their address. He therefore cultiva|ted this new acquaintance; and when he saw how readi|ly they found, in every place, admission and regard, and how familiarly they mingled with every rank and order of men, he began to feel his heart beat for military hon|ours; and wondered how the prejudices of the university should have made him so long insensible of that ambition, which had fired so many hearts in every age, and negli|gent of that calling, which is above all others, universally and invariably illustrious, and which gives, even to the exterior appearance of its professors, a dignity and free|dom unknown to the rest of mankind.

These favourable impressions were made still deeper by his conversation with the ladies; whose regard for sol|diers he could not observe without wishing himself one of that happy fraternity, to which the female world seem to have devoted all their charms and their kindness. The love of knowledge, which was still his predominant inclination, was gratified by the recital of adventures, and accounts of foreign countries; and therefore he thought there was no way of life in which all his views could so completely concenter as in that of a soldier. In the art of war, he thought it not difficult to excel, hav|ing observed his new friends not very much versed in the principles of tactics or fortification: and therefore he studied all the military writers, both ancient and modern; and in a short time, could tell how to have gained every remarkable battle that had been lost from the beginning of the world. He often shewed at a table, how Alexander should have been checked in his conquests; what was the fatal error at Pharsalia; how Charles of Sweden might have escaped his ruin at Poltowa, and how Marlborough might have been made to repent his temerity at Blenheim. He entrenched armies upon paper, so that no superiority of numbers could force them; and modelled in clay ma|ny impregnable fortresses, on which the present arts of attack would be exhausted without effect.

Polyphilus in a short time obtained a commission; but before he could rub off the solemnity of a scholar, and gain the true air of military vivacity, a war was declared, and forces sent to the continent. Here Polyphilus unhap|pily found, that study alone would not make a soldier: for, being much accustomed to think the sense of danger sunk into his mind, he felt at the approach of any action tha•• terror which a sentence of death would have brought upon him. He saw, that instead of conquering their fears, the endeavours of his gay friends were only to es|cape them: but his philosophy chained his mind to its object; and rather loaded him with shackles, than fur|nished him with arms. He however suppressed his mise|ry in silence, and passed through the campaign with honour; but found himself utterly unable to support another.

He then had recourse again to his books, and contin|ued to ••ange from one study to another. As I usually visit him once a month, and am admitted to him without previous notice, I have found him within this last half year decyphering the Chinese language, making a farce, collecting a vocabulary of the obsolete terms of the En|glish law, writing an Inquiry concerning the ancient Corinthian brass, and forming a new scheme of the varia|tions of the needle.

Thus his powerful genius which might have extended the sphere of any science, or benefited the world in any profession, is dissipated in a boundless variety, without any profit to others or to himself. He makes sudden irruptions into the regions of knowledge, and sees all obstacles give way before him; but he never stays long enough to complete his conquest, to establish laws, or bring away the spoils.

Such is often the folly of those men, whom nature has enabled to obtain skill and knowledge on terms so easy, that they have no sense of the value of the acquisition; who are qualified to make such speedy progress in learn|ing, that they think themselves at liberty to loiter in the way: and often, by turning aside after every new object like Atalanta, lose the race to slower competitors, who press diligently forward, and whose force is directed to a single point.

I have often thought them happy that have been fixed,

from the first dawn of thought, in a determination to some state of life, by the choice of one whose authority may preclude caprice, and whose influence may prejudice them in the favour of his opinion. The general precept of consulting the genius is of little use, unless we are told how the genius can be known. If it is to be discov|ered only by experiment, life will be lost before the reso|lution can be fixed; if any other inclinations are to be found, they may perhaps be very early discerned. At least, if to miscarry in an attempt be a proof of having mistaken the direction of the genius, men appear not less frequently deceived with regard to themselves than to others: and therefore no one has much reason to com|plain that his life was planned out by friends; or to be confident that he should have had either more honor or happiness, by being abandoned to the chance of his own fancy.

It was said of the learned Sanderson, that when he was preparing his lectures, he hesitated so much, and rejected so often, that at the time of reading he was often forced to produce, not what was best, but what happened to be at hand. This will be the state of every man, who, in the choice of his employment, balances all the arguments on every side. The complication is so intricate, the mo|tives and objections so numerous; there is so much play for the inclination, and so much remains in the power of others, that (reason forced at last to rest in neutraility) the decision devolves into the hands of chance; and after a great part of life spent in inquiries which can never be resolved, the rest must often pass in repenting the unne|cessary delay; and can be useful to few other purposes, than to warn others against the same folly; and to shew that of two states of life, equally consistent with religion and virtue, he who chuses earliest, and perseveres in it, chusest best.

It is therefore of the utmost importance, that all who have any intention of doing well for themselves or others, and of acquiring a reputation superior to the common names which are hourly sinking into oblivion, and swept away by time among the refuse of fame, should add to their reason and spirit the power of persisting in their purpose; since all the performances of human art, at which we look with praise or wonder, are instances of the

resistless force of perseverance. It is by this that the quarry becomes a pyramid, and that distant countries are united by canals. If a man were to compare the effects of a single stroke of the pick axe, or of one im|pression of the spade, with the general design and last effect, he would be overwhelmed by the sense of their disproportion: Yet those petty operations, incessantly continued, at last surmount the greatest difficulties; and mountains are levelled, and oceans bounded by the slen|der force of human beings.

On INCITEMENT to Enterprize and Emulation▪ Story of the Admirable CRI••HTON.

He who despairing in dull languor lies, To glorious deeds will never, never rise; Like a dull weed, he vegetates and dies. R.

I HAVE sometimes heard it disputed in conversation, whether it be more laudable or desirable, that a man should think too highly or too meanly of himself: it is on all hands agreed to be best, that he should think right|ly; but since a falliable being will always make some de|viations from exact rectitude, it is not wholly useless to inquire towards which side it is safer to incline.

The prejudices of mankind seem to favour him who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by under-rating his own powers; he is considered as a modest and harmless member of society, not likely to break the peace by competition, to endeavour after such splendor of reputation as may dim the lustre of others, or to interrupt any in the enjoyment of themselves; he is no man's rival, and therefore may be every man's friend.

The opinion which a man entertains of himself, ought to be distinguished, in order to an accurate discussion of this question, as it relates to persons or to things. To think highly of ourselves in comparison with others, to assume by our own authority that precedence which none are willing to grant, must be always invidious and offen|sive; but to rate our powers high in proportion to things, and imagine ourselves equal to great undertakings, while we leave others in possession of the same abilities, cannot with equal justice provoke censure.

It must be confessed, that self-love may dispose us to decide too hastily in our own favour; but who is hurt by the mistake? If we are incited by this vain opinion to attempt more than we can perform, ours is the labour, and ours is the disgrace.

But he that dares to think well of himself, will not al|ways prove to be mistaken; and the good effects of his confidence will then appear in great attempts, and great performances: if he should not fully complete his de|sign, he will at least advance it so far, as to leave an easy task for him what succeeds him; and even though ••e should wholly fail, he will fail with honour.

But from the opposite error, from torpid despondency can come no advantage; it is the frost of the soul which binds up all its powers, and congeals life in perpetual sterility. He that has no hopes of success, will make no attempts; and where nothing is attempted, nothing will be done.

Every man should, therefore, endeavour to maintain in himself a favourable opinion of the powers of the human mind; which are, perhaps, in every man greater than they appear, and might, by diligent cultivation, be exalted to a degree beyond what their possessor presumes to believe. There is scarce any man but has found him|self able, at the instigation of necessity, to do what in a state of leisure and deliberation he would have concluded impossible; and some of our species have signalized themselves by such atchievements, as prove there are few things above human hope.

It has been the policy of all nations to preserve, by some public monuments, the memory of those who have served their country by great exploits 〈◊〉〈◊〉 there is the same reason for continuing or reviving the names of those whose extensive abilities have dignified humanity. An honest emulation may be alike excited, and the phill|osopher's curiosity may be inflamed by a catalogue of the works of Boyle or Bacon, as Themistocles was kept awke by the trophies of Miltiades.

Among the favourites of nature that have from time to time appeared in the world, enriched with various endow|ments and contrarieties of excellence, none seems to have been more exalted above the common rate of humanity, than the man known about two centuries ago by the

appellation of the Admirable Crichton; of whose history, whatever we may suppress as surpassing credibility, yet we shall, upon incontestible authority, relate enough to rank him among prodigies.

Virtue, says Virgil, is better accepted when it comes in a pleasing form. The person of Crichton was eminently beautiful; but his beauty was consistent with such activ|ity and strength, that in fencing he would spring at one bound the length of twenty feet upon his antagonist; and he used the sword in either hand with such force and dexterity, that scarce any one had courage to engage him.

Having studied at St. Andrews, in Scotland, he went to Paris in his twenty-first year, and affixed on the gate of the college of Navarre, a kind of challenge to the learn|ed of that university, to dispute with them on a certain day; offering to his opponents, whoever they might be, the choice of ten languages, and of all the faculties and ••••••ences. On the day appointed, three thousand auditors assembled, when four doctors of the church, and fifty ••••sters appeared against him; and one of his antagonists confesses that the doctors were defeated; that he gave proofs of knowledge above the reach of man; and that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 hundred years passed without food or sleep would not be sufficient for the attainment of his learning. After a disputation of nine hours, he was presented by the presi|dent and professors with a diamond and purse of gold, and dismissed with repeated acclamations.

From Paris he went to Rome, where he made the same challenge, and had in the presence of the Pope and Car|dinals the same success. Afterwards he contracted at Venice an acquaintance with Aldus Manutius, by whom he was introduced to the learned of that city; he then visited Padua, where he engaged in another public disputation, beginning his performance with an extempore poem in praise of the city and the assembly then present, and con|cluding with an oration equally unpremeditated in com|mendation of ignorance.

He afterwards published another challenge, in which he declared himself ready to detect the errors of Aristotle and all his commentators, either in the common forms of logic, or in any which his antagonists should propose, of an hundred different kinds of verse.

These acquisitions of learning, however stupendous,

were not gained at the expence of any pleasure which youth generally indulges, or by the omission of any ac|complishment in which it becomes a gentleman to excel: he practised in great perfection the arts of drawing and painting; he was an eminent performer in both vocal and instrumental music; he danced with uncommon grace|fulness; and on the day after his disputation at Paris, exhibited his skill in horsemanship before the court of France, where, at a public match of tilting, he bore away the ring upon his lance fifteen times together.

He excelled likewise in domestic games of less dignit•• and reputation; and in the interval between his chal|lenge and disputation at Paris, he spent 〈◊〉〈◊〉 much of his time at cards, dice, and tennis, that a lampoon was fixed upon the gate of the Sorbonne, directing those who would see this monster of erudition, to look for him a•• the tav|ern.

So extensive was his acquaintance with life and man|ners, that in an Italian comedy, composed by himself and exhibited before the court of Mantua, he is said 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have personated fifteen different characters, in all 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he might succeed without great difficulty; since 〈◊〉〈◊〉 such power of retention, that once hearing an 〈◊〉〈◊〉 an hour, he would repeat it exactly, and in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 follow the speaker through all the variety of tone and gesticulation.

Nor was his skill in arms less than in learning, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his courage inferior to his skill. There was a prize-fighter at Mantua, who, (travelling about the world, according to the barbarous custom of that 〈◊〉〈◊〉, as a general chal|lenger) had defeated the most celebrated masters in ma|ny parts of Europe; and in Mantua where he then resided, had killed three that appeared against him. The Duke repented that he had granted him his protection; when Crichton, looking on his sanguinary success with indigna|tion, offered to stake fifteen hundred pistoles, and mount the stage against him. The Duke with some reluctance consented; and on the day fixed, the combatants appear|ed: their weapons seemed to have been the single rapier, which was then newly introduced into Italy. The prize-fighter advanced with greater violence and fierceness, while Crichton contented himself calmly to ward his passes, and suffered him to exhaust his vigour by his own fury.

Crichton then became the assailant; and pressed upon him with such force and agility, that he thrust him thrice through the body, and saw him expire. He then divided the prize he had won, among the windows whose husbands had been killed.

The death of this wonderful man I should be willing to conceal, did I not know that every reader will inquire curiously after that fatal hour, which is common to all human beings, however distinguished from each other by nature or fortune.

The Duke of Mantua having received so many proofs of his various merit, made him tutor to his son Vincentia de Conzaga, a prince of loose manners and turbulent dis|position. On this occasion it was that he composed the comedy in which he exhibited so many different charac|ters with exact propriety. But his honour was of short continuance; for as he was one night in time of Carnival ••••bling about the streets with his guitar in his hand, he was attacked by six men masked. Neither his courage nor s••ill at this exigence deserted him; he opposed them with such activity and spirit, that he soon dispersed th••n, and disarmed their leader, who throwing off his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 discovered himself to be the prince his pupil. Crichton, falling on his knees, took his own sword by the point, and presented it to the prince; who immediately seized it, and instigated, as some say, by jealousy, ac|cording to others only by drunken fury and brutal resent|ment, basely thrust him through the heart.

Thus was the Admirable Crichton brought into that state in which he could excel the meanest of mankind only by a few empty honours paid to his memory. The court of Mantua testified their esteem by public mourn|ing; the cotemporary wits were profuse of their enco|miums; and the palaces of Italy were adorned with pic|tures, representing him on•• horseback, with a lance in one hand, and a book in the other.

On LABOUR and EXERCISE.

The wise, for cure, on exercise depend, God never made his work for man to mend. DRYDEN.

BODILY labour is of two kinds, either that which a man submits to for his livelihood, or that which

he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter of them gen|erally changes the name of labour for that of exercise, but differs only from ordinary labour as it rises from another motive.

A country life abounds in both these kinds of labour, and for that reason gives a man a greater stock of health, and consequently a more perfect enjoyment of himself▪ than any other way of life. I consider the body as a system of tubes and glands; or, to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful a manner▪ as to make a prop|er engine for the soul to work with. This description does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, and arteries, but every muscle, every liga|ture, which is a composition of fibres, that are so many imperceptible tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible glands or strainers.

The general idea of a human body, without consider|ing it in the niceties of anatomy, lets us see how abso|lutely necessary labour is for the right preservation of it. There must be frequent motions and agitations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that infinitude of pipes and strainers of which it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and lasting tone. Labour or exercise ferments the humours, casts them into their proper channel, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in those secret distributions, without which the body cannot subsist in its vigour, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.

I might here mention the effects which this has upon all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the understand|ing clear, the imagination untroubled, and refining those spirits that are necessary for the proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during the present laws of union between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this particular that we must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men of studious and sedentary tempers; as well as the vapours, to which those of the other sex are so often subject. Had not exercise been absolutely neces|sary for our well-being, nature would not have made the body so proper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs, and such a plenty to every part, as necessarily pro|duce these compressions, extensions, contortions, 〈◊〉〈◊〉

and all other kinds of motions, that are necessary for the preservation of such a system of tubes and glands, as hast been before mentioned. And that we might not want inducement to engage us in such an exercise of the body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered, that nothing valuable can be procured without it. Not to mention riches and honour, even food and raiment are not to be come at, without the toil of the hands and sweat of the brow. Providence furnishes materials, but expects that we should work them up ourselves. The earth must be laboured before it gives its increase; and when it is forced into its several products, how many hands must they pass through before they are fit for use! manufactures, trade, and agriculture, naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the species in twenty; and as for those who are not obliged to labour, by the con|dition in which they are born, they are more miserable than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that voluntary labour which goes by the name of Exercise.

As I am a compound of soul and body, I consider my|self as obliged to a double scheme of duties; and I think I have not fulfilled the business of the day, when I do not thus employ the one in labour and exercise, as well as the other in contemplation and study.

On TEMPERANCE.

'Tis to thy rules, O temperance! that we o••e All pleasures which from health or strength can flow: Vigour of body, purity of mind, Unclouded reason, sentiment refin'd. CHANDLER.

THERE is a story in the Arabian Nights Tales, of a king who had long languished under an ill habit of body, and had taken abundance of remedies to no purpose. At length, says the fable, a physician cured him by the following method: he took a hollow ball of wood, and ••••lled it with several drugs, after which he closed it so ••••tificially, that nothing appeared. He likewise took a ••••••ll, and after having hollowed the handle, and that part which strikes the ball, he inclosed in them several drugs after the same manner as in the ball itself. He then or|dered the Sultan▪ who was his patient, to exercise him|self

early in the morning with those rightly prepared in|struments, till such time as he should sweat. When, as the story goes, the virtue of the medicaments perspiring through the wood, had so good an influence on the Sul|tan's constitution, that they cured him of an indisposition which all the compositions he had taken inwardly had not been able to remove. This eastern allegory is finely contrived to shew us how beneficial bodily labour 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to health, and that exercise is the most effectual physic. I shall in this place recommend another great preservative of health, which in many cases produces the same effect as exercise, and may, in some measure, supply its place where opportunities of exercise are wanting. The pre|servative I am speaking of is temperance, which has those particular advantages above all other means of health, that it may be practised by all ranks and conditions, at any season•• or in any place. It is a kind of regimen into which every man may put himself, without interruption to business, expence of money, or loss of time. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 exercise throws off all superfluities, temperance prevents them; if exercise clears the vessels, temperance neither satiates nor overstrains them; if exercise raise proper ferments in the humours, and promotes the circulation of the blood, temperance gives nature her full play, and enables her to exert herself in all her force and vigour. If exer|cise dissipates a growing distemper, temperance starves it.

Physic, for the most part, is nothing else but the substi|tute of exercise or temperance. Medicines are indeed absolutely necessary in acute distempers, that cannot wait the slow operations of these two great instruments of health; but did men live in an habitual course of ex|ercise and temperance, there would be but little occasion for them. Accordingly we find that those parts of the world are most healthy, where they subsist by the chace; and that men lived longest when their lives were employed in hunting, and when they had little food besides what they caught. Blistering, cupping, and bleeding, are seldom of use but to the idle and intemperate; as all those inward applications, which are so much in practice among us, are for the most part nothing else but expedi|ents to make luxury consistent with health. The apoth|ecary is perpetually employed in countermining the cook and the vintner. It is said of Diogenes, that meeting a

young man who was going to a feast, he took him up in the street and carried him home to his friends, as one who was running into imminent danger, had he not pre|vented him. What would the philosopher have said, had he been present at the gluttony of a modern meal? Would not he have thought the master of a family mad, and have begged his servants to tie down his hands, had he seen him devour fowl, fish, and flesh; swallow oil and vinegar, wines and spices; throw down sallads of twenty different herbs, sauces of an hundred ingredients, con|••••••tions, and fruits of numberless sweets and flowers▪ What unnatural motions and counter-ferments must such a medley of intemperance produce in the body! For my part, when I behold ••a fashionable table set out in all its magnificence, I fancy that I see gouts and drop|••••••, ••evers and lethargies, with other innumerable dis|tempers, lying in ambuscade among the dishes.

Nature delights in the most plain and simple diet. Every animal, but man, keeps to one dish. Herbs are the food of this species, fish of that, and flesh of a third. Man falls upon every thing that comes in his way; not the smallest fruit or excrescence of the earth, scarce a berry or mushroom can escape him.

It is impossible to lay down any determinate rule for temperance, because what is luxury in one may be tem|perance in another; but there are few that have lived any time in the world who are not judges of their own constitution, so far as to know what kinds and what pro|portion of food do best agree with them. Were I to con|sider my readers as my patients, and to prescribe such a kind of temperance as is accommodated to all persons, and such as is particularly suited to our climate and way of living, I would copy the following rules of a very em|inent physician. Make your whole repast out of one dish. If you indulge in a second, avoid drinking any thing strong until you have finished your meal: at the same time, abstain from all sauces, or at least from such as are not the most plain and simple. A man could not well be guilty of gluttony, if he stuck to these few obvious and easy rules. In the first case there would be no variety of tastes to solicit his palate, and occasion excess; nor in the second, any artificial provocatives to relieve satiety, and create a false appetite. Were I to prescribe a rule for

drinking, it would be formed upon a saying quoted by Sir William Temple; The first glass for myself, the second for my friends, the third for good humour, and the fourth for my enemies. But because it is impossible for one who lives in the world to diet himself always in so philosophical a manner, I think every man should have his days of absti|nence, according as his constitution will permit. These are great reliefs to nature, as they qualify it for strug|gling with hunger and thirst, whenever any distemper or duty of life puts it upon such difficulties; and at the same time give it an opportunity of extricating itself from its oppressions, and recovering the several tones and springs of its distended vessels. Besides, that abstinence well-timed often kills a sickness in embrio, and destroys the first seeds of an indisposition. It is observed by two or three ancient authors, that Socrates, notwithstanding he lives in Athens during the great plague which has made so much noise throughout all ages, and has been celebrated at different times by such eminent hands: I say, not|withstanding that he lived in the time of this devouring pestilence, he never caught the least infection, which those writers unanimously ascribe to that uninterrupted temperance which he always observed.

And here I cannot but mention an observation which I have often made, upon reading the lives of the philoso|phers, and comparing it with any ••eries of kings or great men of the same number. If we consider these ancient sages, a great part of whose philosophy consisted in a temperate and abstemious course of life, one would think the life of a philosopher and the life of a man, were of two different dates: for we find the generality of these wise men were nearer an hundred than sixty years of age at the time of their respective deaths.

The benefits arising from a temperate course of life are set in a still more striking light, in the following allegory of

The INFALLIBLE ELIXIR.

ESCULAPIUS, after his deification, or admittance among the gods, having revisited his native country, and being one day (as curiosity led him a rambling) in danger of being benighted, made the best of his way to a house he saw at some distance, where he was hospitably

received by the master of it. Cremes, for that was the master's name, though but a young man, was infirm and sickly.—Of several dishes served up to supper, Cremes observed that his guest eat but of one, and that the most simple; nor could all his intreaties prevail on him to do otherwise. He was, nothwithstanding, highly delighted with Esculapius' conversation, in which he observed a cheerfulness and knowledge superior to any thing he had hitherto met with. The next morning Esculapius took his leave, but not till he had engaged his good-natured host to pay him a visit at a small villa, a few miles from thence, where he informed him of his dwelling. Cremes came accordingly, and was most kindly received; but how great was his amazement, when supper was served up, to see nought but milk, honey, and a few roots, dressed in the plainest but neatest manner, to which hunger, cheer|fulness, and good sense, were the only sauces. Esculapius seemed to eat with pleasure, while Cremes scarce tasted of them. On which a repast was ordered more suitable to our guest's taste. Immediately there succeeded a banquet composed of the most artful dishes that luxury could invent, with great plenty and variety of the richest and most intoxicating wines. These too were accompanied by damsels of bewitching beauty. It was now Cremes gave a loose to his appetites, and every thing he tasted raised ecstasies beyond what he had ever known. Dur|ing the repast, the damsels sung and danced to entertain them; their charms enchanted the enraptured guest, already flustered with what he had drunk; his senses were lost in ecstatic confusion. Every thing round him seemed Elysium, and he was on the point of indulging the most boundless freedoms, when, on a sudden, their beauty, which was but a vizard, fell off, and discovered forms the most hideous and forbidding imaginable.—Lu••t, revenge, folly, murder, meagre poverty, and despair, now appeared in the most odious shapes, and the place instant|ly became a most dire scene of misery and confusion. How often did Cremes wish himself far distant from such diabolical company, and now dreaded the fatal conse|quence which threatened him. His blood ran chill at his heart; his knees smote each other with fear, and joy and rapture were converted to amazement and horror! when Esculapius perceived it had made sufficient impression

on his guest, he thus addressed him: "Know Cremes, it is Esculapius who has thus entertained you, and what you have here beheld is a true image of the deceitfulness and misery inseparable from luxury and intemperance. Would you be happy, be temperate: temperance is the parent of health, virtue, wisdom, plenty, and every thing that can make you happy in this, or the world to come. It is indeed the true luxury of life; for without it life cannot be enjoyed." This said, he disappeared, and left Cremes (instead of an elegant apartment) in an open plain, full of ideas quite different from those he had brought with him. On his return home, from the most luxurious he became one of the most temperate men, by which wise method he soon regained health. Frugality produced riches, an from an infirm and crazy constitution, and almost ruined estate, by virtue of this infallible elixir, he became one of the happiest men breathing, and lived to a healthy old age, revered as an oracle for his wisdom throughout all Greece.

On the VANITY of some MEN'S WISHES and PRAYERS.

When to Almighty Jove our prayers we move, May virtue guide, and heaven our suit approve. R.

MENNIPUS, the philosopher, was a second time taken up into heaven by Jupiter, when, for his entertain|ment, he lifted up a trap-door that was placed by his footstool. At its rising there issued through it such a di•• of cries as astonished the philosopher. Upon his asking what they meant, Jupiter told him they were the prayers that were sent up to him from the earth. Men|nipus, amidst the confusion of voices, which was so great that nothing less than the ear of Jove could distinguish them, heard the words riches, honour, long life, repeated in several different tones and languages. When the first hubbub of sounds was over, the trap-door being left open, the voices came up more separate and distinct. The first prayer was a very odd one; it came from Athens, and desired Jupiter to increase the wisdom and the beard of his humble suppliant. Mennipus knew it, by the voice, to be the prayer of his friend Lycander, the philosopher. This was succeeded by the petition of one who had just

laden a ship, and promised Jupiter, if he took care of it, and returned it home again full of riches, he would make him an offering of a silver cup. Jupiter thanked him for nothing; and bending down his ear more attentively than ordinary, heard a voice complaining to him of the cru|elty of an Ephesian widow, and begging him to breed compassion in her heart: this, says Jupiter, is a very hon|est fellow. I have received a great deal of incense from him; I will not be so cruel to him as to hear his prayers. He was then interrupted with a whole volley of vows, which were made for the health of a tyrannical prince by his subjects, who prayed for him in his presence. Men|nipus was surprised, after having listened to prayers offer|ed up with so much ardour and devotion, to hear low whispers from the same assembly, expostulating with Jove for suffering such a tyrant to live, and asking how his thunder could lie idle? Jupiter was so offended at these prevaricating rascals, that he took down the first vows, and puffed away the last. The philosopher, seeing a great cloud mounting upwards, and making its way di|rectly to the trap-door, inquired of Jupiter what it meant. This, says Jupiter, is the smoke of a whole hecatomb that is offered me by the general of an army, who is very im|portunate with me to let him cut off an hundred thousand men that are drawn up in array against him: what does the impudent wretch think I see in him, to believe that I will make a sacrifice of so many mortals as good as himself, and all this to his glory, forsooth?—But hark, says Jupiter, there is a voice I never heard but in time of danger; it is a rogue that is shipwrecked in the IonianSea: I saved him upon a plank but three days ago, upon his promise to mend his manners; the scoundrel is not worth a groat, and yet has the impudence to offer me a temple if I will keep him from sinking. But yonder, says he, is a special youth for you; he desires me to take his father, who keeps a great estate from him, out of the miseries of human life. The old fellow shall live till he make his heart ache, I can tell him that for his pains. This was followed by the soft voice of a pious lady, de|siring Jupiter that she might appear amiable and charming in the sight of her Emperor. As the philosopher was re|flecting on this extraordinary petition, there blew a gen|tle wind through the trap-door, which he at first mistook

for a gale of zephyrs, but afterwards found it to be a breeze of sighs: they smelt strong of flowers and incense, and were succeeded by most passionate complaints of wounds and torment, fire and arrows, cruelty, despair, and death. Mennipus fancied that such lamentable cries arose from some general execution, or from wretches ly|ing under the torture; but Jupiter told him, they came to him from the isle of Paphos, and that he every day received complaints of the same nature from that whim|sical tribe of mortals who are called Lovers. I am so trifled with, says he, by this generation of both sexes, and find it so impossible to please them, whether I grant or refuse their petitions, that I shall order a western wind for the future to intercept them in their passage, and blow them at random upon the earth. The last petition I heard was from a very aged man, near a hundred years old, begging but for one year more of life, and then promised to die contented. This is the rarest old fellow, says Jupiter; he has made this prayer to me for above twenty years together. When he was but fifty years old he desired only that he might live to see his son settled in the world; I granted it. He then begged the same favour for his daughter, and afterwards that he might see the education of a grandson. When all this was brought about, he put up a petition that he might live to finish a house he was building. In short, he is an un|reasonable old cur, and never wants an excuse; I will hear no more of him. Upon which he flung down the trap-door in a passion, and was resolved to give no more audiences that day.

Notwithstanding the levity of this fable, the moral of it very well deserves our attention. The vanity of men's wishes, which are the natural prayers of the mind, as well as many of those secret devotions which they offer up to the Supreme Being, are sufficiently exposed by it. Among other reasons for set forms of prayer, I have often thought it a very good one, that by this means the folly and extravagance of men's desires may be kept within due bounds, and not break out in absurd and ridiculous petitions on so great and solemn an occasion.

On AERIAL CASTLE-BUILDING.

He dreams of riches, grandeur, and a crown: He wakes, and finds himself a simple clown. ROWE.

ALNASCHAR was a very idle fellow, that never would set his hand to any business during his father's life. When his father died, he left him to the value of an hundred drachmas in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order to make the best of it, laid it out in glasses, bottles, and the fi••••est earthen ware. These he piled up in a large open basket, and having made choice of a very little 〈◊〉〈◊〉, placed the basket at his feet, and leaned his back against the wall, in expectation of customers. As he sat in this posture, with his eyes upon the basket, he fell in|to a most amusing train of thought, and was overheard by one of the neighbours, as he talked to himself, in the following manner: "This basket, says he, cost me at the wholesale merchant's an hundred drachmas, which is all I have in the world. I shall quickly make two hun|dred of it, by selling it in retail. These two hundred drachmas will in a very little time rise to four hundred, which of course will amount in time to four thousand. Four thousand drachmas cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon as by this means I am maste•• of ten thousand, I will lay aside my trade as a glassman, and turn jeweller. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls, and all sorts of rich stones. When I have got together as much wealth as I can well desire, I will make a pur|chase of the finest house I can find, with lands, slaves, eunuchs, and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy myself, and make a noise in the world. I will not, however, stop there, but continue my traffic till I have got toge|ther an hundred thousand drachmas. When I have thus made myself master of an hundred thousand drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the foot of a prince, and will demand the Grand Visir's daughter in marriage, after having represented to that minister the information which I have received of the beauty, wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his daughter possesses. I will let him know, at the same time, that it is my inten|tion to make him a present of a thousand pieces of gold on our marriage night. As soon as I have married the Grand Visir's daughter, I will buy her ten black eunuchs,

the youngest and best that can be got for money. I must afterwards make my father-in-law a visit with a great train and equipage. And when I am placed at his right hand, which he will do in course, if it be only to honour his daughter, I will give him the thousand pieces of gold which I promised him; and afterwards to his great surprise, I will present him with another purse of the same value, with some short speech; as, Sir, you se•• I am a man of my word, I always give mere than I promise.

"When I have brought the princess to my house, I shall take particular care to breed in her a due respect for me, before I give the reins to love and dalliance. To this end I shall confine her to her own apartment, make her a short visit, and talk but little to her. Her women will represent to me that she is inconsolable by reason of my unkindness, and beg me with tears to caress her, and let her sit down by me; but I will still remain inexorable, and will turn my back upon her all the first night. Her mother will then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated on my sofa. The daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg of me to receive her into my favour. Then will I, to imprint in her a thorough veneration for my person, draw up my leg and spurn her from me with my foot in such a manner that she shall fall down several paces from the sofa."

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in this chimerical vision, and could not forbear acting with his foot what he had in his thoughts: so that unluckily striking his basket of brittle ware, which was the foundation of all his grandeur, he kicked his glasses to a great distance from him into the street, and broke them into ten thou|sand pieces.

This is a humourous ridicule upon the foolish vanity of building castles in the air, and idly wasting that time in empty flattering schemes, which might have been use|fully employed in attending our proper business.

On CHARITY.

The soul that feels for others woe, From heav'n its origin doth show.

ZACCHOR and ESREFF, two youths, begged the Dervise Morat, their tutor, who was a S•••••• and

blessed by Mahomet with the knowledge of future events, to permit them to visit the curiosities of Al••ppo, to which place they were but lately come for the advantage of the wise and holy man's instructions, and who had underta|ken their education: he gave each of them a few aspers on going forth, to expend on whatever their inclinations prompted to; and, on their return, he inquired how they had disposed of the money? I, said Zacchor, cast my eyes on some of the finest dates Syria ever produced; I laid out my aspers, and indulged in what perhaps I shall never meet the like again. And I, said Esreff, met a poor helpless wretch with an infant at her breast, whose cries pierced my soul: she was reduced to the very utmost extremity: the angel of death seemed to glare forth at her eyes, and she had scarce strength left to beg the assistance my heart yearned to give her, and which our prophet commands all Musselmen to bestow on misery like her's. ••he has my aspers, and I grieved I had not more to bestow. The money, said Morat to Zacchor, which you exchanged for the dates, will in a few hours be converted into the most odious of substances, mere excrement: but, Esreff, said he, turning to the other, besides the pleasure you must enjoy whenever you reflect on what you have done, ••••ow that your well-bestowed aspers will produce a never-fading fruit, and contribute to your happiness, both in this world and the world to come; and moreover, know, that the infant whose life you have saved, and who, without your assistance, must, with its mother, have per|••••••ed, will (so Heaven has decreed it) live to repay your goodness, by saving your life many years hence, and res|••••••ing you from the most imminent of dangers.

PROSPERITY and ADVERSITY.

An Allegory.

As physic's for the body's good assign'd, Misfortunes are the physic of the mind. R.

PROSPERITY and ADVERSITY, the daughters of Providence, were sent to the house of a rich Ph••••nician merchant, named Velasco, whose residence was at Tyre, the capital city of that kingdom.

Prosperity, the elder, was beautiful as the morning, and

cheerful as the spring; but Adversity was sorrowful and ill-favoured.

Velasco had two sons, Felix and Uranio. They were both bred to commerce, though liberally educated, and had lived together from their infancy in the strictest har|mony and friendship. But love, before whom all the affections of the ••oul are as the t••aces of a ship upon the ocean, which remain only for a moment, threatened, in an evil hour, to set them at variance; for both were be|come enamoured with the beauties of Prosperity. The nymph, like one of the daughters of men, gave encour|agement to each by turns; but, to avoid a particular declaration, she avowed a resolution never to marry, un|less her sister, from whom she said it was impossible for her to be long separate, was married at the same time.

Velasco, who was no stranger to the passions of his sons, and who dreaded every thing from their violence, to prevent consequences, obliged them by his authority to decide their pretensions by lots; each previously en|gaging in a solemn oath to marry the nymph that should fall to his share. The lots were accordingly drawn; and Prosperity became the wife of Felix, and Adversity of Urax••o.

Soon after the celebration of these nuptials, Velasco died, having bequeathed to his eldest son Felix, the house wherein he dwelt, together with the greatest part of his large fortune and effects.

The husband of Prosperity was so transported with the gay disposition and enchanting beauties of his bride, that he cloathed her in gold and silver, and adorned her with jewels of inestimable value. He built a palace for her in the wood; he made rivers in his gardens, and beau|tified their banks with temples and pavilions. He enter|tained at his table the nobles of the land, delighting their ears with music, and their eyes with magnificence. But his kindred he beheld as strangers, and the compan|ions of his youth passed by him unregarded. His brother also became hateful in his sight, and, in process of time, he commanded the doors of his house to be shut against him.

But as the stream flows from its channel, and loses itself among the vallies, unless confined by mounds; so also will the current of fortune be dissipated, unless

bounded by Economy. In a few years the estate of Felix was wasted by extravagance, his merchandize failed him by neglect, and his effects were seized by the merciless hands of creditors. He applied himself for support to the nobles and great men, whom he had feasted and made presents to: but his voice was as the voice of a stranger, and they remembered not his face. The friends whom he had neglected derided him in their turn; his wife also insulted him, and turned her back upon him, and fled. Yet was his heart so bewitched with her sorce|ries, that he pursued her with intreaties, till by her haste to abandon him, her mask fell off, and discovered to him a face as withered and deformed, as before it had ap|peared youthful and engaging.

What became of him afterwards tradition does not relate with certainty. It is believed that he fled into 〈◊〉〈◊〉; and lived precariously on the scanty benevolence of a few friends, who had not totally deserted him, and that he died in a short time, wretched and an exile.

Let us now return to Uranio, who, as we have already observed, had been driven out of doors by his brother ••elix. Adversity, though hateful to his heart, and a spec|tre to his eyes, was the constant attendant upon his steps: and, to aggravate his sorrow, he received certain intelli|gence that his richest vessel was taken by a Sardinian pi|rate; that another was lost upon the Lybian Syrtes; and, to complete all, that the banker with whom the greatest part of his ready money was entrusted, had deserted his creditors, and retired into Sicily. Collecting therefore the small remains of his fortune, he bade adieu to Tyre; and, led by Adversity, through unfrequented roads and forests overgrown with thickets, he came at last to a small village at the foot of a mountain: here they took up their abode some time; and Adversity, in return for all the anxiety he had suffered, softening the severity of her looks, administered to him the most faithful counsel, weaning his heart from the immoderate love of earthly things, and teaching him to revere the gods, and to place his whole trust and happiness in their government and protection. She humanized his soul, made him modest and humble, taught him to compassionate the distresses of his fellow-creatures, and inclined him to ••••lieve them.

"I am sent, said she, by the gods, to those only whom they love: for I not only train them up by my severe discipline to future glory, but also prepare them to receive with greater relish all such moderate enjoyments as are not inconsistent with this probationary state. As the spider, when assailed, seeks shelter in its inmost web▪ so the mind which I afflict, contracts its wandering thoughts and flies for happiness to itself. It was I who raised the characters of Cato, Socrates, and Timoleon to so divine a height, and set them up as guides and examples to every future age. Prosperity, my smiling, but treacherous sister, too frequently delivers those whom she has seduced, to be scourged by her cruel followers, anguish and despair: while Adversity never fails to lead those who will be instructed by her, to the blissful habitations of tranquillity and content."

Uranio listened to her words with great attention; and as he looked earnestly on her face, the deformity of it seemed insensibly to decrease. By gentle degrees his aversion to her abated; and at last he gave himself whol|ly up to her counsel and direction. She would often repeat to him the wise maxims of the philosopher▪ "That those who want the fewest things, approach near|est to the gods, who want nothing." She admonished him to turn his eyes to the many thousands beneath him, instead of gazing on the few who live in pomp and splen|dor; and in his addresses to the gods, instead of suppli|cating for riches and popularity, to pray only for a vir|tuous mind, a quiet state, an unblameable life, and a hopeful death.

Finding him to be every day more and more composed, and resigned, though neither enamoured of her face, nor delighted with her society, she at last addressed him in the following manner:

"As the gold is purged and refined from the dross by the fire, so is Adversity sent by Providence to try and im|prove the virtue of mortals. The end obtained, my task is finished; and now I leave you to go and give an ac|count of my charge. Your brother, whose lot was Pros|perity, and whose condition you so much envied, after having experienced the error of his choice, is at last re|leased by death from the most wretched of lives. Happy has it been for Uranio that his lot was Adversity, whom, if he remembers as he ought, his life will be honourable, and his death happy."

As she pronounced these words, she vanished from his fight. But though her features at that moment, instead of inspiring their usual horror, seemed to display a kind of languishing beauty; yet as Uranio, in spite of his ut|most efforts, could not prevail on himself to love her, he neither regretted her departure, nor wished for her return. But though he rejoiced in her absence, he treasured up her counsels in his heart, and grew happy by the practice of them.

He afterwards be took himself again to merchandize; and having in a short time acquired a competency suffi|cient for a real enjoyment of life, he retreated to a little farm, which he had bought for that purpose, and where he determined to continue the remainder of his days. Here he employed his time in planting, gardening, and husbandry, in quelling all disorderly passions, and in forming his mind by the lessons of Adversity. He took great delight in a little cell or hermitage in his garden, which stood under a tuft of trees, encompassed with eg|lantine and honey-suckles. Adjoining it, was a cold bath, formed by a spring issuing from a rock, and over the door was written in large characters, the following inscription.

Beneath this moss-grown roof, within this cell, Truth, liberty, content and virtue dwell. Say, you who dare this happy place disdain, What splendid palace boasts so fair a train?

He lived to a good old age; and died honoured and lamented.

On CONVERSATION.

There are whom Heav'n has blest with store of wit, Yet ••••ant as much again to manage it; Words are like leaves, and where they most abound, Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. POPE.

THE faculty of interchanging our thoughts with one another, or what we express by the word conversa|tion, has always been represented by moral writers as one of the noblest privileges of reason, and which more par|ticularly sets mankind above the brute part of the crea|tion.

Though nothing so much gains upon the affections as this extempore eloquence which we have constantly occasion for, and are obliged to practise every day, we very rarely meet with any who excel in it.

The conversation of most men is disagreeable, not so much for want of wit and learning, as of good-breading and discretion.

If you resolve to please, never speak to gratify any particular vanity or passion of your own, but always with a design either to divert or inform the company. A man who only aims at one of th••se, is always easy in his discourse. He is neve•• out of humour at being inter|rupted, because he considers that those who hear him are the best 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 whether what he was saying could either divert or inform them.

A modest person seldom fails to gain the good-will of those he converses with, because no body envies a man who does not appear to be pleased with himself.

We should talk extremely little of ourselves. Indeed what can we say? It would be as imprudent to discover our faults, as ridiculous to count our fancied virtues. Our private and domestic affairs are no less improper to be introduced in conversation. What does it concern the company how many horses you keep in your stable? Or whether your servant is more knave or fool?

A man may equally affront the company he is in, by ingrossing all the talk, or by observing a contemptuous silence.

Before you tell a story, it may be generally not amiss to draw a short character, and give the company a true idea of the principal persons concerned in it. The beauty of most things consists not so much in their being said or done, as in their being said or done by such a particular person, or on such a particular occasion.

Notwithstanding all the advantages of youth, few young people please in conversation; the reason is, that want of experience makes them positive, and what they say is rather with a design to please themselves than any one else.

It is certain that age itself will make many things pass well enough, which would have been laughed at in the mouth of one much younger.

Nothing however is more insupportable to men of

sense, than an empty formal man, who speaks in proverbs, and decides all controversies with a short sentence. This piece of stupidity is the more insufferable, as it puts on the air of wisdom.

A prudent man will avoid talking much of any particu|lar science, for which he is remarkably famous. There is not, methinks, a handsomer thing said of Mr. Cowley, in his whole life, than that none but his intimate friends ever discovered that he was a great poet by his discourse: besides the decency of this rule, it is certainly founded on good policy. A man who talks of any thing he is already famous for, has nothing to get, but a great deal to lose. I might add, that he who is sometimes silent on a subject where every one is satisfied he could speak well, will often be thought no less knowing in other matters, where perhaps he is wholly ignorant.

Women are frightened at the name of argument, and a••e sooner convinced by a happy turn, or a witty expres|sion, than by demonstration.

Whenever you commend, add your reasons for doing so; it is this which distinguishes the approbation of a man of sense from the flattery of sycophants and the admiration of fools.

Raillery is no longer agreeable than while the whole company is pleased with it. I would least of all be under|stood to except the person railed at.

Though good humour, sense, and discretion can seldom fail to make a man agreeable, it may be no ill policy sometimes to prepare yourself in a particular manner for conversation, by looking a little farther than your neigh|bours into whatever is become a reigning subject. If our armies are besieging a place of importance abroad, or our House of Commons debating a bill of consequence at home, you can hardly fail of being heard with pleasure, if you have nicely informed yourself of the strength, situa|tion, and history of the former, or of the reasons for and against the latter. It will have the same effect, if, when any single person begins to make a noise in the world, you can learn some of the smallest incidents in his life or conversation; which, though they are too fine for the observation of the vulgar, give more satisfaction to men of sense, (as they are the best openings to a real character) than the recital of his most glaring actions. I know but

one ill consequence to be feared from this method, name|ly, that coming full charged into company, you should resolve to unload, whether a handsome opportunity offers itself or not.

Though asking of questions may plead for itself the specious name of modesty, and a desire of information, it affords little pleasure to the rest of the company who may not be troubled with the same doubts; besides which, he who asks a question would do well to consider that he lies wholly at the mercy of another before he receives an answer.

Nothing is more silly than the pleasure some people take in what they c••ll speaking their minds. A man of this make will say a rude thing for the mere pleasure of saying it, when an opposite behaviour, full as innocent, might have preserved his friend, or made his fortune.

It is not impossible for a man to form to himself as exquisite a pleasure in complying with the humours and sentiments of others, as of bringing others over to his own; since it is the certain sign of a superior genius, that it can take and become whatever dress it pleases.

I shall only add, that besides what I have here said, there is something which can never be learned but in the company of the polite. The virtues of men are catching as well as their vices; and your own observations added to these, will soon discover what it is that commands attention in one man, and makes you tired and displeased with the discourse of another.

The PARTY-COLOURED SHIELD.

A Story on the same Subject.

With hasty judgment ne'er decide; First hear what's said on either side. R.

IN the days of knight-errantry and paganism, one of our old British princes set up a statue to the goddess of Victory, in a point where four roads met together. In her right hand she held a spear, and rested her left upon a shield: the outside of this shield was of gold, and the inside of silver. On the former was inscribed, in the old British language, To the goddess ever favourable; and on the other, For four victories obtained successively over the Picts, and other inhabitants of the Northern Islands.

It happened one day that two knights completely armed, the one in black armour, and the other in white, arrived from opposite parts of the country at this statue, just about the same time; and as neither of them had seen it before, they stopped to read the inscriptions, and observe the excellence of its workmanship. After con|templating it for some time, This golden shield, says the black knight—Golden shield, cried the White knight, (who was strictly observing the opposite side) why, if I have my eyes, it is silver. I know nothing of your eyes, replied the black knight; but if ever I saw a golden shield in my life, this is one: yes, returned the White knight smiling, it is very probable indeed, that they should ex|pose a shield of gold in so public a place as this: for my part, I wonder even a silver one is not too strong a temp|tation for the devotion of some people that pass this way; and it appears by the date, that this has been here above three years. The black knight could not bear the smile with which this was delivered, and grew so warm in the dispute, that it soon ended in a challenge; they both therefore turned their horses, and rode back so far as to have sufficient space for their career, then fixed their spears in their rests, and flew at each other with the greatest fury and impetuosity. Their shock was so rude, and the blow on each side so effectual, that they both fell to the ground, much wounded and bruised and lay there for some time, as in a trance. A good Druid, who was travelling that way, found them in this condition. The Druids were the physicians of those times, as well as the priests. He had a sovereign balsam about him, which he had composed himself, for he was very skilful in all the plants that grew in the fields, or in the forests; he staunched their blood, applied his balsam to their wounds, and brought them as it were from death to life again. As soon as they were sufficiently recovered, he began to inquire into the occasion of their quarrel. "Why, this man, cried the black knight, will have it, that that shield yonder is silver." "And he will have it, replied the white knight, that it is gold;" and then told him all the particulars of the affair. "Ah! said the Druid, with a sigh, you are both of you, my brethren, in the right, and both of you in the wrong: had either of you given him|self time to look upon the opposite side of the shield, as

well as that which first presented itself to his view, all this passion and bloodshed might have been avoided; however, there is a very good lesson to be learned from the evils that have befallen you on this occasion. Permit me therefore to intreat you, by all our gods, and by this goddess of victory in particular, Never to enter into any dispute for the future, till you have fairly considered both sides of the question."

On GAMING.

You'll find at least this maxim true, Fools are the game which knaves pursue. GAY.

IT is observable that Mahomet, in a particular manner, forbade gaming and drunkenness to his followers, when at the same time he indulged them with plurality of women. The last of which he looked upon as a pas|sion, the seeds of which are implanted as it were in our nature: whereas gaming and drunkenness he absolutely forbade, as acquired and unnatural vices; as vices pro|ductive of the most dreadful consequences. I will not at present examine the justness of the compliment paid to amorous libertinism, which he certainly carried too far; but shall observe, that his strict commands in regard to gaming and drunkenness, have contributed more than any of his other injunctions to the happiness of his fol|lowers.

Gaming (which I shall at present consider) seems to me of all vices the greatest enemy of happiness: its in|separable attendants are envy, deceit, profuseness, impi|ety, and a whole train of diabolical associates. Health, peace of mind, love, family, friends, country, and in short every thing valuable or desirable, are sacrificed to it. And to what then are they sacrificed? Why, to ava|rice: avarice, the meanest of vices. The love of gaming is nothing more than the love of other people's money. It is not the avarice of a miser; it is the avarice of a thief, a robber; or rather the cowardly avarice of a pick-pocket. It is avarice and profusion join|ed together; a most unnatural conjunction, and productive of more terrible consequences than either of them singly can possibly be: like Aaron's rod, it ab|sorbs, it swallows up, and contains within itself all other vices and may justly among vices be stiled Legion; and

of all baits made use of by the grand enemy of mankind, to tempt us from our duty, and make us unhappy here-after, gaming seems the most dangerous, and the best to answer his diabolical ends.

It is ridiculous to hear the votaries of gaming term it an amusement, an inoffensive relaxation, &c;. Those who so mis••al it, must notwithstanding allow it to be an irrational, or unimproving diversion; and that at the best it is but murdering time. But upon examination, every observer may find, that dallying with the tempta|tion draws on imperceptibly to the most destructive con|sequences. But what shall be said of those who take no delight in gaming, yet give into it on almost every occa|sion? Surely complaisance is a poor excuse for doing a foolish or a wicked action, and that every gamester is a knave or a fool, is a most palpable truth. A certain no|bleman, hearing a gentleman spoken of, who was said to be a great gamester: he is a most incorrigible blockhead, cries my Lord. But on being assured he was a man of very brilliant parts: if so, replies my Lord, he must be a rank scoundrel. Not so, my Lord, replies the other, he bears the character of a gentleman of great worth and honour "That cannot be, retorts the nobleman; every gamester is either a rogue or fool, pike or gudgeon; and hon|our never makes a nearer approach to the heart of such a one than the tip of his tongue."

All conversation, all improvement, is put a stop to the moment gaming commences; friendship and society, benevolence and humanity cease, and nothing further is thought of, but the ruin of those you are in company with; the ruin of those you often make the strongest pro|testations of friendship to: the gamester's happiness (like the devil's) depends on the misery of others; and, like Satan too, he smiles on those whom in his heart he de|votes to destruction.

The life of a gamester is a life of uncertainty (conse|quently of unhappiness;) he can never properly call any thing his own, not being assured of its possession one moment longer than till his next sitting down to the gaming table. The thriving gamester, (how precarious is his thriving!) is the worst of robbers; and the unfor|tunate, the worst of self-murderers: a murderer who in|volves all those innocents, who unfortunately have any

connection with him, in the dismal gulph of beggery and wretched dependence.

If covetousness of another's property, and discontent with our own, be a breach of the divine command, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's goods, &c." the game|ster is ever and superlatively guilty. The late Duke of A--------e, who had an aversion to all sorts of gaming, being urged to no purpose by a nobleman to sport a little money: Sure, my Lord, cries the nobleman, you must love your money vastly, to be afraid of venturing a trifle of it. It is true, my Lord, (replies his Grace) I do love my own money; yet no person had ever reason to say I was fond of another man's.

The male part of mankind who give into this vice, prostitute their talents to the most vicious purposes; they become entirely absorbed by it; they stand like slaves in the market, to be bought and sold; for necessity often glares them in the face, and betrays them to venality.

If married, how can they reflect on the hazards they put the happiness of wife, children, friends, &c;. to? And when ill fortune stares them in the face, how often are they so cowardly as to have recourse to a pistol, and by suicide leave those innocents to confront a dan|ger they themselves were afraid of facing? But when gaming, seizes the female breast, to all the above men|tioned misfortunes we may justly add, loss of beauty, which is ever the consequence of late hours, ruffled passions, and a corroding heart. Her honour, her chastity, can no longer be called her own, when she commences game|ster. The mansion of gracefulness and beauty is con|verted into a foul and darksome dungeon. Attracting softness and modesty (the amiable characteristics of the sex) are changed for unbecoming fierceness and acerbity of temper, and the whole picture brings to our mind the different situation and figure of Satan before and after the fall. These reflections (loose and undigested as they are) were occasioned by the two following relations, which lately happened and which probably several of my readers know to have but too much truth in them.

In one of the principal cities in England lived Lucius and Sapphira, blessed with a moderate fortune. Health, love, peace of mind, and two little darlings, a son and daughter. They seemed to want for nothing as an ad|dition to their happiness, nor were they insensible of

what they enjoyed; but with gratitude to Heaven, were instruments of good to all about them. Towards the close of last summer, Lucius happening to be in company with some neighbouring gentleman•• who proposed to waste an hour or so at cards, he 〈◊〉〈◊〉, more in com|pliance to others' taste than his own. Like other sport|ers, he met with a variety of fortune, (a variety more se|ducing than a continuance either of good or bad) and warmed with liquor, he was inconsiderately drawn in before the company broke up, to involve himself more than his fortune could bear. The next day, on sober reflection, he could not support the thoughts of the dis|tress his folly had brought on his Sapphira and the little innocents; he had not courage to acquaint her with what had happened; and whilst in the midst of pangs he had hitherto been a stranger to, he was visited again, and again tempted by one of the last night's company to try fortune once more. In order to drown reflection, and in hopes of recovering his loss, he flew to the fatal place, nor did he le•••••• it till he had lost his all. The consequence of which was, that the next day, in despair indescribeable, after writing to acquaint Sapphira with what had happened, he shot himself through the head; the news of which deprived Sapphira of her senses: she is at present confined in a mad house, and the two little innocents, destitute of parents and fortune, have a trou|blesome world to struggle through, and are likely to feel all the miseries that poverty and servile dependence en|tail on the wretched.

A young lady who lived in the North, was on the point of marriage with a young gentleman whom she was doat|ingly fond of, and by whom she was as greatly beloved: she was at the same time admired by a person of high rank, but whose passion, as he was already married, was consequently dishonourable. He was determined, how|ever, at any rate to indulge his vicious flame; but as she was a person of the strictest honour, he was obliged to act cautiously, and keep his love a secret. Knowing her propensity to gaming, he laid a snare for her, into which she fell, to the great diminution of her fortune. This he took care to have represented with the most aggrava|ting circumstances to the gentleman to whom she was engaged. His friends painted to him the dreadful in|convenience

of his taking a gamester to wife: poverty, disease, and probably dishonour to his bed, were the like|ly consequences; in a word, they managed matters so as to break off the match. The villain who occasioned the breach between the lovers, notwithstanding, missed his wicked ends; his addresses and proposals met with con|tempt and abhorrence; yet though she preserved her chastity, (a circumstance very uncommon among female gamesters) the loss of her intended spouse, whom she was distractedly fond of, threw her into a decline, which in a few months put an end to her life.

On DRUNKENNESS.

O that men should put an enemy into their mouths to steal away their brains! SHAKESPEAR.

THE following is a letter from a father to his only son, in which he lays open the detestable crime of drunkenness, and its shocking consequences, in striking colours. As the subject of the letter is a vice not very uncommon in England, I hope the inserting of it will need no further apology.

Dear Tom,

It is with the greatest concern I hear you have lately (more than once) been guilty of getting fuddled in com|pany with some of your youthful companions; you can scarce think what a shock this account gave me. I know, my dear boy, you have a great flow of spirits, a lively imagination, and great good-nature; but those qualities, instead of guarding you against that odious fault, are, I am afraid, most likely to hurry you into it: other vices generally have their rise, and take deepest root in the meanest dispositions. Drunkenness on the contrary, is often, too often observed to flourish in the richest and most promising soils: this, Tom, is a princi|pal reason why I feel for you. A social good-natured youth is drawn in by degrees; if he is lively, smart, and witty, his company is sought for by others; if wit in another captivates him, the company he doats on draws him to the tavern, and though he steps cautiously at first, he soon, from habit and example, loses all sense of what he is doing; the sense of danger daily wears off; fond|ness

for company by degrees draws on fondness for liquor; he becomes more sottish, and consequently more stupid, till at last his understanding, (an understanding that might have done honour to his country, and benefited his fellow-creatures) becomes clouded and muddled, and instead of the promising expectations that his youth af|forded, he becomes a burden to himself, and despicable to all the world.

Drunkenness, Tom, stupifies the senses, destroys the memory, blunts the understanding, fills men with diseases, and makes them incapable of business of any kind: that this is the consequence of habitual drunkenness, too ma|ny instances in every part of this kingdom will evidence. What a despicable character that of a sot is I need not describe to you; and depend upon it, every person who is fond of the company of topers, is in a fair way of be|coming a sot. If your inclination tends that way, check it immediately, nor deceive yourself with the hopes of having the power to conquer it whenever you please; in such a case, habit daily adds new strength to the vicious bent: the brute part of us (appetite) soon possesses the whole man, and reason, which may be called the angelic part, becomes quite s••••othered and destroyed: you know, my lad, it is a common expression to say, He is as drunk as a beast. We do not suppose that beasts get drunk; we mean by it, that man by inebriation drowns his under|standing; and when his reason is gone, he is upon a level with, nay really far beneath the brute, irrational creation. Brutes are certainly equally rational with such a wretch, if not more so, with the superior advantage of a sound body, and an instinct to guide them.

I am not afraid of your giving into vices which flow from an illiberal genius or stupidity; as swearing, for example, which shews a barrenness of understanding, and a want of words; a want in reality of common sense in the blasphemer. This, my dear boy, is far from being the case with you at present; yet should you ever be|come an habitual drunkard, the company you must then be often reduced to herd with, and the less of your un|derstanding, will, you may depend upon it, bring on that stupid vice as an additional od••••m on your character.

I know the world is apt to laugh ••t the apprehen|sion of any danger accruing from getting fuddled now

and then; they think the consequences innocent and trifling, but they soon find themselves wofully mistaken. Getting fuddled is the high road to habitual drunken|ness; the oftener you are guilty of it, the more you pre|judice your health and understanding; and the less capable you are to guard against that abominable vice: it steals upon you insensibly, and you are seldom con|scious of the danger till you are incapable of resisting it.

Consider, my dear lad, the first deviation from the level paths of virtue, is the gradual imperceptible des|cent: the entrance is bewitching, as it lies through the flowery regions of pleasure; but as you advance, the way soon becomes rougher and less pleasing: the prospect by degrees grows dreary, gloomy, and frightful: each step you advance grows steeper and steeper; your power of resistence grows fainter and fainter; and you are hur|ried down, in spite of the feeble efforts you are 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ca|pable of making, into the gulph of shame and everlasting destruction.

A drunkard is the worst of suicides; he is a deliber|ate, determined self murderer; he hurries himself out of the world; and for the short time he crawls on the earth, he makes himself miserable, by loading himself with racking distempers. Company, which he was so fond of, avoid and despise him, when he can no longer contribute to their irrational mirth, (for you must never trust to friendship commenced over a 〈◊〉〈◊〉;) and the only faint glimmering of pleasure he then enjoys, is when he is pouring down that liquid poison which first occasioned, and still increases his disorder.

A certain people among the ancient Greeks (the L••••rians, I think) punished with double rigour any crime com|mitted in liquor; first, and principally, for getting drunk; and, secondly, for the crime committed: for certainly he who eradicates his reason deliberately, as drunkards do, is much more guilty of what is committed for want of that reason, destroyed by his own fault, than he whose reason is overcome by any accidental attack of passion.

You seem, Tom, to have some ambition in you, a laudable ambition, I hope, to distinguish yourself, and cut a figure in the world: all that, my dear boy, is over with you, if you once suffer drunkenness to become your

master: that emulation which might have made you illustrious, will of course be reversed into an abasement that must degrade you below rationality; and scarce, as I have hinted before, leave you on a level with the lowest order of groveling brutes.

Whenever you hear any person brag in company (which drunkards generally do with great pleasure and self-consequence) that he got drunk, most damnably drunk, set that fellow down for a fool at the best. It is a foolish, nay a wicked way of priding himself, of what he should be ashamed of. What then must we think of company, who by their behaviour seem to approve such folly; and as to the ridiculous custom of drinking healths, nothing certainly can be a greater enemy to health than that is. I am sure it were as absurd to ap|plaud a person for eating to excess, as for drinking to excess; they are equally despicable, gluttonous, mean, and hoggish.

A man may enjoy company infinitely to more advan|tage in walking, riding, &c;. than in a tavern over a bottle. Moderate exercise contributes to health and im|provement of the faculties; and conversation at such times must be more edifying from the variety of scenes that are continually presenting themselves to the eye: or if the weather will not permit that, enjoy yourself in your own or your friend's chamber, with an agreeable companion or two, which must be much preferable to fuddling in a tavern, or an alehouse; where the longer you remain, the less entertaining and improving must the conversation be. Besides, I know you have a taste both for music and painting, and certainly any person so en|dowed can never be at a los•• for a pleasing relaxation from study. I am far, Tom, from being one of that rigid class of mortals, who decay cheerfulness and mirth; I love mirth, you know I do: and cheerfulness (as the Spectator says) is the very health of the soul; to preserve which, is one great reason why I would have you avoid drinking; for drinking is in reality an enemy to cheerfulness, good-nature, and mirth. In drinking, it is hard, nay almost impossible, to stop at a certain mark; and when you once go beyond it, you are hurried you know not whither; quarrelling, ga••ing, debauchery of all kinds, nay often murder are the dreadful fruits of drinking;

and in regard to conversation, Tom, I would appeal to yourself, whether, from the little you have seen of drink|ing (I sincerely hope it is but little) whether in your cool moments you would not have been ashamed of the words and actions which you applauded when warm with liquor: in a word, unless you most carefully guard against drunkenness in your youth, it will insensibly steal on you; it will make you miserable both in body and mind; it will prove an insuperable bar to your becom|ing eminent in any profession; it will make you odious to yourself, and despicable to others; it will afford a perpetual opening for the grand tempter to make you miserable both here and hereafter; and indeed, and in truth, I would rather hear of your being no more, than your becoming a drunkard. You know I love you, Tom; yet the more I love you the more desirous I would be of your descending to the grav•• than to hear of your giv|ing way to that scandalous, mean, detestable vice. I shall conclude my letter with a little story I have some|where read, and which I think much to the purpose.

"A certain young fellow had been drawn into a con|tract with the devil, that in consideration of some impor|tant services from his diabolical majesty, the young fel|low was to comply with one of three requests the devil should think proper to make him. It is to be observed, the devil had before tempted him in vain to commit sev|eral crimes; but the young fellow had hitherto with|stood his temptations, and was still determined to refuse him in every thing but the one request he was obliged by his contract to comply with: when it came to Beelzebub's turn to command, he left it to the youth's choice, either to murder his father, debauch his own sister, or get drunk. The young man chose the last, as by far the least shock|ing; but when he had got drunk, the devil took that opportunity of tempting him (which till he was drunk he never could effectually do) to commit both the other crimes. Thus he was drawn in to commit all the devil wanted; whereas if either of the other had been his choice, he would probably have escaped so complicated guilt."

The HISTORY of SANTON BARSISA: showing the fatal Effects of encouraging bad Thoughts.

Short is the course of every lawless pleasure; Grief, like a shade, on all its footsteps waits, Scarce visible in joy's meridian height; But downwards, as its blaze declining spreads, The dwarfish shadow to a giant grows. MILTON.

THERE was formerly a Santon, whose name was Barsisa, who, for the space of an hundred years, very fre|quently applied himself to prayer; and scarce ever went out of the grotto in which he made his residence, for fear of exposing himself to the danger of offending God. He fasted in the day time, and watched in the night; all the inhabitants of the country had so great a veneration for him, and so highly valued his prayers, that they com|monly applied to him when ••hey had any favours to beg of heaven. When he made vows for the health of a sick person, the patient was immediately cured.

It happened that the daughter of the king of that country fell into a dangerous distemper, the cause of which the physicians could not discover, yet they con|tinued prescribing remedies by guess; but instead of helping the Princess, they only augmented her disease. In the mean time, the King was inconsolable, for he passionately loved his daughter: wherefore one day, find|ing all human assistance vain, he declared it as his opinion, that the Princess ought to be sent to the Santon Barsisa.

All the Beys applauded his sentiment, and the King's officers conducted her to to the Santon; who, notwithstand|ing his frozen age, could not see such a beauty, without being sensibly moved. He gazed on her with pleasure; and the devil taking this opportunity, whispered in his ears thus "Oh, Santon! do not let slip such a fortunate minute: tell the King's servants, that it is requisite for the Princess to pass this night in the grotto, to see whether it will please God to cure her; that you will put up a prayer for her, and that they need only come to fetch her to-morrow.

How weak is man! the Santon followed the devil's advice, and did what he suggested to him. But the offi|cers, before they would yield to leave the Princess, sent one of their number to know the King's pleasure. That

monarch, who had an entire confidence in Barsisa, never in the least scrupled the trusting of his daughter with him. I consent, said he, that she stay with that holy man, and that he keep her as long as he pleases: I am wholly satisfied on that head.

When the officers had received the King's answer, they retired, and the Princess remained alone with the Hermit. Night being come, the devil presented himself to the San|ton, saying, "Canst thou let slip so favourable an oppor|tunity with so charming a creature? Fear not her telling of the violence you offer to her; if she were even so indis|creet as to reveal it, who will believe her? The court, the city, and all the world are too much prepossessed in thy favour, to give any credit to such a report. You may do any thing unpunished, when armed by the great reputa|tion for wisdom which you have acquired." The unfor|tunate Barsisa was so weak as to hearken to the enemy of mankind. He approached the Princess, took her into his arms, and in a moment cancelled a virtue of an hundred years duration.

He had no sooner perpetrated the crime, than a thou|sand avenging horrors haunted him night and day. He thus accosted the devil: "Oh wretch, says he, it is thou who hast destroyed me! thou hast encompassed me for a whole age, and endeavoured to seduce me; and now thou hast at last gained thy end." "Oh. Santon! answered the devil, do not repro••ch me with the pleasures thou hast enjoyed. Thou mayest repent: but what is unhappy for thee is, that the Princess is impregnate, and thy sin will become public: thou wilt become the laughing-stock of those who admire and reverence thee at present, and the King will put thee to an ignominious death."

Barsisa, terrified by this discourse, says to the devil, "What shall I do to prevent the publication of my shame?" "To hinder the knowledge of your crime, you ought to commit a fresh one, answered the devil. Kill the Princess, bury her in a corner of the grotto, and when the King's messengers come to-morrow, tell them you have cured her, and that she went from the grotto very early in the morning: they will believe you, and search for her all over the city and country; and the King her father will be in great pain for her; but after several vain searches, it will wear off."

The Hermit, abandoned by God, pursuant to this ad|vice; killed the Princess, buried her in a corner of the grotto, and the next day told the officers what the devil bade him say. They made diligent inquiry for the King's daughter; but not being able to hear of her, they despaired of finding her, when the devil told them that all their searches for the Princess were in vain; and relating what had passed betwixt her and the Santon, he told them the place where she was interred. The officers immediately went to the grotto, seized Barsisa, and found the Princess's body in the place to which the devil had directed them; whereupon they took up the corpse, and carried it and the Santon to the palace.

When the King saw his daughter dead, and was in|formed of the whole event, he broke out into tears and bitter lamentations; and assembling the doctors, he laid the Santon's crime before them, and asked their advice how he should be punished. All the doctors condemn|ed him to death; upon which the gibbet was erected. When the Hermit went up the ladder, and was going to be turned off, the devil whispered in his ear these words, O Santon! if you will worship me, I will extricate you out of this difficulty, and transport you two thousand leagues from hence, into a country where you shall be reverenced by men, as much as you were before this ad|venture." "I am content, says Barsisa; deliver me, and I will worship thee." "Give me first a sign of adoration," replied the devil; whereupon the Santon bowed his head, and said, "I give myself to you." Then the devil raising his voice, said, "O, Barsisa, I am satisfied; I have obtained what I desired:" and with these words, spitting in his face, he disappeared; and the deluded Santon was hanged.

From this may be inferred, that evil thoughts will sometimes start up even in the best of minds, which, when checked as soon as noticed, can never be deemed crim|inal, but ought to be carefully stified in embrio, as the first incitements to sin; for vice naturally begets vice, and the least digression from virtue is frequently succeed|ed by such a train of evils, as leads on imperceptibly to certain ruin.

On the imperceptible Deviation to VICE, and the Remonstrances of CONSCIENCE.

Story of AMURATH—An Eastern Monarch.

When conscience pleads, turn not away, 'Tis Heav'n that speaks and points the way. R.

BY which of the Indian sages of antiquity the follow|ing story was written, or whether the people of the East have any remote tradition upon which it is founded, is not known; but it was probably related in the first person, to give it an air of greater dignity, and render its influence more powerful: nor would it, perhaps, appear altogether incredible to people among whom the Metempsychosis is an article of faith, and the visible agency of superior beings admitted without scruple.

Amurath, Sultan of the East, the judge of nations, the disciple of adversity, records the wonders of his life; let those who presumptuously question the ways of Prov|idence, blush in silence and be wise, let the proud be humble, and obtain honour; and let the sensual reform•• and be happy.

The angel of death closed the eyes of the Sultan Abra|din, my father, and his empire descended to me in the eighteenth year of my age. At first my mind was awed to humility, and softened with grief; I was insensible to the splendor of dominion; I heard the addresses of flat|tery with disgust, and received the homage of dependent greatness with indifference. I had always regarded my father, not only with love, but reverence; and I was now perpetually recollecting instances of his tenderness, and reviewing the solemn scene, in which he recommended me to heaven in imperfect language, and grasped my hand in the agonies of death.

One evening, after having concealed myself all day in my chamber, I visited his grave: I prostrated myself on his tomb; sorrow overflowed my eyes, and devotion kindled in my bosom. I felt myself, suddenly smitten on the shoulder as with a rod; and looking up, I per|ceived a man whose eyes were piercing as light, and his beard whiter than snow. "I am, said he, the Genius Syndarac, the friend of thy father Abradin, who was the fear of his enemies, and the desire of his people; whose smile diffused gladness like the lustre of the morning,

and whose frown was dreadful as the gathering of a tempest: resign thyself to my influence, and thou shalt be like him." I bowed myself to the earth in token of gratitude and obedience, and he put a ring on the mid|dle finger of my left hand, in which I perceived a ruby of a deep colour and uncommon brightness. "This ring, said he, shall mark out to thee the boundaries of good and evil; that, without weighing remote conse|quences, thou mayest know the nature and tendency of every action. Be attentive therefore to the silent admo|nition; and when the circle of gold shall, by a sudden contraction, press thy finger, and the ruby shall grow pale, desist immediately from what thou shalt be doing, and mark down that action in thy memory as a trans|gression of the rule of right: keep my gift as a pledge of happiness and honour, and take it not off for a mo|ment." I received the ring with a sense of obligation which I strove to express, and an astonishment that com|pelled me to be silent. The Genius perceived my confu|sion, and turning from me with a smile of complacency, immediately disappeared.

During the first moon I was so cautious and circum|spect, that the pleasure of reflecting that my ring had not once indicated a fault, was lessened by a doubt of its virtue. I applied myself to the public business. My melancholy decreased, as my mind was diverted to other objects; and, lest the youth of my court should think that recreation was too long suspended, I appointed to ••eat the lion. But though I went out to the sport to gratify others rather than myself, yet my usual ardour returned in the field; I grew warm in the pursuit, I con|tinued the chace, which was unsuccessful, too long, and returned fatigued and disappointed.

As I entered the seraglio, I was met by a little dog that had been my father's, who expressed his joy at my return by jumping round me, and endeavouring to reach my hand: but as I was not disposed to receive his caresses, I struck him, in the fretfulness of my displeasure, so se|vere a blow with my foot, that it left him scarce power to crawl away, and hide himself under a sofa in the cor|ner of the apartment. At this moment I felt the ring press my finger, and looking upon the ruby, I perceived the glow of its colour abated.

I was at first struck with surprise and regret; but sur|prise and regret quickly gave way to disdain. "Shall not the Sultan Amurath, said I, to whom a thousand kings pay tribute, and in whose hand is the life of nations, shall not Amurath strike a dog that offends him, without being reproached for having transgressed the rule of right?" My ring again pressed my finger, and the ruby became more pale: immediately the palace shock with a burst of thunder, and the Genius Syndarac again stood before me.

"Amurath, said he, thou hast offended against thy bro|ther of the dust; a being who, like thee, has received from the ALMIGHTY a capacity of pleasure and pain: pleasure which caprice is not allowed to suspend, and pain which justice only has a right to inflict. If thou art justified by power in afflicting inferior beings, I should be justified in afflicting thee: but my power yet spares thee, because it is directed by the laws of sovereign good|ness, and because thou mayest yet be reclaimed by admo|nition. But yield not to the impulse of quick resent|ment, nor indulge in cruelty the forwardness of disgust, lest by the laws of goodness I be compelled to afflict thee; for he that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 reproof, must be reformed by punish|ment, or lost for ever."

At the presence of Syndarac I was troubled, and his words covered me with confusion: I fell prostrate at his feet, and heard him pronounce with a milder accent, "Expect not henceforth that I should answer the de|mands of arrogance, or gratify the curiosity of specula|tion; confide in my friendship, and trust implicitly to thy ring."

As the chace had produced so much infelicity, I did not repeat it, but invited my nobles to a banquet, and entertained them with dancing and music. I had given leave that all ceremony should be suspended, and that the company should treat me, not as a sovereign, but an equal, because the conversation would otherwise be in|cumbered or restrained; and I encouraged others to plea|santry, by indulging the luxuriancy of my own imagin|ation. But though I affected to throw off the trappings of royalty, I had not sufficient magnanimity to despise them. I enjoyed the voluntary deference which was paid me, and was secretly offended at Alibeg, my visier,

who endeavoured to prevail upon the assembly to enjoy the liberty that had been given them, and was himself an example of the conduct that he recommended. I singled out as the object of my raillery the man who alone deserved my approbation: he believed my conde|scension to be sincere, and imagined that he was secu|ring my favour by that behaviour which incurred my displeasure; he was, therefore, grieved and confounded to perceive that I laboured to render him ridiculous and contemptible: I enjoyed his pain, and was elated at my success; but my attention was suddenly called to my ring, and I perceived the ruby change colour. I desisted for a moment; but some of my courtiers having discov|ered and seconded my intention, I felt my vanity and resentment gratified; I endeavoured to wash away the remembrance of my ring with wine; my satire became more bitter, and Alibeg discovered yet greater distress. My ring again reproached me; but I still persevered. The visier was at length roused to his defence; probably he had discovered and despised my weakness: his replies were so poignant, that I became outrageous, and de|scended from raillery to invectives: at length, disguising the anguish of his mind with a smile, "Amurath, said he, If the Sultan should know, that after having invited your friends to festivity and merriment, you had assumed this authority, and insulted those who were not aware that you disdained to be treated with the familiarity of friendship, you would certainly fall under his displeasure." The severity of this sarcasm, which was extorted by long pr••••ocations from a man warmed with wine, stung me with intolerable rage: I started up, and spurning him from the table, was about to draw my poignard; when my at|tention was again called to my ring, and I perceived with some degree of regret, that the ruby had fallen almost to a perfect white.

But instead of being resolved to be more watchful against whatever might bring me under the silent re|proof, I comforted myself, that the Genius would no more alarm me with his presence. The irregularities of my conduct increased almost imperceptibly, and the intima|tions of my ring became proportionably more frequent, though less forcible; till at last they were so familiar, that I scarce remarked when they were given and when suspended.

It was soon discovered that I was pleased with servility; servility therefore was practised, and I rewarded it some|times with a pension, and sometimes with a place. Thus the government of my kingdom was left to petty tyrants, who oppressed the people to enrich themselves. In the mean time I filled my seraglio with women, among whom I abandoned myself to sensuality, without enjoying the pure delight of that love which arises from esteem. But I had not yet stained my hands with blood, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 dared to ridicule the laws which I had neglected to fulfil.

My resentment against Alibeg, however unjust, was in|flexible, and terminated in the most perfect hatred. I degraded him from his office; but I still kept him at court, that I might embitter his life by perpetual indig|nities, and practise against him new schem•• of malevo|lence.

Selima, the daughter of this Prince, had been intended by my father for my wife, and the marriage had been de|layed only by his death: but the pleasure and the dig|nity that Alibeg would derive from this alliance had now changed with my purpose. Yet such was the beauty of Selima, that I gazed with desire; and such was her wit, that I listened with delight. I therefore resolved, that I would, if possible, seduce her to voluntary prostitution; and that when her beauty should yield to the charms of variety, I would dismiss her with marks of disgrace. But in this attempt I could not succeed; my solicitations were rejected sometimes with tears, and sometimes with reproaches. I became every day more wretched, by seeking to bring calamities upon others; I considered my disappointment as the triumph of a slave, whom I wished, but did not dare to destroy; and I regarded his daugh|ter as the instrument of my dishonour. Thus the ten|derness, which before had shaken my purpose, was weak|ened; my desire for beauty became 〈◊〉〈◊〉 selfish and as sor|did an appetite, as my desire for foo•••• and as I had no hope of obtaining the complete gratification of my lust and my revenge, I determined to enjoy Selima by force, as the only expedient to alleviate my torment.

She resided by my command in an apartment of the seraglio, and I entered her chamber at midnight by a private door, of which I had the key; but with inex|pressible vexation I found it empty. To be thus disap|pointed

in my last attempt, at the very moment in which I thought I had insured success, distracted me with rage; and instead of returning to my chamber, and concealing my design, I called for her women. They ran in pale and trembling; I demanded the lady; they gazed at me astonished and terrified, and then looking upon each other, stood silent: I repeated my demand with fury and execration, and to enforce it, called aloud for the min|isters of death: they then fell prostrate at my feet, and declared with one voice that they knew not where she was; that they had left her, when they were dismissed for the night, sitting on a sofa, pensive and alone; and that no person had since, to their knowledge, passed in or out of her apartment.

The Story of AMURATH continued.

Of mortal justice, if thou scorn the rod, Believe and tremble—thou art judg'd of God. P

IN this account, however incredible, they persisted without variation; and having filled the palace with alarm and confusion, I was obliged to retire, without gaining any intelligence by what means I had been baf|fled, or on whom to turn my resentment. I reviewed the transactions of the night with anguish and regret, and bewildered myself among the innumerable possibilities that might have produced my disappointment. I remem|bered that the windows of Selima's apartments were open, and I imagined that she might that way have escaped into the gardens of the seraglio. But why should she escape who had never been confined? If she had design|ed to departed, she might have departed by day. Had she an assignation? And did she intend to return, with|out being known to have been absent? This supposition increased my torment; because, if it was true, Selima had granted to my slave that which she refused to me. But as all these conjectures were uncertain, I determined to make her absence a pretence to destroy her father.

In the morning, I gave orders that he should be seized and brought before me; but while I was yet speaking, he entered, and prostrating himself, thus anticipated my accusation: "May the Sultan Amurath, in whose wrath the angel of death goes forth, rejoice for ever in the

smiles of heaven! let the wretched Alibeg perish; but let my Lord remember Selima with mercy; let him dismiss the slave in whom he ceases to delight." I heard no more, but cried out, "Darest thou ••o mock me with a request, to dismiss thy daughter whom thou hast stolen? Thou, whose life, that has been so often forfeited, I have yet spared I restore her within an hour, or affronted mercy shall give thee 〈◊〉〈◊〉 "O! said he, let not the mighty sover•••••• of the East sport with the misery of the ••••ax. If thou 〈◊〉〈◊〉 doomed us to death, let us die to|g••••••."

Though I was now convinced that Alibeg believed I had confined Selima, and decreed her death, yet I resolved to persist inquiring her in his hands; and therefore dismissed him 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a repetition of my command, to pro|duce her with•••• 〈◊〉〈◊〉, upon 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of death.

My ring, which during this series of events had given perpetual intimation of guilt, and which was always disregarded, now pressed my finger so forcibly, that it gave me great pain, and compelled my notice. I imme|diately retired, and gave way to the discontent that swelled my bosom. "How wretched a slave is Amurath to an invisible tyrant! a being, whose malevolence or envy has restrained me in the exercise of my authority as a Prince, and whose cunning has contrived perpetually to insult me, by intimating that every action of my life is a crime! how long shall I groan under this intolerable oppression? This accursed ring is the badge and the in|strument of my subjection and dishonour: he who gave it, is now perhaps in some remote region of the air; perhaps he rolls some planet in its orbit, agitates the southern ocean with a tempest, or shakes some distant region with an earthquake: but wherever he is, he has surely a more important employ than to watch my con|duct. Perhaps he has contrived this talisman, only to restrain me from the enjoyment of some good, which he wishes to withhold; I feel that my desires are controuled; and to gratify these desires is to be happy." As I pro••••••••••ed these words I drew off the ring, and threw it to the ground with disdain and indignation: immediately the air grew dark; a cloud burst in thunder over my head, and the eye of Syndarac was upon me. I stood be|fore him motionless and silent: horror thrilled in my

veins, and my hair stood upright. I had neither power to deprecate his anger, nor to confess my faults. In his countenance there was a calm serenity; and I heard him pronounce these words: "thou hast now, as far as is in thy own power, thrown off humanity, and degraded thy being; thy form therefore shall no longer conceal thy nature. nor thy example render thy vices contagious." He then touched me with his rod; and while the sound of his voice yet vibrated in my ears, I found myself in the midst of a desart, not in the form of a man, but of a monster, with the sore parts of my body like a wolf, and the hinder parts like a goat. I was still conscious to every event of my life, and my intellectual powers were continued, though my passions were irritated to frenzy. I now rolled in the sand in an agony not to be described; and now hastily traversed the desart, impelled only by the vain desire of flying from myself: I now bel|lowed with rage, and now howled in despair; this mo|ment I breathed execrations against the Genius, and the next reproached myself for having forfeited his friend|ship.

By this violent agitation of mind and body, the powers of both were soon exhausted: I crawled into a den which I perceived near me, and immediately sunk down in a state of insensibility. I slept; but sleep, instead of prolong|ing, put an end to this interval of quiet. The Genius still terrified me with his presence; I heard his sentence repeated, and felt again all the horrors of my transfor|mation. When I awaked, I was not refreshed: calamity, though it compelled me to admit slumber, yet could ex|clude fest. But I was now roused with hunger; for hunger, like sleep, is irresistible.

I went out in search of prey; and if I felt any allevia|tion of misery, besides the hope of satisfying my appe|tite, it was in the thought of ••earing to pieces whatever I should meet, and inflicting some part of the evil which I endured; for though I regretted my punishment. I did not ••epent of my crimes; and as I imagined Syndarac would now neither mitigate nor increase my sufferings, I was not restrained, either by hope or fear, from indulg|ing my disposition to cruelty and revenge. But while I was thus meditating the destruction of others, I trembled, left by some stronger savage I should be destroyed myself.

In the midst of this variety of torment I heard the cry of dogs, the trampling of horses, and the shouts of the hunters, and such is the love of life, however wretched, that my heart sunk within me at the sound. To hide my, self was impossible, and I was too much enfeebled either to fly or resist. I stood still till they came up. At first they gazed at me with wonder, and doubted whether they should advance; but at length a slave threw a net over me, and I was dragged to the city.

I now entered the metropolis of my empire, amidst the noise and tumult of the rabble, who the day before would have hid themselves at my presence. I heard the sound of music at a distance; the heralds approached and Alibe•• was proclaimed in my stead. I was now deserted by the multitude, whose curiosity was diverted by the pomp of the procession; and was conducted to the place where other savages are kept, which custom has considered as part of the regalia.

My keeper was a black slave, whom I did not remember ever to have seen, in whom it would 〈◊〉〈◊〉 have been a fatal presumption to have stood before me. After he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 given me food, and the vigour of nature was restored, he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 covered in me such tokens of ferocity, that he suffered me to fast many hours before I was again fed. I was so en|raged at this delay, that, forgetting my dependence, I roared horribly when he again approached me; so that he found it necessary to add blows to hunger, that he might gain such an ascendency over me as was, suitable to his office. By this slave, I was alternately beaten and famished, till the fierceness of my disposition being sup|pressed by fear and langour, a mild temper insensibly stole upon me and a demeanor that was begun by constraint was continued by habit.

I was now treated with less severity, and strove to express something like gratitude, that might encourage my keeper to yet greater kindness. His vanity was flattered by my submission; and, to shew as well his courage as the suc|cess of his discipline, he ventured sometimes to caress me in the presence of those whose curiosity brought them to see me. A kind of friendship thus imperceptibly grew between us, and I felt some degree of the affection I had feigned. It happened that a tyger which had been lately ••••ken, broke one day into my den, while my keeper was

giving me my provision, and leaping upon him, would instantly have torn him to pieces, if I had not seized the savage by the throat, and dragged him to the ground: the slave instantly dispatched him with his dagger, and turned about to caress his deliverer; but starting suddenly backward, he stood motionless with astonishment, perceiv|ing that I was no longer a monster, but a dog.

I was myself conscious of the change which had again passed upon me, and leaping out of my den, escaped from my confinement. This transformation I considered as a reward for my fidelity, and was perhaps never more hap|py than in the first moments of my escape; for I reflected, that as a dog, my liberty was not only restored, but in|sur•••• I was no longer suspected of qualities which ren|dered me unfit for society; I had some faint resemblance of human virtue, which is not found in other animals, and therefore hoped to be more generally caressed. But it was not long before this joy subsided in the remembrance of that dignity from which I had fallen, and from which I was still at an immeasurable distance. Yet I lifted up my heart in gratitude to the power who had once more brought me within the circle of nature. As a brute, I was more thankful for a ••••••igation of punishment, than as a King I had been for offers of the highest happiness and honor: and who, that is not taught by affliction, can justly estimate the bounties of heaven?

As soon as the first tumult of my mind was past, I felt an irresistible inclination once more to visit the apartments of my seraglio. I placed myself behind an emir, whom I knew to have been the friend of Alibeg, and was permit|ted to follow him into the presence. The persons and the place, the retrospection of my life which they produced, and the comparison of what I was with what I had been, almost over whelmed me. I went unobserved into the garden, and lay down under the shade of an almond-tree, that I might indulge those reflections which, though they oppressed me with melancholy, I did not wish to lose.

I had not been long in this place before a little dog, which I knew to be the same I had spurned from me when he caressed me at my return from hunting, came and fawned at my feet. My heart smote me, and I said to myself, "Dost thou know me under this disguise? Is thy fidelity to thy Lord unshaken? Cut off as I am from

the converse of mankind, hast thou preserved for me an affection, which I once so slightly esteemed, and requited with evil? This forgetfulness of injury, and this steady friendship, are they less than human, or are they more?" I was not prevented by these reflections from returning those caresses that I received; and Alibeg, who just entered the garden, took notice of me, and ordered that I should not be turned out.

In the seraglio, I soon learned, that a body which was thought to be mine was found dead in the chamber; and that Alibeg had been chosen to succeed me, by the unani|mous voice of the people. But I gained no intelligence of Selima, whose apartment I found in the possession of another, and for whom I had searched every part of the palace in vain. I became restless; every place was irk|some; a desire to wander prevailed; and one evening I wont out at the garden-gate, and travelling till midnight, I lay down at the foot of a sycamore tree and slept.

In the morning, I beheld with surprise a wall of marble that seemed to reach to heaven, and gates that were sculptured with every emblem of delight. Over the gate was inscribed in letters of gold, "Within this wall liberty is unbounded, and felicity complete: nature is not op|pressed by the tyranny of religion, nor is pleasure awed by the frown of virtue The gate is obedient to thy wish, whosoever thou art: enter therefore, and be happy."

When I read this inscription, my bosom throbbed with tumultuous expectation: but my desire to enter was repressed by the reflection that I had lost the form in which alone I could gratify the appetites of a man. Desire and curiosity were notwithstanding predominants, The door immediately opened inward: I entered, and it closed after me.

The Story of AMURATH concluded.

Scarcely an ill to human life belongs, But what our ••ullies cause, or mutual Wrongs; Or if some stripes from Providence We feel, He strikes with pity, and but wounds to heal. DODSLEY.

BUT my ears were now stunned with the dissonance of riot, and my eyes sickened at the contortions of mis|ery: disease was visible in every countenance, however

impressed with the character of rage, of drunkenness, or of lust; rape and murder, revelling and strife, filled every street and every dwelling.

As my retreat was cut off, I went forward with timidity and circumspection; for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 imagined that I could not other|wise escape injury, than by eluding the notice of wretches whose propensity to ill was restrained by no law; and I perceived too late, that to punish vice is to promote hap|piness.

It was now evening; and that I might pass the night in greater security. I quitted the public way; and per|ceiving a house that was incircled by a moat, I swam over to it, and chose an obscure corner of the area for my asylum. I heard from within, the sound of dancing and music; but after a short interval, was alarmed with the menaces of rage, the shrieks of terror, and the wail|ings of distress. The window of the banquetting room flew open, and some venison was thrown out which fell just at my feet. As I had eaten nothing since my depar|ture from the seraglio, I regarded this as a fortunate ac|cident: and after the pleasure of an unexpected repast, I again lay down in expectation of the morning, with hope and fear: but in a short time many persons rushed from the house with lights, and seemed solicitons to gather up the venison which had been thrown out; but not being able to find it, and at the same time perceiving me, they judged I had devoured it. I was immediately seized, and led into the house: but as I could not discover that I was the object either of malignity or kindness, I was in a doubt what would be the issue of the event. It was not long before this doubt was solved; for I soon learned from the discourse of those about me, that I was suspected to have eaten poison which had been intended for another, and was secured, that the effect might either remove or confirm the suspicion. As it was not expected that the poison would immediately operate. I was locked up in a room by myself, where I reflected upon the cause and event of my confinement with inexpressible anguish, anxiety, and terror.

In this gloomy interval a sudden light shone round me, and I found myself once more in the presence of the Genius; I crawled towards him trembling and confound|••••, but not utterly without hope. "Yet a few moments,

said he, and the angel of death shall teach thee, that the wants of nature cannot be supplied with safety, where the inordinate appetites of vice are not restrained. Thy hunger required food; but the lust and revenge of others have given thee poison." My blood grew chill as he spoke, I discovered and abhorred my folly: but while I wished to express my contrition, I fell down in an agony; my eyes failed me, I shivered, was convulsed, and expired.

That spark of immaterial fire, which no violence 〈◊〉〈◊〉 quench, rose up from the dust which had thus been restored to the earth, and now animated the form of a dove. On this new state of existence I entered with in|expressible delight: I imagined that my wings were not only a pledge of safety, but of the favour of Syndarac whom I was now more than ever solicitous to please. I flew immediately from the window, and turning to|wards the wall through which I entered, I endeavoured to rise above it, that I might quit for ever a place in which guilt and wretchedness were complicated in every object, and which I now detested as much as before I had desired. But over this region a sulphurous vapour hovered like a thick cloud, which I no sooner entered than I fell down panting for breath, and had scarce strength to keep my wings sufficiently extended to break my fall. It was now midnight, and I alighted near the mouth of a cave, in which I thought there appeared some faint glimmerings of light. Into this place I entered without much appre|hension: as it rather appeared to be the retreat of pen|itence, than the recess of luxury: but lest the noise of my wings should discover me to any hateful or mischiev|ous inhabitant of this gloomy solitude, I entered in silence, and upon my feet. As I went forward the cave grew wider; and by the light of a lamp which was sus|pended from the roof, I discovered a Hermit listening to a young lady, who seemed to be greatly affected with the events which she was relating. Of the Hermit I had no knowledge; but the lady I discerned to be Selima. I was struck with amazement at this discovery; I remembered with the deepest contrition my attempts upon her virtue, and I now secretly rejoiced that she had rendered them ineffectual: I watched her lips with the utmost impa|tience of curiosity, and she continued her narrative thus.

"I was sitting on a sofa one evening, after I had been

caressed by Amurath, and my imagination kindled as I mused. Why, said I aloud, should I give up the delights of love with the splendor of royalty? Since the presump|tion of my father has prevented my marriage, why should I not accept the blessings that are still offered? Why is desire restrained by the dread of shame? And why is the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of virtue offended by the softness of nature? Imme|diately a thick cloud surrounded one; I felt myself lifted up, and conveyed through the air with incredible rapid|••y. I descended, the cloud dissipated, and I found my|self sitting in an alcove, by the side of a canal that en|circled a stately edifice and a spacious garden. I saw many persons pass along; but discovered in all either something dissolute or wretched, something that alarmed my fear, or excited my pity. I suddenly perceived ma|ny men with their swords drawn, contending for a woman, who was forced almost irresistibly by the crowd, which moved directly towards the place in which I was sitting. I was terrified, and looked round me with eagerness to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 where I could retreat for safety. A person richly dressed perceived my distress, and invited me into the house, which the canal surrounded. This invitation I hastily accepted with gratitude and joy; but I soon re|marked several incidents which filled me with now per|plexity and apprehension. I was welcomed to a place in which infamy and honour were equally unknown; where every wish was indulged without the violation of my law, and where the will was therefore determined only by appetite. I was presently surrounded by women, whose behaviour covered me with blushes; and though I rejected the caresses of the person into whose power I was delivered, yet they became jealous of the distinction with which he treated me. My expostulations were not heard, and my tears were treated with merriment: prepara|tions were made for revelling and jollity: I was invited to join the dance, and upon my refusal was entertained with music. In this dreadful situation, I sighed thus to myself: how severe is that justice which transports those who form licentious wishes, to a society in which they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 indulged without restraint! who shall deliver me from the effects of my own folly? Who shall defend me against the vices of others? At this moment I was thus ••••raged by the voice of some invisible being: tho

friends of virtue are mighty; reject not their protection, and thou art safe. "As I renounced the presumptuous wish which had once polluted my mind, I exulted in this intimation with assurances of relief; and when supper was set before me, I suffered the principal lady to serve me with some venison; but the friendly voice having warned me that it was poisoned, I fell back in my seat, and turned pale: the lady inquired earnestly what had disordered me; but instead of making a reply, I threw the venison from the window, and declared that she had intended my death. The master of the table, who per|ceived that the lady to whom I spoke changed counte|nance, was at once convinced that she had indeed at|tempted to poison me, to preserve that interest which as a rival she feared I should subvert. He rose up in a rage, and commanded the venison to be produced: a dog that was supposed to have eaten it was brought in; but before the event could be known the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was become general; and my rival, after having suddenly stabbed her patron, plunged the same poignard in her bosom.

"In the midst of this confusion I found means to es|cape, and wandered through the city in search of some obscure recess, where, if I received not the assistance which I hoped, death at last might secure my person from violence, and close mine eyes on those scenes which, wherever I turned, filled me not only with disgust, but with horror. By that benevolent power, who, as a pre|servative from misery has placed in us a secret and irresist|ible disapprobation of vice, my feet have been directed to thee, whose virtue has participated in my distress, and whose wisdom may effect my deliverance."

I gazed upon Selima, while I thus learned the ardour of that affection which I had abused, with sentiments that can never be conceived but when they are felt. I was touched with the most bitter remorse, for having produced one wish that could stain so amiable a mind; and abhorred myself for having used the power which I derived from her tenderness, to effect her destruction. My fondness was not less ardent, but it was more chaste and tender; desire was not extinguished, but it was al|most absorbed in esteem. I felt a 〈◊〉〈◊〉, to which till now I had been a stranger; and the moment love was kindled in my breast, I resumed the proper form of the

nature in which alone it can subsist, and Selima beheld Amurath at her feet. At my sudden and unexpected ap|pearance, the colour faded from her cheeks, the powers of life were suspended, and she sunk into my arms. I clasped her to my breast, and looking towards the Hermit for assistance, I beheld in his stead the friendly Genius who had taught me happiness by affliction. At the same instant Selima recovered, "Arise, said Syndarac, and look round." We looked round; the darkness was suddenly dissipated, and we ••••received ourselves in the road to Gol|••onda, and the spires of the city sparkling before us. "Go, said he, Amurath, henceforth the husband of Selima, and the father of thy people! I have revealed thy story to Alibeg in a vision: he expects thy return, and the cha|riots are come out to meet thee. Go, and I will pro|claim before thee, Amurath the Sultan of the East, the judge of nations, the taught of heaven: Amurath, whose ring is equal to the ring of Colomon, returns to reign with wisdom, and diffuse felicity." I now lifted up my eyes, and beheld the chariots coming forward. We were re|ceived by Alibeg with sentiments which could not be ut|tered, and by the people with the loudest acclamations: Syndarac proclaimed our return in thunder, that was heard through all the nations of my empire; and has prolonged my reign in prosperity and peace.

For the world I have written, and by the world let what I write be remembered: for to none who hears of the ring of Amurath shall its influence be wanting. Of this, is not thy heart a witness, thou whose eye drinks instruction from my pen? Hast thou not a monitor, who reproaches thee in secret, when thy foot deviates from the path of virtue? Neglect not the first whispers of this friend to thy soul: it is the voice of a greater than Syn|darac, to resist whose influence is to invite destruction.

On the VANITY of HUMAN LIFE.

The Vision of MIRZA.

O, what is life, that thoughtless wish of all! A drop of honey, and a draught of gall. R.

ON the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always kept holy,

after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was there airing myself on the top of the mountains, I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of hu|man life; and passing from one thought to another, Surely, said I, man is but a shadow, and life a dream. Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eye towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I dis|covered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he ap|plied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a vari|ety of tones that were inexpressibly melodious, and alto|gether different from any thing I had ever heard. This put me in mind of those heav'nly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their agonies, and to qualify them for the pleasures of that happy play. My heart melted away in secret rapture.

I had often been told that the rock before me was the haunt of a Genius; and that several had been entertain|ed with music who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting air which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to ap|proach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet, and wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability, that familiarized him to my imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirza, said he, I have heard thee in thy soliloquies, follow me▪

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placed me on the top of it: cast thine eye eastward, said he, and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it. The valley that thou seest, said he, is the vale of misery;

and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity. What is the reason, said I, that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again ••oses itself in a thick mist at the other? What thou seest, said he, is that portion of eternity which is called Time, mea|sured out by the sun, and ••••••••hing from the beginning of the world to its consum••••tion•••• Examine now, said he, this sea that is thus bounded with darkness on both ends, and ••••ll me what thou discoverest in it. I see a bridge, ••ai•• I standing in the midst, of the tide. The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life; consider it at|tentively. Upon a more deliberate survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, with several 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••rches, which added to those that were entire, ma•••• to the number about an hundred. As I was counting 〈◊〉〈◊〉, the Genius told me, that this bridge consisted 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the rest, and left the bridge in the ruin|ous condition I now beheld it. But tell me further, said he, what that discoverest on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, said I, and a black cloud hanging on each end of it••. As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed under it; and, upon further examination, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trode upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer towards the end of the arches that were entire.

There were indeed some persons, but their numbers were very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this won|derful structure and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking upwards

towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the prospect of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them; but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sunk. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scyme|ters in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors, which did not solem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not thus been forced upon them.

The Genius seeing me indulge myself in this melan|choly prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: take thine eye off the bridge, said he and tell me if thou seest any thing thou dost not comprehend. Upon look|ing up, What mean, said I, these great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and set|tling upon it, from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys, that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches. These, said the Ge|nius, are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life.

I here fetched a deep sigh: alas, said I, man was made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death! the Genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit to uncomfortable a prospect. Look no more, said he, on man in the first stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the tide bears the several generations of mor|tals that fall into it. I directed my sight as I was order|ed, and (whether or not the good Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the further end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it: but the other appeared to me a vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and

flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, pas|sing among the trees, lying down by the sides of foun|tains, or resting on beds of flowers: and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling waters, hu|man voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle that I might fly away to those happy seas: but the Genius told me there was no pas|sage to them, except through the gates of death, that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. The islands, said he, that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sands of the sea shore. There are myriads of islands beyond those which thou here discoverest reach|ing farther than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degrees and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among those several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in them: every island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inhab|itants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth con|tending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eter|nity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpressible plea|sure on these happy islands. At length, said I, shew me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that he hid under those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The Genius making me no an|swer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me; I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contempla|ting, but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the low hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.

On SICKNESS.

Our life is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste the instant they take fire. YOUNG.

IT has been observed by many writers, that nothing makes a more ridiculous figure in a man's life, than the disparity we often find in him, sick and well. Thus one of an unfortunate constitution is perpetually exhibit|ing a miserable example of the weakness of his mind, or of his body, in their turns. I have had frequent opportu|nities of late to consider myself in these different views, and hope I have received some advantage by it. If what Mr. Waller says be true, that

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decoy'd, Lets in new lights, thro' chinks that time has made,

Then surely sickness, contributing no less than old age to the shaking down this scaffolding of the body, may discover the inclosed structure more plainly—Sickness is a sort of early old age; it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state, and inspires us with the thoughts of a future, better than a thousand volumes of philosophers and di|vines. It gives so alarming a concussion to those props of our vanity, our strength and youth, that we think of fortifying ourselves within, when there is so little depend|ence on our outworks. Youth, at the very best, is but a betrayer of human life in a gentler and smoother manner than age. It is like a stream that nourishes a plant upon its bank, and causes it to flourish and blossom to the sight, but at the same time is undermining it at the root in secret. My youth has dealt more fairly and openly with me; it has afforded me several prospects of my dan|ger, and given an advantage not very common to young men, so that the attractions of the world have not daz|zled me very much; and I began when most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambi|tion, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.

When a smart fit of sickness tells me this scurvy tene|ment of my body will fall in a little time, I am even as unconcerned as was that honest Hibernian, who (being in bed in a great storm some years ago, and told that the house would tumble over his head) made answer, What care I for the house, I am only a lodger. I fancy it is the best

time to die when one is in the best humour; and so exces|sively weak as I now am, I may say with conscience, that I am not at all uneasy at the thought, that many men, whom I never had any esteem for, are likely to enjoy this world after me. When I reflect what an inconsiderate little atom every single, man is with respect to the whole creation, methinks it is a shame to be concerned at the removal of so trivial an animal as I am. In the morning after my 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the sun will rise as bright as ever, the flow|ers smell as sweet, the plants spring as green, the world will proceed in its old course, people will laugh as heart|ily, and marry as fast as they used to do. The memory of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 (as it is elegantly expressed in the wisdom of Solomon) passeth away as the remembrance of a guest that tarrieth but one day. There are reasons enough, in the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 chapter of the same book to make any young man contented with the prospect of death. For honorable age is not that which stand••th in length of time, or is measured by a number of years. But wisdom is the grey hair to men, and an unspotted life is old art. He was taken away speedily, lest that wickedness should alter his understanding, or deceit beguile his soul.

RELIGION and SUPERSTITION contrasted.

A VISION.

Religion with a graceful mein, All lovely, smiling, and serene. R.

I HAD lately a very remarkable dream, which made so strong an impression on me, that I remember it every word; and if you are not better employed, you may read the relation of it as follows:

Methought I was in the midst of a very entertaining set of company, and extremely delighted in attending to a lively conversation; when on a sudden I perceived one of the most shocking figures imagination can frame, ad|vancing towards me. She was dressed in black; her skin was contracted into a thousand wrinkles; her eyes deep sunk in her head; and her complexion pale and livid as the countenance of death. Her looks were filled with terror and unrelenting severity; and her hands armed with whips and scorpions. As soon as she came near with a horrid frown, and a voice that chilled my very,

blood, she bade me follow her. I obeyed; and she led me through rugged paths, beset with briars and thorns, into a deep solitary valley. Wherever she passed, the fading verdure withered beneath her steps, her pestilen|tial breath infected the air with malignant vapours, ob|scured the lustre of the sun, and involved the fair face of heaven in universal gloom. Dismal howlings resound|ed through the forest; from every baleful tree the night-raven uttered his dreadful note, and the prospect was filled with desolation and horror. In the midst of this tremendous scene, my execrable guide addressed me in the following manner:

"Retire with me, O rash, unthinking mortal! from the vain allurements of a deceitful world, and learn that pleasure was not designed the portion of human life. Man was born to mourn and to be, wretched: this is the condition of all below the stars; and whoever en|deavours to oppose it, acts in contradiction to the will of heaven. Fly then from the fatal inchantments of youth and social delight, and here consecrate the solitary hours to lamentation and woe. Misery is the duty of all sub|lunary beings; and every enjoyment is an offence to the Deity, who is to be worshipped only by the mortification of every sense of pleasure, and the everlasting exercise of sighs and tears."

This melancholy picture of life quite sunk my spirits, and seemed to annihilate every principle of joy within me. I threw myself beneath a blasted yew, where the winds blew cold and dismal round my head, and dreadful appre|hensions chilled my heart. Here I resolved to lie till the hand of death, which I impatiently invoked, should put an end to the miseries of a life so deplorably wretched. In this sad situation, I espied on one hand of me a deep muddy river, whose heavy waves rolled on in slow, sullen murmurs. Here I determined to plunge; and was just upon the ••rink, when I found myself suddenly drawn back. I turned about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveliest object I had ever beheld. The most engaging charms of youth and beauty appeared in all her form; effulgent glories sparkled in her eyes, and their awful splendors were softened by the gentlest looks of compassion and peace. At her approach, the frightful spectre, who had before tormented me, vanished away, and with her

all the horrors she had caused. The gloomy clouds brightened into cheerful sunshine, the groves recovered their verdure, and the whole region looked gay and blooming as the garden of Eden. I was quite transport|ed at this unexpected change, and reviving pleasure be|gan to gladden my thoughts; when, with a look of in|expressible sweetness, my beauteous deliverer thus uttered her divine instructions:

"My name is Religion. I am the offspring of Truth and Love, and the parent of Benevolence, Hope, and Joy. That monster, from whose power I have freed you, is called Superstition: she is the child of Discontent, and her followers are Fear and Sorrow. Thus, different as we are, she has often the insolence to assume my name and character, and seduces unhappy mortals to think us the same, till she at length drives them to the borders of des|pair, that dreadful abyss into which you were just going to sink.

"Look round, and survey the various beauties of this globe, which heaven has destined for the seat of the hu|man race; and consider whether a world, thus exquisitely framed, could be meant for the abode of misery and pain. For what end has the lavish hand of Providence diffused such innumerable objects of delight, but that all might rejoice in the priviledge of existence, and be filled with gratitude to the beneficent Author of it? Thus to enjoy the blessings he has sent, is virtue and obedience; and to reject them merelyas means of pleasure, is pitiable ignorance, or absurd perverseness. Infinite goodness is the source of created existence. The proper tendency of every rational being, from the highest order of raptured seraphs, to the meanest rank of men, is to rise incessantly from lower degrees of happiness to higher. They have each faculties assigned them for various orders of delights."

"What! (cried I) is this the language of religion? Does she lead her votaries through flowery paths, and bid them pass an unlaborious life? Where are the pain|ful toils of virtue, the mortifications of penitents, and the self-denying exercises of saints and heroes?"

"The true enjoyments of a reasonable being (answered she, mildly) do not consist in unbounded indulgence, or luxurious ease, in the tumult of passions, the languor of indolence, or the flutter of light amusements. Yielding

to immoral pleasure corrupts the mind; living to ani|mal and trifling ones, debases it; both in their degrees disqualify it for its genuine good, and consign it over to wretchedness. Whoever would be really happy, must make the diligent and regular exercise of his superior powers his chief attention; adoring the perfections of his Maker, expressing good-will to his fellow-creatures, and cultivating inward rectitude. To his lower faculties he must allow such gratifications as will, by refreshing them, invigorate his nobler pursuits. In the regions in|habited by angelic natures, unmingled felicity for ever blooms; joy flows there with a perpetual and abundant stream, nor needs there any mound to check its course. Beings conscious of a frame of mind originally diseased, as all the human race has cause to be, must use the regi|men of a stricter self-government. Whoever has been guilty of voluntary excesses, must patiently submit both to the painful workings of nature, and needful severities of medicines, in order to his cure. Still he is entitled to a moderate share of whatever alleviating accommodations this fair mansion of his merciful Purent affords, consist|ent with his recovery. And in proportion as his recov|ery advances, the liveliest joy will spring from his secret sense of an amended and improved heart. So far from the horrors of despair is the condition even of the guilty. Shudder, poor mortal, at the thought of the gulph into which thou wast just now going to plunge.

"While the most faulty have every encouragement to mend, the more innocent soul will be supported with still sweeter consolations under all its experience of hu|man infirmities; supported by the gladdening assurances, that every sincere endeavour to outgrow them shall be assisted, accepted, and rewarded. To such a one, the lowest self-abasement is but a deep-laid foundation for the most elevated hopes; since they who faithfully exam|ine and acknowledge what they are, shall be enabled, under my conduct, to become what they desire. The Christian and the hero are inseparable; and to the aspi|rings of unassuming trust and filial confidence, are set no bounds. To him who is animated with a view of obtain|ing approbation from the Sovereign of the universe, no difficulty is insurmountable. Secure in his pursuit of every needful aid, his conflict with the severest pains and

trials is little more than the vigorous exercises of a mind in health. His patient dependence on that Providence which looks through all eternity, his silent resignation, his ready accommodation of his thoughts and behaviour to its inscrutable ways, is at once the most excellent sort of self-denial, and source of the most exalted transports. Society is the true sphere of human virtue. In social active life, difficulties will perpetually be met with; re|straints of many kinds will be necessary; and studying to behave right in respect of these, is a discipline of the hu|man heart, useful to others, and improving to itself. Suffering is no duty, but where it is necessary to avoid guilt, or to do good; nor pleasure a crime, but where it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens the generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to man in his present state, is indeed faint and low, com|pared with his immortal prospects and noble capacities: but yet, whatever portion of it the distributing hand of heaven offers to each individual, is a needful support and refreshment for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder the attaining his final destination.

"Return then with me from continual misery, to mod|erate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity; return from the contracted views of solitude, to the proper duties of a rel|ative and dependent being. Religion is not confined to cells and closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are the gloomy doctrines of superstition, by which she endeavours to break those chains of benevolence and social affection, that link the welfare of every particular with that of the whole. Remember, that the greatest honour you can pay the Author of your being, is such a cheerful behaviour as discovers a mind satisfied with his own dispensations."

Here my preceptress paused; and I was going to ex|press my acknowledgments for her discourse, when a ring of bells from the neighbouring village, and the newly-risen sun darting his beams through my windows awaked me.

To begin NOTHING of which you have not well considered the END.

Think well, ere you resolve; weigh each event, Left, when too late, in sorrow you repent. R.

A CERTAIN Cham of Tartary going a progress with his nobles, was met by a Dervise, who cried with a loud voice, Whoever will give me an hundred pieces of gold, I will give him a piece of advice. The Cham ordered him the sum: upon which the Dervise said, Begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the end.

The courtiers, upon hearing this plain sentence, smi|led, and said with a sneer, "The Dervise is well paid for his maxim." But the King was so well satisfied with the answer, that he ordered it to be written in golden letters in several places of his palace, and engraved on all his plate. Not long after, the King's surgeon was bribed to kill him with a poisoned lancet at the time he let him blood. One day, when the King's arm was bound, and the fatal lancet in the surgeon's hand, he read on the bason, Begin nothing of which thou hast not well considered the and,—He immediately started, and let the lancet fall out of his hand. The King observed his confusion, and in|quired the reason: the surgeon fell prostrate, confessed the whole affair, and was pardoned, and the conspirators died. The Cham turning to his courtiers who heard the advice with contempt, told them, "That counsel could not be too much valued which had saved a King's life."

On the FOLLY of being dissatisfied with our present CIRCUMSTANCES.

Fortune a goddess is to fools alone, The wise are always masters of their own. DRYDEN.

FOR the benefit of those who are dissatisfied with their present situations, and to illustrate the folly and madness of their ambition, I beg leave to offer the nar|rative of my own life.

I am the son of the younger brother of a good family, who at his decease left me a little fortune of a hundred a year. I was put early to Eaton school, where I learned Latin and Greek, from whence I went to the University,

where I learned not totally to forget them. I came to my fortune when I was at the college; and having no inclination to follow any profession, I removed myself to town, and lived for some time, as most young fellows do, by spending four times my income. But it was my hap|piness, before it was too late, to fall in love with, and marry a very amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreeable companion I retreated to the country, and endeavoured, as well as I was able, to square my wishes to my circumstances. In this endeavour I suc|ceeded so well, that, excepting a few private hankerings after a little more than I possessed, and now and then a sigh when a coach and six happened to drive by me in my walks, I was a happy man.

I can truly assure you, Sir, that though our family-economy was not much to be boasted of, and in conse|quence of it we were frequently driven to great straits and difficulties, I experienced more real satisfaction in this humble situation, than I have ever done since in more enviable circumstances. We were sometimes in|deed a little in debt, but when money came in, the plea|sure of discharging what we owed was more than an equiv|alent for these pains it put us to; and though the nar|rowness of our circumstances subjected us to many cares and anxieties, it served to keep the body in action as well, as the mind: sor as our garden was somewhat large, and required more hands to keep it in order than we could afford to hire, we laboured daily in it ourselves, and drew health from our necessities.

I had a little boy, who was the delight of my heart, and who probably might have been spoiled by nursing, if the attention of his parents had not been otherwise employed. His mother was naturally of a sickly consti|tution, but the affairs of her family, as they engrossed all her thoughts, gave her no time for complaint. The ordinary troubles of life, which to those who have noth|ing else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less terrible to us than to persons of easier circumstances; for it is a certain truth, however your readers may please to receive it, that where the mind is divided among ma|ny cares, the anxiety is lighter than when there is only one to contend with. Or even in the happiest situation,

in the midst of ease, I health, and affluence, the mind is generally ingenious at tormenting itself, losing the im|mediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings, by the painful suggestion that they are too great for continu|ance.

These are the reflections that I have made since; for I do not attempt to deny that I sighed frequently for an addition to my fortune. The death of a distant relation, which happened five years after our marriage, gave me this addition, and made me for a time the happiest man living. My income was now increased to six hundred a year; and I hoped, with a little oeconomy, to be able to make a figure with it. But the ill health of my wife, which in less easy circumstances had not touched me so nearly, was now constantly in my thoughts, and soured all my enjoyment. The consciousness too of having such an estate to leave my boy, made me so anxious to pre|serve hire, that instead of suffering him to run at plea|sure when he pleased, and to grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confinement. We now did nothing in our garden, because we were in circumstances to have it kept by others: but as the air and exercise were necessary for our healths, we resolved to abridge ourselves in some unnecessary articles, and set up an equi|page. This in time brought with it a train of expences, which we had neither prudence to foresee, nor courage to prevent. For as it enabled us to extend the circuit of our visits, it greatly increased our acquaintance, and subjected us to the necessity of making continual enter|tainments at home, in return for all those to which we were invited abroad. The charges that attended this new manner of living were much too great for the in|come we possessed; insomuch that we found ourselves in a very short time more necessitous than ever. Pride would not suffer us to lay down our equipage; and to live in a manner suitable to it, was what we could not bear to think of. To pay the debts I had contracted, I was soon forced to mortgage, and at last to sell the best part of my estate; and as it was utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longer, we thought it adviseable to remove of a sudden, to sell our coach in town, and to look out for a new situation, at a greater distance from our ac|quaintance.

But, unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of expence along with me, and was very near being re|duced to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of an uncle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to an estate of seven thousand pounds a year.

And now, Sir, both you and your readers will call me a very happy man; and so indeed I was; I set about the regulation of my family with the most pleasing satisfac|tion: the splendour of my equipages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of servants that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my table, and the court that was every where paid me, gave me inexpressible de|light, so long as they were novelties, but no sooner were they become habitual to me, than I lost all manner of relish for them; and discovered, in a very little time, that by having nothing to wish for, I had nothing to enjoy. My appetites grew pallid by satiety, a perpetual crowd of visitors robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my ser|vants plagued me, and my steward cheated me.

But the curse of greatness did not end here. Daily ex|perience convinced me that I was compelled to live more for others than for myself. My uncle had been a great party man, and a zealous opposer of all ministerial mea|sures; as his estate was the largest of any gentleman in the county, he supported an interest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by the court party, which determined me, in gratitude, to declare myself on that side; but the difficulties I had to encounter were too many and too great for me; inso|much that I have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing I have undertaken. To desert the cause I have embarked in, would disgrace me; and to go great|er lengths in it will almost undo me. I am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal gentry of the county, and am cursed by my tenants and dependants, for compelling them at every election to vote (as they are pleased to tell me) contrary to their consciences.

My wife and I once pleased ourselves with the thoughts of being useful to the neighbourhood, by dealing out our charity to the poor and Industrious; but the perpet|ual hurry in which we live, renders us incapable of look|ing

out for objects ourselves; and the agents we entrust are either pocketing our bounty, or bestowing it upon the undeserving. At night, when we retire to rest, we are venting our complaints on the miseries of the day, and praying heartily for the return of that peace, which was the only companion of our humblest situation.

Where pain, sickness, and absolute want are out of the question, no external change of circumstances can make a man more lastingly happy than he was before. It is to an ignorance of this truth, that the universal dissatisfac|tion of mankind is principally to be ascribed. Care is the lot of life; and he that aspires to greatness, in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws himself into a fur|nace to avoid the shivering of an ague.

The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present situation is, that it has not pleased heaven in its wrath to make me a King.

On GENEROSITY, and disinterested HONESTY.

How far that little candle darts its beams; So shines a good deed in this naughty world. SHAKESPEARE.

A CERTAIN Cardinal, who for the multitude of his generous actions was styled the Patron of the Poor, had a constant custom, once or twice a week, to give public audience to all indigent people in the hall of his palace, and to relieve every one according to their various necessities, or the motives of his own bounty.

One day a poor woman, encouraged by the fame of his generosity, came into the hall of this Cardinal with her only daughter, a beautiful maid about fifteen years of age. When her turn came to be heard among the crowd of petitioners, the Cardinal discerning the marks of an extraordinary modesty in her face and carriage, as also in her daughter's encouraged her to tell her wants freely. She blushing, and not without tears, thus ad|dressed herself to him: "My Lord, I owe for the rent of my house five crowns, and such is my misfortune, that I have no other means to pay it, save what would break my heart, since my landlord threatens to force me to it; that is, to prostitute this my only daughter, whom I have hitherto with great care educated in virtue, and an ab|horrence of that odious crime. What I beg of your Em|inence

is, that you would be pleased to interpose your sacred authority, and protect us from the violence of this cruel man, till by our honest industry we can procure the money for him."

The Cardinal, moved with admiration of the woman's virtue and innocent modesty, bid her be of good courage. Then he immediately wrote a billet, and giving it into the widow's hands, "Go, said he, to my steward with this paper, and he shall deliver thee five crowns to pay the rent."

The poor woman overjoyed, and returning the Cardinal a thousand thanks, went directly to the steward, and gave him the note; which, when he had read, he told her out fifty crowns. She astonished at the meaning of it, and fearing this was only the steward's trick to try her hon|esty, refused to take above five, saying, "She asked the Cardinal for no more, and she was sure it was a mistake."

On the other hand, the steward insisted on his master's order, not daring to call it in question. But all the ar|guments he could use were insufficient to prevail on her to take any more than five crowns. Whereupon, to end the controversy, he offered to go back with her to the Cardinal, and refer it to him. When they came before that munificent Prince, and he was fully informed of the business, "It is true, said he, I mistook in writing fifty crowns; give me the paper and I will rectify it." Thereupon he wrote again, saying thus to the woman: "So much candour and virtue deserve a recompence; here I have ordered you five hundred crowns; what you can spare of it, lay it up as a dowry to give with your daughter in marriage."

If I mistake not, this Cardinal was called Farnese. But, whatever his name was, this was an action truly heroic, and which has but few parallels.

The Story of FLAVILLA.

Tho' all is innocence within, 'Tis guilt to wear the garb of sin. GAY.

THE following is so striking an instance of the dread|ful consequences which often attend female levity, that we hope our fair readers will peruse it with more than common attention.

FLAVILLA, just as she had entered her fourteenth year, was left an orphan to the care of her mother, in such circumstances as disappointed all the hopes which her education had encouraged. Her father, who lived in great elegance upon the salary of a place at court, died suddenly, without having made any provision for his family, except an annuity of one hundred pounds, which he had purchased for his wife with part of her marriage portion; nor was he possessed of any property, except the furniture of a large house in one of the squares, an equip|age, a few jewels, and some plate.

The greater part of the furniture and the equipage were sold to pay his debts; the jewels, which were not of great value, and some useful pieces of the plate, were reserved; and Flavilla removed with her mother into lodgings.

But notwithstanding this change in their circumstances, they did not immediately lose their rank. They were still visited by a numerous and polite acquaintance; and though some gratified their pride, by assuming an appear|ance of pity, and rather insulted than alleviated their distresses by the whine of condolence, and a minute com|parison of what they had lost with what they possessed; yet from others they were continually receiving presents, which still enabled them to live with a genteel frugality; they were still considered as people of fashion, and treated by those of a lower class with distinct respect.

Flavilla thus continued to move in a sphere to which she had no claim; she was remarkably tall for her age, and was celebrated not only for her beauty, but her wit: these qualifications she considered, not only as securing whatever she enjoyed by the favour of others, but as a pledge of possessing them in her own right by an advanta|geous marriage.

There was a fashionable levity in her carriage and dis|course, which her mother, who knew the danger of her situation, laboured to restrain, sometimes with anger, and sometimes with tears, but always without success. Flavilla was ever ready to answer, That she neither did nor said any thing of which she had reason to be ashamed; and therefore did not know why she should be restrained, except in mere courtesy to envy, which it was an honor to provoke; or to slander which it was a disgrace to fear.

In proportion as Flavilla was more flattered and caressed, the influence of her mother became less; and though she always treated her with respect from a point of good-breeding, yet she secretly despised her maxims, and applauded her own conduct.

Flavilla at eighteen was a celebrated toast; and among other gay visitants who frequented her tea table was Clodio, a young Baronet, who had just taken possession of his title and estate. There were many particulars in Clodio's be|haviour, which encouraged Flavilla to hope that she should obtain him for a husband; but she suffered his assiduities with such apparent pleasure, and his familiari|ties with so little reserve, that he soon ventured to disclose his intention, and make her what he thought, a very genteel proposal of another kind: but, whatever were the artifices with which it was introduced, or the terms in which it was made, Flavilla rejected it with the utmost indignation and disdain. Clodio, who notwithstanding his youth, had long known, and often practised the art seduction, gave way to the storm, threw himself at her feet, imputed his offence to the frenzy of his passion, flattered her pride by the most abject submission, and extravagant praise, intreated her pardon, aggravated his crime, but made no mention of atonement by marriage. This particular, which Flavilla did not fail to remark, ought to have determined her to admit him no more: but her vanity and her ambition were still predominant, she still hoped to succeed in her project. Clodio's offence was tacitly forgiven, his visits were permitted, his familiarities were again suffered, and his hopes revived. He had long entertained an opinion that she loved him, in which, however, it is probable, that his own vanity and her in|discretion concurred to deceive him; but this opinion, though it implied the strongest obligation to treat her with generosity and tenderness, only determined him again to attempt her ruin, as it encouraged him with a probability of success. Having therefore resolved to ob|tain her as a mistress, or at once to give her up, he thought he had little more to do ••han to convince her that he had taken such a resolution, justifying it by some plausi|ble sophistry, and give her some time to deliberate upon a final determination. With this view he went a short journey into the country; having put a letter into her

hand at parting, in which he acquainted her, "That he had often reflected, with inexpressible regret upon her resentment to his conduct in a late instance; but that the delicacy and the ardour of his affections were insuperable obstacles to his marriage. That where there was no liberty there could be no happiness: that he should become in|different to the endearments of love, when it could no longer be distinguished from the officiousness of duty: that while they were happy in the possession of each other, it would be absurd to suppose they would part: and if this happiness should cease, it would not only ensure, but aggravate their misery to be inseparably united: that this event was less probable, in proportion as their cohabita|tion was voluntary; but that he would make such provi|sion for her upon the contingency, as a wife would expect upon his death."

Flavilla had too much understanding as well as virtue to deliberate a moment upon this proposal. She gave immediate orders that Clodio should be admitted no more. But his letter was a temptation to gratify her vanity, which she could not resist; she shewed it first to her mother, and then to the whole circle of her female acquaintance, with all the exultation of a hero who exposes a vanquished enemy at the wheels of his chariot in triumph; she con|sidered it as an indisputable evidence of her virtue, as a reproof to all who had dared to censure the levity of her conduct, and a licence to continue it without apology or restraint.

It happened that Flavilla, soon after this accident, was seen in one of the boxes of the play-house by Mercator, a young gentleman who had just returned from his first voyage, as a captain of a large ship in the Levant trade, which had been purchased for him by his father, whose fortune enabled him to make a genteel provision for five sons, of whom Mercator was the youngest, and who expected to share his estate, which was personal, in equal proportion at his death.

Mercator was captivated with her beauty, but discour|aged by the splendor of her appearance, and the rank of her company. He was urged, rather by curiosity than hope, to inquire who she was; and he soon gained such a knowledge of her circumstances, as relieved him from despair.

As he knew not how to get admission into her company, and had no design upon her virtue, he wrote in the first ardour of his passion to her mother; giving a faithful account of his fortune and dependence, and intreating that he might be permitted to visit Flavilla, as a candi|date for her affections. The old lady, after having made some inquiries, by which the account that Mercator had given her was confirmed, sent him an invitation, and received his first visit alone. She told him, that as Fla|villa had no fortune, and as a considerable part of his own was dependent upon his father's will, he ought therefore to obtain his consent before any other step was taken. To this counsel, so salutary, Mercator was hesitating what to reply, when Flavilla came in, an acci|dent which he was now only solicitous to improve. Fla|villa was not displeased either with his person or address; the frankness and gaiety of her disposition soon made him forget that he was a stranger; a conversation com|menced, during which they became yet more pleased with each other; and having thus surmounted the diffi|culties of a first visit, he thought no more of the old lady, as he believed her auspices were not necessary to his success.

His visits were often repeated, and he became every hour more impatient of delay: a thought of his father would now and then indeed intervene; but being deter|mined to gratify his wishes at all events, he concluded with a sagacity almost universal upon these occasions, that of two evils, to marry without his consent, was less than to marry against it; and one evening, after the lovers had spent the afternoon by themselves, they went out in a kind of frolic, which Mercator had proposed in the vehemence of his passion, and to which Flavilla had consented in the giddiness of her indiscretion, and were married at May-Fair.

In the first interval of recollection after this precipi|tate step, Mercator considered, that he ought to be the first who acquainted his father of the new alliance which had been made in his family. But as he had not forti|tude enough to do it in person, he expressed it in the best terms he could conceive by a letter; and after such an apology for his conduct as he had been used to make for himself, he requested that he might be permitted to

present his wife for the parental benediction, which alone was wanting to complete his felicity.

The old gentleman, whose character I cannot better express than in the fashionable phrase which has been contrived to palliate false principles and dissolute man|ners, had been a gay man, and was well acquainted with the town. He had often heard Flavilla toasted by rakes of quality, and had often seen her at public places. Her beauty and her dependence, the gaiety of her dress, and the multitude of her admirers, the levity of her conduct, and all the circumstances of her situation, had concurred to render her character suspected; and he was disposed to judge of it with less charity, when she had offended him by marrying his son, whom he considered as disgra|ced and impoverished, and whose misfortune, as it was irretrievable, he resolved not to alleviate, but increase; a resolution by which fathers, who have foolish and dis|obedient sons, usually display their own kindness and wisdo••▪ As soon as he had read Mercator's letter, he cursed him for a fool, who had been gulled by the artifice of a strumpet, to screen her from public infamy, by fath|ering her children, and securing her from a prison by appropriating her debts. In an answer to his letter, which he wrote only to gratify his resentment, he told him, that "if he had taken Flavilla into keeping, he would have overlooked it; and if her extravagance had distressed him, he would have satisfied his creditors; but that his marriage was not to be forgiven; that he never should have another shilling of his money; and that he was determined to see him no more."

Mercator, who was more provoked by this outrage than grieved at his loss, disdained to reply; and believing that he had now most reason to be offended, could not be persuaded to solicit a reconciliation.

He hired a genteel apartment for his wife of an uphol|sterer, who, with a view to let lodgings, had taken and furnished a large house near Leicester Fields, and in about two months left her to make another voyage.

He had received visits of congratulation from her nu|merous acquaintance, and had returned them, as a pledge of his desire that they should be repeated. But a remem|brance of the gay multitude, which while he was at home had flattered his vanity, as soon as he was absent

alarmed his suspicion: he had, indeed, no particular cause of jealousy; but his anxiety arose merely from a sense of the temptations to which she was exposed, and the impossibility of his superintending her conduct.

In the mean time, Flavilla continued to flutter round the same giddy circle in which she had shone so long; the number of her visitants was rather increased than diminished; the gentlemen attended her with greater assiduity, and she continued to encourage their civilities by the same indecent familiarity: she was one night at the masquerade, and another at the opera; sometimes at a rout, and sometimes rambling in a party of pleasure in short excursions from town; she came home some|times at midnight, sometimes in the morning, and sometimes she was absent several nights together.

This conduct was the cause of much speculation and uneasiness to the good man and good woman of the house. At first they suspected that Flavilla was no bet|ter than a woman of pleasure; and that the person who had hired the lodgings for her as his wife, (and had dis|appeared upon presence of going a voyage to sea) had been employed to impose upon them, by concealing her character, in order to obtain such accommodations for her as she could not so easily have procured had it been known: but as these suspicions made them watchful and inquisitive, they soon discovered, that many ladies by whom she was visited were of good character and fashion. Her conduct, however, supposing her to be a wife, was still inexcusable, and still endangered her credit and sub|sistence: hints were often dropped by the neighbours to the disadvantage of her character; and an elderly maiden lady, who lodged in the second floor, had given warning; the family was disturbed at all hours of the night, and the door was crowded all day with messengers and visitants to Flavilla.

One day, therefore, the good woman took an opportu|nity to remonstrate, though in the most distant and res|pectful terms, and with the utmost diffidence and caution, she told Flavilla, "That she was a fine young lady; that her husband was abroad; that she 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a great deal of company; and that the world was censo••ious: she wished that less occasion for scandal was given; and ho|ped to be excused the liberty she had taken, as she might

be ruined by those slanders which could have no influ|ence upon the great, and which therefore, they were not solicitous to avoid."

This address, however ambiguous, and however gen|tle, was easily understood, and fiercely resented.Flavilla, proud of her virtue, and impatient of controul, would have despised the counsel of a philosopher, if he had im|plied an impeachment of her conduct: before a person so much her inferior, therefore, she was under no re|straint; but answered with a mixture of contempt and indignation, "That those only who did not know her would dare to take any liberty with her character; and warned her to propagate no scandalous report, at her peril." Flavilla immediately rose from her seat, and the woman departed without reply, though she was scarce less offended than her lodger; and from that moment she determined when Mercator returned, to give her warn|ing.

Mercator's voyage was prosperous, and after an absence of about ten months, he came back. The woman, to whom her husband left the whole management of the lodgings, and who persisted in her purpose, soon found an opportunity to put it in execution.Mercator, as his part of the contract had been punctually fulfilled, thought he had some cause to be offended, and insisted to know her reasons for compelling him to leave her house. These, his hostess, who was indeed a very friendly wo|man, was very unwilling to give; and as he perceived that she evaded his question, he became more solicitous to obtain an answer. After much hesitation, which perhaps had a worse effect than any tale which malice could have invented, she told him, that, "Madam kept a great deal of company, and had often staid out very late: that she had always been used to quietness and regularity: and was determined to let her apartments to some person in a more private station."

At this account Mercator changed countenance; for he Inferred from it just as much more than truth as he be|lieved it to be less. After some moments of suspence, he conjured her to conceal nothing from him, with an emo|tion which convinced her she had already said too much. She then assured him, "That he had no reason to be alarmed; for that she had no exception to his lady, but

those gaieties which her station and the fashion sufficient|ly authorized." Mercator's suspicions, however, were not wholly removed; and he began to think he had found a confidante, whom it would be his interest to trust: he therefore, in the folly of his jealousy, confess|ed, "That he had some doubts concerning his wife, which it was of the utmost importance to his honour and his peace to resolve: he intreated her that he might continue in the apartment another year: that as he should again leave the kingdom in a short time, she would suffer no incident, which might confirm either his hopes or fears, to escape her notice in his absence; and that at his return, she would give him such an account as would at least deliver him from the torment of sus|pence, and determine his future conduct."

Mercator, however, concealed his suspicions from his wife; and, indeed, in her presence they were forgotten. Her manner of life he began seriously to disapprove; but being well acquainted with her temper, in which great sweetness was blended with a high spirit, he would not embitter the pleasure of a short stay by altercation, chi|ding, and tears: but when her mind was melted into tenderness at his departure, he clasped her in an ecstasy of fondness to his bosom, and intreated her to behave with reserve and circumspection: "because, said he, I know that my father keeps a watchful eye upon your conduct, which may, therefore, confirm or remove his displeasure, and either intercept or bestow such an in|crease in our fortune, as will prevent the pangs of separa|tion, which must otherwise so often return, and in a short time unite us to part no more." To this caution she had then no power to reply; and they parted with mu|tual protestations of unalterable love.

The Story of FLAVILLA concluded.

FLAVILLA, soon after she was thus left in a kind of widowhood a second time, found herself with child; and within somewhat less than eight months after Merca|tor's return from his first voyage, she happened to stum|ble as she was going up stairs, and being immediately taken ill, she was brought to bed before the next morn|ing. The child, though its birth had been precipitated

more than a month, was not remarkably small, nor had any infirmity which endangered its life.

It was now necessary that the vigils of whists, and the tumults of balls and visits should, for a while, be suspen|ded; and in this interval of languor and retirement, Fla|villa first became thoughtful. She often reflected upon Mercator's caution when they last parted, which had made an indelible impression upon her mind, though it had produced no alteration in her conduct: notwith|standing the manner in which it was expressed, and the reason upon which it was founded, she began to fear that it might have been secretly prompted by jealousy. The birth, therefore, of her first child in his absence, at a time when, if it had not been premature, it could not possibly have been his, was an accident which greatly alarmed her: but there was yet another, for which it was still less in her power to account, and which there|fore alarmed her still more.

It happened that some civilities which she received from a lady who sat next her at an opera, and whom she had never seen before, introduced a conversation, which so greatly delighted her, that she gave her a pressing invitation to visit her: this invitation was accepted, and in a few days the visit was paid. Flavilla was not less pleased at the second interview than she had been at the first; and without making any other inquiry concerning the lady, than where she lived, took the first opportunity to wait upon her. The apartment in which she was re|ceived, was the ground-floor of an elegant house, at a small distance from St. James's. It happened that Fla|villa was placed near the window; and a party of the horse—guards riding through the streets, she expected to see some of the royal family, and hastily threw up the fash. A gentleman who was passing by at the same in|stant, turned about at the noise of the window, and Fla|villa no sooner saw his face, than she knew him to be the father of Mercator. After looking first steadfastly at her, and then glancing his eye at the lady whom she was visit|ing, he affected a contemptuous sneer, and went on. Flavilla, who had been thrown into some confusion, by the sudden and unexpected sight of a person who she knew considered her as the disgrace of his family, and the ruin of his child, now changed countenance, and

hastily retired to another part of the room: she was touched both with grief and anger at this silent insult, of which, however, she did not then suspect the cause. It is, indeed, probable, that the father of Mercator would no where have looked upon her with complacency; but as soon as he saw her companion, he recollected that she was the favourite mistress of an old courtier, and that this was the house in which he kept her in great splen|dor, though she had been by turns a prostitute to many others. It happened that Flavilla, soon after this acci|dent, discovered the character of her new acquaintance; and never remembered by whom she had been seen in her company, without the utmost regret and apprehen|sion.

She now resolved to move in a less circle, and with more circumspection. In the mean time her little boy, whom she suckled, grew very fast; and it could no longer be known by his appearance that he had been born too soon. His mother frequently gazed on him till her eyes overflowed with tears; and though her pleasures were now become domestic, yet she feared lest that which had produced, should destroy them. After much deliberation, she determined that she would conceal the child's age from its father, believing it prudent to prevent a suspicion, which, however ill founded, it might be difficult to re|move, as her justification would depend wholly upon the testimony of her dependants; and her mother's and her own would necessarily become doubtful, when every one would have reason to conclude, that it would still have been the same, supposing the contrary to have been true.

Such was the state of Flavilla's mind, and her little boy was six months old when Mercator returned. She received him with joy indeed, but it was mixed with a visible confusion; their meeting was more tender, but on her part it was less cheerful; she smiled with inexpressible complacency, but at the same time the tears gushed from her eyes, and she was seized with an universal tremor. Mercator caught the infection; and caressed first his Flavil|la, and then his boy, with an excess of fondness and delight that before he had never experienced. The sight of the child made him more than ever wish a reconciliation with his father; and having heard at his first landing that he was dangerously ill, he determined to go immediately

and attempt to see him, promising that he would return to supper. He had in the midst of his caresses more than once inquired the age of his son, but the question had been always evaded; of which, however, he took to notice, nor did it produce any suspicion.

He was now hastening to inquire after his father; but as he passed through the hall, he was officiously laid hold of by the landlady. He was not much disposed to inquire how she had fulfilled his charge; but perceiving by her looks that she had something to communicate, which at least in her own opinion was of importance, he suffered her to take him into her parlour. She immediately shut the door, and reminded him, that she had undertaken an office with reluctance which he pressed upon her; and that she had done nothing in it to which he had not bound her by a promise; that she was exceeding sorry to com|municate her discoveries; but that he was a worthy gentleman indeed, and ought to know them. She then told him,

That the child was born within less than eight months after his last return from abroad; that it was said to have come before its time, but that having pressed to see it, she was refused.

This indeed was true, and confirmed the good woman in her suspicion; for Flavilla, who had still resented the freedom which she had taken in her remonstrance, had kept her at a great distance; and the servants, to gratify their mistress, treated her with the utmost insolence and contempt.

At this relation Mercator turned pale. He now recol|lected that his question concerning the child's birth had been evaded; and concluded, that he had been shedding tears of tenderness and joy over a strumpet and a bastard, who had robbed him of his patrimony, his honor, and his peace. He started up with the furious wildness of sudden frenzy; but she with great difficulty prevailed upon him not to leave the room. He sat down, and remained some time motionless, with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his hands locked in each other. In proportion as he believed his wife to be guilty, his ten|derness for his father revived; and he resolved, with yet greater zeal, to prosecute his purpose of immediately attempting a reconciliation.

In this state of confusion and distress, he went to the house, where he learned that his father had died early in

the morning, and that his relations were then assembled to read his will. Fulvius, a brother of Mercator's mother, with whom he had always been a favourite, happening to pass from one room to another, heard his voice. He accosted him with great ardour and friendship; and soothing him with expressions of condolence and affec|tion, insisted to introduce him to the company. Mercator tacitly consented: he was received at last with civility by his brothers, and sitting down among them, the will was read. He seemed to listen like the rest; but was indeed musing over the story which he had just heard, and lost in the speculations of his own wretchedness. He awaked as from a dream, when the voice of the person who had been reading was suspended; and finding that he could no longer contain himself, he started up, and would have left the company.

Of the will which had been read before him, he knew nothing: but his uncle believing that he was moved with grief and resentment at the manner in which he had been mentioned in it, and the bequest only of a shilling, took him into another room; and, to apologize for his father's unkindness, told him, "That the resentment which he expressed at his marriage, was every day increas|ed by the conduct of his wife, whose character was now become notoriously infamous, for that she had been seen at the lodgings of a known prostitute, with whom she appeared to be well acquainted." This account threw Mercator into another agony: from which he was, how|ever, at length recovered by his uncle, who, as the only expedient by which he could retrieve his misfortune, and sooth his distress, proposed that he should no more return to his lodgings, but go home with him; that he would himself take such measures with his wife as would scarce fail of inducing he•• to 'accept a separate maintenance, assume another name, and trouble him no more. Merca|tor, in the bitterness of his affliction, consented to his proposal, and they went away together.

Mercator, in the mean time, was expected by Flavilla with the most tender impatience. She had put her little boy to bed, and decorated a small room in which they had been used to sup by themselves, and which she had shut up in his absence; she counted the moments as they passed, and listened to every carriage and every step that

she heard. Supper was now ready. Her impatience was increased; terror was at length mingled with regret, and her fondness was only busied to afflict her: she wished, she feared, she accused, she apologized, and she wept. In the height of these eager expectations, and this tender distress, she received a billet which Mercator had been persuaded by his uncle to write, in which he up|braided her in the strongest terms with abusing his con|fidence, and dishonouring his bed: "Of this, he said, he had now obtained sufficient proof to do justice to him|self, and that he was determined to see her no more."

To those whose hearts have not already acquainted them with the agony which seized Flavilla upon the sight of the billet, all attempts to describe it would not only be ineffectual, but absurd. Having passed the night without sleep, and the next day without food, disap|pointed in every attempt to discover what was become of Mercator, and doubting, if she could have found h••••, whether it would be possible to convince him of her inno|cence: the violent agitation of her mind produced a slow fever, which, before she considered as a disease, she com|municated to the child while she cherished it at her bosom, and wept over it as an orphan whose life she was sustain|ing with her own.

After Mercator had been absent about ten days, his uncle, having persuaded him to accompany some friends, to a country-seat at the distance of near sixty miles, went to his lodgings in order to discharge the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and try what terms he could make with Flavilla, whom he hoped to intimidate with threats of a prosecution and divorce; but when he came, he found that Flavilla was sinking very fast under the disease, and that the child was dead already. The woman of the house, into whose hands she had just put her repeating-watch and some other orna|ments, as a security for her rent, was so touched with her distress, and so firmly persuaded of her innocence by the manner in which she had addressed her, and the calm solemnity with which she absolved those by whom she had been traduced, that as soon as she had discovered Fulvius's business, she threw herself on her knees, and intreated, that if he knew where Mercator was to be found, he would urge him to return, that, if possible, the life of Flavilla might be preserved, and the happiness of both be resto|red

by her justification. Fulvius, who still suspected appearances, or at least was in doubt of the cause that had produced them, would not discover his nephew; but after much intreaty and expostulation, at last enga|ged upon his honour for the conveyance of a letter. The woman, as soon as she obtained his promise, ran up and communicated it to Flavilla, who, when she had recovered from the surprise and tumult which it occa|sioned, was supported in her bed, and in about half an hour, after many efforts, and many intervals, wrote a short billet, which was sealed, and put into the hands of Fulvius.

Fulvius immediately inclosed and dispatched it by the post, resolving that in a question so doubtful and of such importance, he would no farther interpose. Mercator, who the moment he cast his eye upon the letter, knew both the hand and seal, after pausing a few moments in suspence, at length tore it open, and read these words:

"Such has been my folly, that perhaps I should not be acquitted of guilt in any circumstances but those in which I write. I do not, therefore, but for your sake, with them otherwise than they are. The dear infant, whose birth has undone me, now lies dead at my side, a victim to my indiscretion and your resentment. I am scarce able to guide my pen. But I most earnestly in|treat to see you, that you at least may have the satisfac|tion to hear me attest my innocence with the last sigh, and seal our reconciliation on my lips, while they are yet sensible of the impression".

Mercator, whom an earthquake would less have affect|ed than this letter, felt all his tenderness revive in a mo|ment, and reflected with unutterable anguish upon the rashness of his resentment. At the thought of his dis|tance from London, he started as if he had felt a dagger in his heart: he lifted up his eyes to heaven, with a look that expressed at once an accusation of himself, and a petition for her; and then rushing out of the house without taking leave of any, or ordering a servant to attend him, he took post-horses in a neighbouring inn, and in less than six hours was in Leicester Fields. But notwithstanding his speed, he arrived too late; Flavilla had suffered the last agony, and her eyes could behold him no more. Grief and disappointment, remorse and

despair, now totally subverted his reason. It become necessary to remove him by force from the body, and after a confinement of two years in a mad-house, he died.

May every lady on whose memory compassion shall record these events, tremble to assume the levity of Flavilla! for perhaps it is not in the power of any man in Mercator's circumstances to be less jealous than Mercator.

MIRTH and FALSHOOD inconsistent.

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would stick a dagger to his brother's heart? YOUNG.

DURING the last war, a sea-faring man courted a young woman at Lime-house, whom he got with child; soon after he went to sea and left her: he saved some money in the West-Indies, where he stayed about two years, but could not be easy in his mind on account of ruining the young woman. He left the ship and some wages that were due to him, and came home with a design to marry her: going into a public house at Lime-house, which he had formerly frequented, and inquiring after the young woman, the landlord said she was alive and well, and had a charming boy; but (by way of hum, as 'tis called) told him too, that she was married.—Imme|diately on this, the poor seaman left the house, rambling about he knew nor cared not whither, and was picked up by a press-gang, and sent aboard a tender, where he hanged himself the very first night.—The news of this affected the young woman so much, that she died soon after, and the poor child was left upon the parish; nor did the landlord, who was in reality a good-natured man, ever enjoy a moment's peace of mind during the few years he lived.

On DISINGENUITY.

With soothing wile, he won my easy heart; He sigh'd and vow'd—but, ah! he feign'd the smart. Sure, of all fiends, the blackest we can find Are those ingrates who stab our peace of mind. R.

IF penitence can lay claim to pardon, and if to confess our crimes be any kind of atonement for them, the

following true narrative may plead in my behalf to an injured woman, reconcile me to myself, and restore that tranquility of mind, which I have so lately forfeited by my own folly and indiscretion.

You must know that I am the son of an honest trades|men, was by him brought up at a public school, and from thence went to the university. Soon after my arrival there, a gentleman came down with his family to enter his son, who had been my school-fellow, at one of the colleges: they sent for me, and desired I would shew them the university; a request which I readily complied with, as it gratified my vanity of being seen with his daughter, a young lady of great beauty and fortune; advantages which often supply the want of every other real good, but served in her only to adorn the superior qualities of the mind, and set off the charms of virtue.

I strove to make their time as agreeable as possible, by that assiduity which never fails to please, and all those little services which are sure to conciliate affection: I united on my fair visitor, as you may imagine, with more than ordinary diligence, gratified her curiosity by the fight of every thing that I thought worthy of her atten|tion, and endeavoured by being useful, to make myself agreeable. I succeeded so well, in short, with the whole family, that when they left the place, I received a pressing invitation from the father to spend a week with them in London. Accordingly I waited on them, and was received with great politeness; the morning we chiefly spent in diversions within doors, and in the evening went to the play. This gave me an opportunity of frequent inter|views with the young lady, in which I could not help paying that tribute of praise to her accomplishments which I know she deserved, and which I imagined she expected; I spoke the language of love, without feeling the power of it, and insensibly raised a passion in her breast, which was yet a stranger to my own. Little did I indeed at that time imagine, that with an intention merely to amuse, I was laying snares to deceive; and that whilst I thought myself only playing the innocent Art of a fine gentleman, I was undermining the peace of an amiable woman, and destroying the future happi|ness of a whole family.

When I took my leave, my friends told me they would

not consent to part with me so soon, unless I would pro|mise, on the first leisure I had, to return; with which proposal I readily acquiesced. As I had no great desire to change a scene of gaiety and pleasure for the gloom of a college, the reflection of it threw a melancholy on my features, which the lady attributed to a different cause. I fetched a deep sigh at parting, and retired from her with a silent sorrow, which I afterwards found had left a stronger impression on her heart than all the fine things I had said; and confirmed her in the opinion she had conceived of my inviolable attachment to her. I returned to the university, where my attention was soon called off to other views, and my thoughts fixed on ob|jects of a different nature: nor should I, perhaps, from that hour, have called to mind the now forgotten fair one, had not a letter, which I received from her about three months afterwards, greatly surprised and disturbed me.

"She would not, she there informed me, have broken through the prescribed forms of her sex, but that, as she well knew my designs were honourable, and nothing but my own diffidence had concealed them, she looked on herself as bound in honour to let me know that it would be acceptable to her; and that it would appear like af|fectation in her to suppose I had meant merely to flatter and amuse her; and as she had spared me the confusion of first mentioning this, she hoped I would soon come to a more clear explanation." In a postscript, she added, "That her father was a man who had, what we call, seen the world, was determined to marry her at all events, up to her rank; and chose rather to see her splendidly miserable, than obscurely happy: that unless I saved her, she was ruined; and that a short time must determine her late."

I need not tell you how I was confounded to find myself involved in an intrigue, before I had so much as once seriously thought upon it; I therefore answered her in the most submissive manner I could; represented to her, that it would be the highest ingratitude in me to marry the daughter of a man who had shewn me such uncommon civilities, without his consent; besides, that the disparity of our fortunes must be an unsurmountable object to a thinking person; that she might one 〈◊〉〈◊〉 or other reproach me with breach of trust herself, or insult

me on account of that very inequality which she now seemed to disregard; that, in such a case, the desire of pleasing must sink into the fear of offending, and thus put an end to all visionary schemes of lasting happiness; that I was sorry she had so mistaken my behaviour as to attribute that to love which is but the effect of gallantry. I then talked to her of a priest and marriage in the lan|guage of Lothario; and concluded by advising her, for both our sakes, to think no more of it.

This, you may imagine, was an answer, which, whilst my hand wrote it, my heart very severely reproached me for. I could not but tacitly blame myself for that par|ticular regard and attachment to her which I had for|merly expressed, and was not determined, whether I should not make a little serious love to her the very next opportunity; when, in the midst of these reflections, I received the following letter, which best can tell the story of her misfortune, and expose the weakness of my past conduct.

"It is over; and I am a slave! yet the only hour that I can call my own I give to you, the only one that a hus|band's authority has no right to interrupt. To sum up all my miseries, in a word, know, my father has this morning given me up to sorrow and Mr.—. Alas! what delusive visions of felicity did not your flattering tongue once give me leave to form! such as no turn of fortune can again recal. I tremble to think what a hus|band's rage may inflict, when he finds, instead of the happiness he expected, so poor an entertainment as love compelled will afford him. It is impossible for different masters to share one poor heart. With me he may en|joy as much as the unwilling victim to brutal violence, and have as warm a return of fondness from the sheeted dead. But what am I saying, and to whom? To him that has robbed me of my peace! can he now dry up those tears which himself alone could bid to flow? Or can he heal those wounds which himself has made? But the worst is past; all the passions that have racked me since I received you last are hushed; and what little spirit remains will soon give way to the silent eating sorrow after this. Think that you have robbed me of what not all my fortune can purchase for me, nor the whole world beside hath power to bestow. Ever since I was taught to

form a wish, it was that of being a happy mother, and a tender wife. I may now have a child whom its father's vices will exclude from that excess of fondness which I would otherwise have poured over it; and you know too well his character to hope any alteration in him: and yet this man my religion henceforth binds me to be true to, and obey. Farewell! and know, however I condemn your conduct, that would my brother, jealous of this hon|our as he is, this moment revenge me, I had rather for|give than resent it. Live then, and be happy; and may that happiness never be suspended a moment by the re|membrance of her whom your falsehood has made for ever miserable."

If your heart has not already informed you what I felt on this, it will be needless to tell you how severely I now accuse my own weak conduct; nor can I soon forgive myself the wanton sacrifice of youth, innocence, beauty and virtue, to fashionable levity, and polite perfidiousness. It is I that have given the wound inflicted by her father a deeper smart, though it is himself who has made that misery lasting. I can only wish this may be a useful les|son, to warn all young gentlemen, my fellow profligates, never to express a particular regard where they have not serious thoughts of love; and to teach parents whom heaven has blest with dutiful children, rather to make them happy than great; or by their authority never to violate those hearts which they have only a right to guide.

On the JUSTICE of PROVIDENCE.

All nature is but art unknown to thee, All chance direction which thou canst not see; All discord harmony not understood, All partial evil universal good: And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear—whatever is, is right. POPE.

BOZALDAB, Caliph of Egypt, had dwelt securely for many years in the silken pavilions of pleasure, and had every morning anointed his head with the oil of gladness, when his only son Aboram, for whom he had crowded his treasures with gold, extended his dominions with conquests, and secured them with impregnable for|tresses,

was suddenly wounded, as he was hunting, with an arrow from an unknown hand, and expired in the field.

Bozaldab, in the distraction of grief and despair, refu|sed to return to his palace, and retired to the gloomiest grotto in the neighbouring mountains: he there rolled himself in the dust, tore away the hairs of his hoary head, and dashed the cup of consolation, that Patience offered him, to the ground, He suffered not his minstrels to ap|proach his presence; but listened to the screams of the melancholy birds of midnight, that flirt through the sol|itary vaults and echoing chambers of the pyramids.

"Can that God be benevolent, he cried, who thus wounds the soul, as from an ambush, with unexpected sorrows, and crushes his creatures in a moment with irre|mediable calamity? Ye lying Imans, prate to us no more of the justness and kindness of an all-directing and all-loving Providence! he, whom ye pretend reigns in hea|ven, is so far from protecting the miserable sons of men, that he perpetually delights to blast the sweetest flower|ets in the garden of hope; and, like a malignant giant, to beat down the strongest towers of happiness with the iron mace of anger. If this being possessed the goodness and the power with which flattering priests have invested him, he would doubtless be inclined and enabled to ban|ish those evils which render the world a dungeon of dis|tress, a vale of vanity and woe. I will continue in it no longer.

At this mome••t he furiously raised his hand, which despair had armed with a dagger, to strike deep into his bosom; when suddenly thick flashes of lightning shot through the cavern, and a being of more than human beauty and magnitude, arrayed in azure robes, crowned with amaranth, and waving a branch of palm in his right hand, arrested the arm of the trembling and astonished Caliph, and said with a majestic smile, "Follow me to the top of this mountain."

"Look from hence, said the awful conductor: I am Color, the angel of Peace; look from hence into the valley."

Bozaldab opened his eyes, and beheld a barren, sultry, and solitary island, in the midst of which sat a pale, mea|gre, and ghastly figure: it was a merchant just starving with famine, and lamenting that he could find neither

wild berries nor a single spring in this forlorn uninhab|ited desart; and begging the protection of Heaven against the tygers that would now certainly destroy him, since he had consumed the last fuel he had collected to make nightly fires to affright them. He then cast a casket of jewels on the sand as trifles of no use; and crept feeble and trembling to an eminence, where he was ac|customed to sit every evening to watch the setting sun, and to give a signal to any ship that might happily ap|proach the island.

"Inhabitant of heaven, cried Bozaldab, suffer not this wretch to perish by the fury of wild beasts." "Peace, said the angel, and observe."

He looked again, and beheld a vessel arrived at the desolate isle. What words can paint the rapture of the starving merchant, when the captain offered to transport him to his native country, if he would reward him with half the jewels of his casket. No sooner had this pitiful commander received the stipulated sum, than he held a consultation with the crew, and they agreed to seize the remaining jewels, and leave the unhappy exile in the same helpless and lamentable condition in which they discov|ered him. He wept and trembled, intreated and implo|red in vain.

"Will Heaven permit such injustice to be practised?" exclaimed Bozaldab. "Look again, said the angel, and behold the very ship in which, short-sighted as thou art, thou wishedst the merchant might embark, dashed in pieces on a rock: dost thou not hear the cries of the sinking sailors? Presume not to direct the Governor of the Universe in the disposal of events. The man whom thou hast pitied shall be taken from this dreary solitude, but not by the method thou wouldst prescribe. His vice was avarice, by which he became not only abominable, but wretched: he fancied some mighty charm in wealth, which, like the wand of Abdiel, would gratify every wish, and obviate every fear. This wealth he has now been taught not only to despise but to abhor: he cast his jewels upon the sand, and conf••ssed them to be useless; he offered part of them to the mariners, and perceived them to be pernicious; he has now learned, that they are rendered useful or vain, good or evil, only by the sit|uation and temper of the possessor. Happy is he whom

distress has taught wisdom! but turn thine ayes to ano|ther and more interesting scene."—The Caliph instantly beheld a magnificent palace, adorned with statues of his ancestors wrought in jasper; the ivory doors of which turning on hinges of the gold of Golconda, discovered a throne of diamonds, surrounded by the rajas of fifty na|tions, and with ambassadors in various habits, and of different complexions; on which sat Aboram, the much-lamented son of Bozaldab, and by his side a princess fairer than a Houri.

"Gracious Alla!—It is my son! cried the Caliph, O let me hold him to my heart!" "Thou canst not grasp an unsubstantial vision, replied the angel: I am now shewing thee what would have been the destiny of thy son, had he continued longer on the earth." "And why, returned Bozaldab, why was he not permitted to continue? Why was he not suffered to be a witness of so much felicity and power?" "Consider the sequel," re|plied he that dwells in the fifth heaven. Bozaldab looked earnestly, and saw the countenance of his son, on which he had been used to behold the placid smile of simplicity, and the vivid blushes of health, now distorted with rage, and now fixed in the insensibility of drunkenness: it was again animated with disdain, it became pale with apprehension, and appeared to be with|ered with intemperance; his hands were stained with blood, and he trembled by turns with fury and terror. The palace so lately shining with Oriental pomp, changed suddenly into the cell of a dungeon, where his son lay stretched out on a cold pavement, gagged and bound, and his eyes put out. Soon after he perceived the favor|ite sultana, who before was seated by his side, enter with a bowl of poison, which she compelled Aboram to drink, and aftewards married the successor to his throne.

"Happy, said Coloc, is he whom Providence has, by the angel of death, snatched from guilt! from whom that power is withheld, which, if he had possessed, would have accumulated upon himself yet greater misery than it could have done upon others."

"It is enough, cried Bozaldab; I adore the inserntable schemes of omniscience!—From what dreadful evils has my son been rescued, by a death which I rashly be|wailed as unfortunate and premature! a death of inno|cence

and peace, which has blessed his memory on earth, and transmitted his spirit to the skies."

"Cast away the dagger, replied the heavenly messen|ger, which thou wast preparing to plunge into thine own heart. Exchange complaint for silence, and doubt for adoration. Can a mortal look down without giddi|ness and stupefaction into the vast abyss of eternal wis|dom? Can a mind that sees not infinitely, perfectly comprehend any thing among an infinity of objects mu|tually relative? Can the channels, which thou com|mandest to be cut to receive the annual inundation of the Nile, contain the waters of the ocean? Remember, that perfect happiness cannot be conferred on a creature; for perfect happiness is an attribute as incommunicable as perfect power and eternity."

The angel, while he was speaking thus, stretched out his pinions to fly back to the empyreum, and the slutter of his wings was like the rushing of a cataract.

NO FRIENDSHIP among the WICKED.

The bliss of friendship vice can never Know; From virtue's fount alone that stream must flow. R.

THREE villains, having made a considerable booty at a small distance from a country town, agreed (as it was not expedient for all three to enter the town together) that one of them should go and buy provisions, and bring them to a place of rendezvous in a wood. Whilst he was gone, the two who were left consulted together, and, in order to enlarge their share of the booty, determined to kill their comrade as soon as he should return with their food. This was executed; but their murdered compan|ion, who had formed precisely the same design against them, had, after satisfying his own appetite, poisoned the food he brought them. Thus they ••ll died by the treachery of each other.

SELECT THOUGHT••.

FEW take care to live well; but many to live long, though it is in every body's power to do the former, but in no man's to do the latter.

The first requisite in conversation is truth; the second, sense; the third, good humour; and the fourth, wit.

Slanderous are like flies; they pass over the good parts of a man, and indulge on his sores.

Keen glances of censure proceed generally from a dark involved temper, like flashes of lightning from a gloomy sky.

Those who blow the coals 〈◊〉〈◊〉 others strife, may chance to have the sparks fly in their own faces.

Words are like arrows, and should not be shot at ran|dom.

The poor are seldomer sick for want of food, than the rich are from excess of it.

Those who are of opinion that money will do every thing, may reasonably be suspected to do every thing for money.

A good conscience is to the soul what health is to the body.

Content is natural wealth, and luxury is artificial poverty.

A liar is a coward to man, and a bravo to his God.

King Henry the fourth of France (to recommend affa|bility and good nature) used to say, that one drop of honey attracted more flies than a spoo•••••• of vinegar.

It is easier to praise people into 〈◊〉〈◊〉, than rail them out of vice.

A sure way to please in company, is to seem pleased with your company.

Politeness consists in being easy yourself, and making others so.

We may be as good as we please, if we please to be good.

None are so empty, as those who are full of themselves.

Despise not advice even of the meanest: the cackling of geese preserved the Roman state.

Ill habits are easier conquered to-day than to-morrow.

A knave may gain more than an honest man for a day; but the honest man will gain more than the knave in the year.

If a coat be ever so fine that a fool wears, it is still but a fool's coat.

Despise not an enemy though ever so weak: but con|sider that a lion may perish by the puncture of an asp.

In courts and cities we are entertained with the works

of men, in the country with the works of God. One is the province of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the other of nature.

They worship God best, who resemble him most.

Passions are the gales of life; and it is our part to take care they do not rise into a tempest.

To be angry, is to revenge the faults of others upon ourselves.

Point 〈◊〉〈◊〉 at the sauits of others with a foul finger.

If the devil catches a man idle, he generally sets him to work.

If we did not 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ourselves, flattery from others would have no effect.

When 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 virt••••ns in their old age, they only make a sacrifice to God of the devil's leavings.

The caresses of had men resemble the fawning of a grey hound, which, while he shew his love, fouls you with his paws.

Envy is a certain acknowledgment of superiority in the person envied: of all vices, 'tis the basest and meanest: and the breast of the envious ever contains a ••ell.

We should never despise people for want of natural parts, but for making a wrong use of them; thus, if a man walks lame, he is to be pitied; if he dances ••••me, he is to be laughed at.

Some persons are so very obliging, that they never oblige.

A malignant praise has always been the most successful vehicle to insinuate slander, as poison is never more art|••••lly conveyed than in perfume.

[Part of on epitaph] What I possessed is left to others; what I gave to the poor remains with me.

Wisdom's best school is adversity: prosperity was painted by the ancients, like a harlot, quite blind, on the brink of a frightful precipice.

The voluptuous man stands in the market to be bought and sold.

Procrastination is the thief of time.

Industry is the true philosopher's stone.

He that injures one, threatens an hundred.

Tongues are like race horses, which run the faster the less weight they carry.

When Socrates was told that his judges had sentenced him to death. And hath not nature (said he) passed the same sentence upon them?

Every person has just as much pride as he wants sense.

He who swears, tells us his bare word is not to be credited.

True modesty is ashamed of every thing that is criminal; false modesty, of every thing that is unfashionable.

When compliments were less in fashion, sincerity was more esteemed.

Nature has wisely furnished us with two ears, and but 〈◊〉〈◊〉 tongue; a most useful lesson, if rightly attended to.

Those who fear God the most, fear men the least.

Living high brings men low.

A desire of appearing witty is the most certain method of preventing it.

He keeps the best table who has the most valuable company at it.

A head, like a house, when crammed too full, and no regular order observed in the placing what is in it, is only latered, instead of being furnished.

The ancient Grecians used to punish with double severity crimes done in drunkenness; first, for debasing themselves below the brute creation; and, sec••••••y, for the crime committed.

It is remarkable that the most docile and sensible of all animals (the elephant) is the most temperate and abstemious, as, on the contrary, the most stupid and forbidding (the swine) is the most gluttonbus and voracious.

Those who boast of the light within, are generally dark and gloomy without; and may justly be compared to dark 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

There is a great difference between praying and saying one's prayers.

I never knew a proud man that was not ill-natured, nor an ill-natured man that was not proud.

Bigots of all kinds, whether professors of the Christian, Jewish, or Mahometan religion, differ in nothing but the name; for though at first setting out they seem to take different ways; yet, like travellers in a circle, notwith|standing they set forward back to back, they soon meet and join in the opposite part of the circle.

It is usual in Turkey, by way of reproach, to blacken the front of those persons houses who are notorious for 〈◊〉〈◊〉-bearing, or propagating falsehood if that were the case with us, what a dismal figure would most of the towns in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 make?

Nothing can be honourable that is not virtuous: among the Romans, the entrance of the temple of honor always lay through the temple of virtue.

Example is a lesson all can read.

No man can be said to die suddenly who has lived long. If we do not govern our passions, we may be sure our passions will govern us.

Those who are given to tell all they know, generally tell more than they know.

The man who loves not praise, will scarce do any thing to deserve it.

We should not talk to please ourselves, but those who hear us.

Obstinate people are never so much so, as when they are in the wrong.

Of all brutes, none are so very brutish as human brutes.

To please, we must resemble the willow, and not the oak.

He who is fond of giving advice, wants it himself.

Advice should fall as the dew, not overwhelm is a shower.

We sometimes feel what we fear, much more than that we really suffer.

Hard to be pleased, and easy to be displeased, is an odious character.

The meanest way of praising ourselves is finding fault with others.

The man who is ashamed of being poor, would be proud if he were rich.

When we speak of the dead, we should tread softly over their graves.

Praise children for being pretty, and they will endeavour to be beautiful praise them for being good, and they will endeavour to he virtues.

Avarice is of all characters the most opposite to that of the Almighty; whose alone it is to give, and not to receive.

Those who give no body a good word, deserve no body's good word.

An affected gravity that covers folly, is like a washed shilling that passes for a guinea, till it comes to be tried.

THE HERMIT.

—I may assert eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to man. MILTON.

FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a rev'rend 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 his days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sacred, such serene repose, Seem'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 itself, till one suggestion rose; That vie•• should triumph, virtue vice obey; This sprung some doubts 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 impress'd Calm nature's image on it's w••t'ry breast, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 bend the banks, the trees impending grow, ••nd skies beneath with answering colours glow. But if a stone the gentle sea divine, 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's staff he bore, And ••ix'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 rev'rend sire replied; Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd, And talk of various kinds deceiv'd the road; Till each with other pleas'd, and loth 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. But here the youth enjoin'd the eager sire, Who into hidden truths did much inquire, If he'd in silence each event behold, He would to him some wond'rous things unfold. Agreed;—and now the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober grey; Nature in silence bids 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 sloping sides with grass. It cha••••o'd, ••he noble master of the dome Still made his house the wand'ring stranger's home. Yet still his kindness, from a thirst of praise, Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive, the livery'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 day's 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 neighbouring 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 his 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 glittering prize. Now on they pass—when far upon the road, The wealthy spoil the wily partner show'd.

As one who spies 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 fire, he walk'd with trembling heart: And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part:* 10.1 Murm'ring, he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard, That generous actions meet a base reward.

While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presag'd approaching rain, And beasts to coverts scud across the plain. Warn'd by the signs, the wand'ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter at a neighb'ring seat: 'Twas built by 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 desart there.

As near the miser's heavy door 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 vain, Driv'n by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. At length some pity warm'd the master's breast: ('T was 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 fervour through their limbs recals. Bread of the coarsest fort, with dead small beer, (Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to cheer; And when the tempest first appear'd to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace.

With still remark the pondering 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 setting feature of his face! When from his vest the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord own'd before;

And paid profusely with the precious bowl The stinted kindness of his churlish soul. Just sunk to earth, the miser in surprise, Receiv'd the glitt'ring gift with startled eyes: But ere he could recover from his fright, The generous guests were gone quite out of sight.

Now the brisk clouds in airy tumults fly, The sun emerging opes another sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day. While hence they walk, the Pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travel of uncertain thought: His partner's acts without their cause appear,* 10.2 'Twas there a vice, but seem'd a madness here. Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. Lost and confounded with the various shows.

Now night's dim shades again involve the sky, Again the wand'rers want a place to lie, Again they search, and find a mansion 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 their 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, from him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer. He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talk of virtue till the time of bed; When the grave houshold round the hall repair, Warn'd by a bell, and close the hour with pray'r.

At length the world, renew'd by calm repose, Was strong for toil, the dapple morn arose: Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept

Near the clos'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 dy'd, 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 assail 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, a servant shew'd the way; A river cross'd the path: the passage o'er Was nice to find, the servant went before: Long arms of oak an open bridge supply'd, And deep the waves beneath them 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 Hermit's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and wildly cries, Detested wretch!—but scarce his speech beg••n, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: His youthful face grew more serenely sweet, His robes turn'd white, and flow'd about his feet: Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odoars breathe in purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd like the day, Wide ••t his back their dazzling plumes display, The form etherial bursts 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 ••ot 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; Their charms success in our bright regions find, And forc'd an angel down to calm thy mind: For this commission'd, 〈…〉〈…〉 the sky; ••ay, cease to kneel—thy fellow-servant ••.

Then know the truth of government divine, And let the scruples be no longer thine.

The master justly claims that world he made; In this the right of Providence is laid; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means* 10.3 to works his ends: 'Tis thus withdrawn in state from human eye, The pow'r exerts its attributes on high; Your actions uses, nor controuls 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 ivory 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 belted door Ne'er mov'd in pity 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 soul from God; (Child of his age† 10.4) 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 the false servant sped in safety back! This very night, (by secret plot contriv'd) Of life and we 〈◊〉〈◊〉 his master he'd depriv'd; Had he in this conspiracy prevail'd, What funds of charity wou'd then have fail'd?† 10.5

Thus heav'n instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.

On ••ounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph slew.

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 spent a life of piety and peace.

TRUTH and FALSHOOD.

A Fable.

SOON as the iron age on earth began, And vice found easy entrance into man: While from his towering height the flaming sun Fierce on the pendant globe directly shone, Forth from her cave infernal Falshood came; Falshood, the hate of gods, of men the shame. A silken robe she wore of various hue, Its colour changing with each different view, Studious to cheat, and eager to beguile, She mimick'd Truth, and ap'd her heav'nly smile; But mimick'd Truth in vain: the v••ry'd vest

To ev'ry searching eye the fiend confess'd. At length she saw celestial Truth appear, Serene her brow, and cheerful was her air: Her silver looks with shining fillets bound, With laurel wreaths her peaceful temples crown'd: A lily robe was girded round her waist, And o'er her arms a radiant mantle cast; With decent negligence it hung behind, And loosely flowing wanton'd in the wind: Thus Truth advanc'd, unknowing of deceit, And Falshood, bowing low, began the cheat.

Hail, charming maid! bright as the morning star, Daughter of Jove, and Heaven's peculiar care; 'Tis thine to weigh the world in equal scales, And chide the conscious soul when vice prevails; Dispensing justice with impartial hand, The mightiest pow'rs submit to thy command; E'en gods themselves, tho' in their actions free, Consult, resolve, and act as you decree. Great sov'reign Jove, the first etherial name, Advis'd with thee to form the heav'nly frame: As Truth approv'd, he bid the fabric rise, And spread the azure mantle of the skies; Plac'd every planet in its proper sphere, Nor rolls this orb too wide, nor that too near; But why thus walk we mindless of our ease, Expos'd beneath the sun's meridian blaze: Better retire, and shun the scorching ray, 'Till fanning zephyrs cool our evening way. Hear how 〈◊〉〈◊〉 limpid streams run murm'ring by, And tuneful birds their sylvan notes apply: See fragrant shrubs along the border grow, And waving shades beneath the poplar bough. All these invite us to the river side, To bathe the limbs, and sport within the tide: So cool the stre••m, the flow'ry banks so sweet, Di••••tu's s••f ••ight covet the retreat; Nor can a short diversion check your haste; Fresh strength will soon succeed such welcome rest: As rapid currents held a while at bay, With swifter force pursue their liquid way.

So sp••k•• the phanton, and with friendly look, Supporting what she said, approach'd the brook:

Truth followed, artless, ••••suspicious maid, And, in an evil hour, the voice obey'd; Both at the crystal stream arriv'd unbound Their different robes; both ••••st them on the ground, The fiend upon the margin 〈◊〉〈◊〉'ring stood; The naked goddess leapt into the flood; Sporting she swims the liquid 〈◊〉〈◊〉 face o'er, Unmindful of the matchless ro••e she wore. Not Falshood so—she, hasty, seiz'd the vest, And with the beauteous spoils herself she drest, Then wing'd with joy, outflew the swiftest wind, Her own infernal robe far left behind. Straight she aspires above her former state, And gains admission to the rich and great: Nay, such he•• ••••••ing pride, that some report, When thus 〈◊〉〈◊〉, she boldly went to court; There spoke 〈◊〉〈◊〉 look'd with such a graceful air, Mistaken fame ••••onounc'd her wise and fair. She fill'd the wanton's tongue with specious names, To deal in wounds and deaths, his darts and flames She prefac'd at her lewd attempts with love, And fraud prevail'd where reason could not move; At length she mingled with the learned throng, And tun'd the muse's mercenary song. In all the labyrinths of logic skill'd, She taught the subtle reasoner not to yield: Instructed how to puzzle each dispute, And boldly baffle men—tho' not confute: Now at the bar she play'd the lawyer's part, And shap'd out wrong and right by rules of art; Now in the senate rais'd her pompous tone, Talk'd much of public good, but meant her own. Oft to th' Olympian field she turn'd her eyes, And taught the racers how to gain the prize. In schools and temples too she claim'd a share, While Falshood's self admir'd her influence there.

Deluded Truth observ'd the fraud too late, Nor knew she to repair the loss so great: In vain her heav'nly robes she sighing seeks, In vain the humid pearls bedew her cheeks; In vain she tears the laurel from her hair, While Nature seems to sympathize her care: The glowing flow'rs that crown th' enamell'd meads,

Weep fragrant dews, and hang their drooping heads: The sylvan choirs, as conscious of her pains, Deplore the loss in melancholy strains: Thus pensive and uncloth'd, upon the shore She stands, and sees the robe which Falshood wore: Detested sight! no longer now she mourns, But, grief to rage transform'd, with anger burns; In•••• the stream the hellish robe she cast, And scorn'd a habit so unlike the last.

Hence Truth now naked roves, as in disgrace; None but the wise and virtuous see her face: From cities far she modestly retreats, From busy scenes of life, to peaceful seats; Is chiefly found in lonely fields and cells, Where silence reigns, and contemplation dwells. Hence Falshood cheats us in the fair disguise, And seems Truth's self to all unwary eyes; Thrives and triumphs, in pow'r, and wealth, and fame, And builds her glory on her rival's name: With safety dares to flatter, fawn, and sooth; For who knows Falshood when array'd like Truth?

LUXURY and WANT. A VISION.

AS late I mus'd on Fortune's ebb and flow, Life's airy pleasures, and substantial woe, The thoughtless mirth that laughs in pleasure's eye, The boast of vice and pride of vanity; O'er ••odding reason downy slumbers stole, And fancy's visions open'd on my soul: Aloft, on proud Ionic columns rear'd, A sumptuous dome in ruin'd pomp appear'd; A baseless pillar here, with moss o'ergrown, Press'd earth's green bosom with a length of stone; There, a tall portal, sculptur'd once so gay, Records no story but its own decay.

I enter'd—Crowds, who blush to be descry'd, With famish'd looks, thro' mould'ring arches glide; I paus'd, and curious as I gaz'd around, ••••w a lean hag lie stretch'd along the ground; Round either arm a tatter'd rag she drew, Her shame conceal'd with rags of various hue;

A cloth her forehead bound, her legs were bare, And foul and clotted was her grizzled hair.

"Whence, and what art thou, wretch?" surpris'd, I cry'd; "Want is my name, well known, the wretch reply'd; The work of luxury, this lofty dome, So righteous Jove ordains, is now my home. Time was, this roof return'd the dulcet voice Of music, blended with a critic's choice. Dependent thence a thousand tapers glow'd. The vine's rich juice from silver fountains flow'd; An hundred dainties o'er the board were spread, And all Arabia's spicy fragrance shed. The velvet couches and the cushion'd chair, Swell'd high with down, as soft as summer's air; And female beauty, smiling o'er the scene, Spread joy around, of every joy the queen!

"Then at these doors, by hunger and by grief Oppress'd, with suppliant voice I sought relief: Relief I sought, alas! but sought in vain, With poignant taunt rebuk'd, and sour disdain. The unfeeling priest, with supercilious face, Inferr'd from indigence the want of grace. The lawyer, in quaint terms, with looks demure, Gave hints of statutes against vagrant poor. Unmov'd and cool the g••rter'd statesman cry'd, For me, fit refuge colonies supply'd. I sigh'd in secret and to heav'n my heart Ascending, heaven in pity took my part. Loud thunder roll'd—the fabric from its base Shook, and proud Luxury vanish'd from the place. Th' astonish'd crowd their patron's fall deplore, And pale and trembling issue from the door. I enter'd, prompted by a voice divine, Which thrice repeated—Want! this pile is thine; For know, by Jove and fate it stands decreed, Where Lux'ry riots, thou shalt still succeed. Here unmolested from that hour I reign, And all the court of Lux'ry forms my train; Here still receiv'd by me, as hither driv'n, By keen necessity, the scourage of heav'n: These are the wretches which around me throng; To me the lawyer, statesman, priest belong".

She ceas'd; her words such strong emotions bred, They wak'd me trembling, and the vision sied. Save me from Lux'ry, gracious heav'n••••d 〈◊〉〈◊〉, That Want's drear haunts my steps may ••••er invade.

The HUSBANDMAN'S Meditation in the FIELD.

WITH tollsome steps when I pursue, O'er breaking clods, the plougshare's way, Lord, teach my mental eye to view My native dissoluble clay.

And when with seed I strew the earth, To thee all praises let me give; Whose hand prepar'd me for the birth, Whose breath inform'd, and bade me live.

Pleas'd, I behold the stately stem Support its bearded honour's load: Thus, Lord, sustain'd by thee, I came To manhood, thro' youth's dangerous road,

Purging from noxious herbs the grain, Oh! may I learn to purge my mind From sin, rank weed of deepest stain, Nor leave one baneful root behind.

When blast destroys the opening ear, Life, thus replete with various woe, Warns me to shun with studious care Pride, my most deadly, latent foe.

When harvest comes, the yellow crop Prone to the reaper's sickle yields; And I beneath Death's scythe must drop, And soon or late forsake these fields.

When future crops in silent hoards, Sleep for a while, to service dead; Thy emblem this, O Grave! affords The path of life, which all must tread.

ODE to SPRING.

YOUTH of the year, delightful Spring! Thy blest return on genial wing Inspires my languid lays:

No more I sleep in sloth supine, When all creation at thy shrine Its annual tribute pays.

Escap'd from Winter's freezing pow'r, Each blossom greets thee, and each flow'r; And, foremost of the train, By nature—(artler handmaid)—drest, The snowdrop comes in lily'd vest, Prophetic of thy reign.

The lark now serains her tuneful throat, And ev'ry loud and sprightly note Calls Echo from her cell; Be warn'd, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 maids, that listen round, A beauteous nymph became a sound, The nymph, who lov'd too well.

The bright-hair'd sun, with warmth benign Bids trees, and shrubs, and swelling vine, Their infant buds display: Again the streams refresh the plains, Which Winter bound in icy chains, And sparkling bless his ray.

Life-giving zephyrs breathe around, And instant glows th' enamell'd ground With nature's varied hue; Not so returns our youth decay'd, Alas! nor air, nor sun, nor shade The springs of life renew.

The sun's too quick revolving beam Apace dissolves the human dream, And brings th' appointed hour; Too late we catch his parting ray, And mourn the idly wasted day No longer in our power.

Then happiest he, whose lengthen'd sight Pursues, by virtue's constant light, A hope beyond the skies; Where frowning Winter ne'er shall come, But rosy Spring for ever bloom, And suns eternal rise.

AN ELEGY.

Written in a Country Church-Yard.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman 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, Or drowsy tinkling lulls the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 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 twi••t'ring from her 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 fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their harrow oft the stubborn globe had broke, How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure, Nor grandeur here, 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 those the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tombs 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 honour'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; Hinds that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy 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 desart air.

Some village Hampden, who 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot 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 madding 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 e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of same and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, To 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; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall 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 beach, That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would be stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his way ward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'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 thro' the church-way path we saw him borne;

Approach and read (for thou canst read the lay) Grav'd on the stone beneath you aged thorn.

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground."

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 recompence as largely send; He gave to misery (all he had) a tear: He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all be wish'd) a friend,

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

The PANTHER, the HORSE, and other BEASTS, A FABLE.

THE man who seeks to win the fair, (So custom says) must truth forbear; Must sawn and flatter, cringe and lie, And raise the goddess to the sky; For truth is hateful to her ear, A rudeness which she cannot bear— A rudeness?—Yes—I speak my thoughts; For truth upbraids her with her faults.

How wretched, Chloe, then am I, Who love you, and yet cannot lie; And still to make you less my friend, I strive your errors to amend. But shall the senseless fop impart The softest passion to your heart, While he who tells you honest truth, And points to happiness your youth, Determines, by his care, his lot, And lives neglected and forgot?

Trust me, my girl, with greater ease, Your taste for flatt'ry I could please; And similes in each dull line, Like glow-worms in the dark, should shine. What if I say your lips disclose The freshness of the opening rose; Or that your cheeks are beds of flow'rs, Enripen'd by refreshing show'rs. Yet certain as these flow'rs shall fade, Time ev'ry beauty will invade. The butterfly, of various hue, More than the flow'r resembles you: Fair, flutt'ring, fickle, busy thing, To pleasure ever on the wing, Gaily coquetting for an hour, To die, and ne'er be thought of more.

Wou'd you the bloom of youth should last? 'Tis virtue that must bind it fast; An easy carriage, wholly free From sour reserve, or levity; Good natur'd mirth, an open heart, And looks unskill'd in any art; Humility enough to own The frailties which a friend make known; And decent pride, enough to know The worth that virtue can bestow. These are the charms which ne'er decay, Though youth and beauty fade away; And time, which all things else removes, Still heightens virtue and improves.

You'll frown, and ask to what intent This blunt address to you is sent? I'll spare the question, and confess I'd praise you, if I lov'd you less; But rail, be angry, or complain, I will be rude when you are vain.

Beneath a Lion's peaceful reign, When beasts met friendly on the plain, A Panther of majestic port, (The vainest female of the court) With spotted skin and eyes of fire, Fill'd every bosom with desire: Where'er she mov'd, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 servile crowd

Of fawning creatures cring'd and bow'd; Assemblies every week she held, (Like modern belles with coxcombs fill'd) Where noise, and nonsense, and grimace, And scandal echo'd round the place.

Behold the gay, fantastic thing, Encircled by the spacious ring: Low bowing, with important look, As first in rank, the Monkey spoke:

Gad take me, Madam, but I swear No angel ever look'd so fair— Forgive my rudeness, but I vow You were not quite divine 'till now; Those limbs! that shape! and then those eyes! O, close them, or the gazer dies!

Nay, gentle Pug, for goodness hush, I vow and swear you make me blush! I shall be angry at this rate— 'Tis so like flattery—which I hate.

The Fox in deeper cunning vers'd, The beauties of her mind rehears'd, And ta••k'd of knowledge, taste, and sense, To which the fair have vast pretence; Yet well he knew them always vain Of what they strive not to attain; And play'd so cunningly his part, That Pug was rivall'd in his art.

The Goat avow'd his am'rous flame, And burnt—for what he durst not name; Yet hop'd a meeting in the wood Might make his meaning understood. Half angry at the bold address, She frown'd; but yet she must confess, Such beauties might inflame his blood, But still his phrase was some what rude.

The Hog her neatness much admir'd; The formal Ass her sweetness fir'd; Thus all to feed her folly strove, And by their praises shar'd her love.

The Horse, whose gen'rous heart disdain'd Applause, by servile flatt'ry gain'd,

With graceful courage silence broke, And thus with indignation spoke: "When flatt'ring monkeys sawn and prate, They justly raise contempt or hate: For merit's turn'd to ridicule, Applauded by the grinning fool. The artful fox your wit commends, To lure you to his selfish ends; From the vile flatt'rer turn away, For knaves make friendship to betray. Dismiss the train of fops and fools, And learn to follow Wisdom's rules; Such beauties might the lion warm, Did not your folly break the charm; For who would court that lovely shape, To be the rival of an ape?"

He said, and snorting in disdain, Spurn'd at the crowd, and sought the plain.

The SPIDER and the BEE. A FABLE.

THE nymph who walks the public streets, And sets her cap at all she meets, May catch the fool who turns to stare; But men of sense avoid the snare.

As on the margin of the flood, With silken line my Lydia stood, I smil'd to see the pains you took, To cover o'er the fraudful book. Along the forest as we stray'd, You saw the boy his lime-twig spread; Guess you the ••eason of his fear, Lest, heedless, we approach too near; For as behind the bush we lay, The linnet flutter'd on the spray.

Needs there such caution to delude The scaly fry and feather'd brood? And think you with inferior art, To captivate the human heart?

The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals;

Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate'er the Grecian Venus was. From Eve's first fig-leaf to brocade, All dress was meant for fancy's aid, Which evermore delighted dwells On what the bashful nymph conceals.

When Celia struts in man's attire, She shews too much to raise desire; But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has pow'r to wound.

The roving eye, the bosom bare, The forward laugh, the wanton air, May catch the sop; for gudgeons strike At the bare hook and bait alike, While salmon play regardless by; 'Tis art, like nature, forms the fly.

Beneath a peasant's homely thatch, A spider long had laid her watch; From morn to night with restless care, She spun her web, and wove her snare: Within the limits of her reign, Lay many heedless captives slain, Or fluttering struggled in the toils, To burst the chains, and shun her wiles.

A straying bee that perch'd hard by, Beheld her with disdainful eye, And thus began: mean thing, give o'er, And lay thy slender threads no more: A thoughtless fly or two at most, Is all the conquest thou canst boast; For bees of sense thy arts evade, We see so plain the nets are laid.

The gaudy tulip that displays Her spreading foliage to the gaze, That points her charms at all she sees, And pields to every wanton breeze, Attracts me not. Where blushing grows, Guarded with thorns, the modest rose, Enamour'd, round and round I fly, Or on her fragrant bosom lie; Reluctant she my ardour meets, And, bashful, renders up her sweets.

To wiser heads attention lend, And learn this lesson from a friend: She who with modesty retires, Adds fuel to her lover's fires; While such incautious jilts as you, By folly your own schemes undo.

Advice to BELINDA.

THE counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear, Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear; Unlike the flatt'ries of a lover's pen, Such truths as women seldom learn from men. Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I shew What female vanity might fear to know; Some merit's mine, to dare to be sincere, But greater your's sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends; Women, like princes, find few real friends: All who approach them, their own ends pursue, Lovers and ministers are never true. Hence oft from reason, heedless beauty strays, And the most trusted guide the most betrays: Hence by fond dreams of fancy'd pow'r amus'd, When most you've tyranniz'd, you're most abus'd.

What is your sex's earliest, latest care, Your heart's supreme ambition?—To be fair. For this the toilet ev'ry thought employs, Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys: For this hands, lips, and eyes are put to school, And each instructed feature has its rule: And yet how few have learn'd, when this is given, Not to disgrace the partial boon of heav'n? How few with all their pride of form can move? How few has lovely nature fram'd for love; Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess An elegance of mind, as well as dress; Be that your ornament, and know to please By graceful Nature's unaffected ease.

Nor make to dang'rous wit a vain pretence, But wisely rest content with modest sense; For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain, Too strong for seeble women to sustain;

Of those who claim it more than half have none, And half of those who have it, are undone.

Be still superior to your sex's arts, Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts; For you, the plainest is the wisest rule; A cunning woman is a knavish fool.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame; Prudes rail at whores, as statesmen in disgrace At ministers, because they wish their place.

Virtue is amiable, mild, serene, Without all beauty, and all peace within; The honor of a prude is rage and storm, 'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form: Fiercely it stands defying gods and men, As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great, A woman's noblest station is retreat; Her fairest virtues fly from public sight, Domestic worth still shuns too strong a light.

To rougher man ambition's task resign; 'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine: To labour for a sunk, corrupted state, Or dare the rage of envy, and be great. One only case your gentle breasts should move, Th' important business of your life is love: To this great point direct your constant aim, This makes your happiness, and this your fame.

Be never cool reserve with passion join'd; Love not at all, or else be fondly kind; In this, extremes alone can truly bless. The virtue of a lover is excess.

Contemn the little pride of giving pain. Nor think that conquest justifies disdain; Short is the period of insulting pow'r: Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour, Soon will resume the empire which he gave, And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.

Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest, Whose soul's entire by him she loves posses••;

Feels ev'ry vanity i•• fondness lost, And asks no pow'r but that of pleasing most: Her's is the bliss in sweet return to prove, The honest warmth of undissembled love: For her inconstant man might cease to range, And gratitude forbid desire to change. Thus I, Belinda, would your charms improve, And form your heart to all the arts of love. The task were harder to secure my own, Against the pow'r of those already known; For well you twist the secret chains that bind With gentle force the captivated mind; Skill'd ev'ry soft attraction to employ, Each flatt'ring hope, and each alluring joy; I own your genius, and from you receive The rules of pleasing, which to you I give.

The 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 fashion 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 modest 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 evening, 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 foreign aid of ornaments But is, when unadorn'd adorn'd the most: Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering 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 down cast 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 first 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 enliv'ning 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 Acasto's 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 new and: 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 surpriz'd his heart, And through his nerves in shiv'ring transports 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 raptur'd 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 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 desart hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted heav'n, Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair, Tho' poverty's cold winds, and crushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years? O let me now, into a richer soil Transplant thee safe! where vernal suns and show'rs Diffuse their warmest, largest influence: And of my garden 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the pride and joy! It ill! esit, thee 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 ••••ll befit; Acasto's daughter his, who•• open stores, Tho' vast, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to his ample heart, The father of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 country, th•••• to pick.

The very refuse of those harvest fields, Which from his courteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, But ill applied to such a rugged task; These 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, The 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 ev'ning 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.

The Lady's LOOKING-GLASS.

CELIA and I, the other day, Walk'd o'er the sandhills to the sea; The setting sun adorn'd the coast, His beams entire, his sierceness lost; And on the surface of the deep The winds lay only not asleep; The nymph did like the scene appear. Serenely pleasant, calmly fair; Soft fell her words, as flew the air.

With secret joy I heard her say, That she would never miss one day A walk so fine, a ••ight so gay.

But, O the change! the winds grew high; Impending tempests charge the sky; The light'ning flies, the thunder roars,

And big waves lash the frighten'd shores, Struck with the horror of the sight, She turns her head, and wings her slight: And trembling vows, she'll ne'er again Approach the shore, to view the main.

Once more at least look back, said I; Thyself in that large glass descry: When thou art in good humour drest, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun upon the calmest sea Appears not half so bright as thee: 'Tis then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless deep of love; I bless my chain, I hand my oar, Nor think on all I left on shore.

But when vain doubts and groundless seas Do Celia's lovely bosom tear; When the big lip and watery eye Tell me the rising storm is nigh; 'Tis then thou art yon angry main, Deform'd by winds, and dash'd by rain; And the poor sailor, that must try Its fury, labours less than I.

Shipwreck'd, in vain to land I make, While love and fate still drive me back; Forc'd to doat on in thy own way, I chide thee first, and then obey. Wretched when from thee, vex'd when nigh, I with thee or without thee, die.

The GARLAND.

THE pride of every grove I chose, The violet sweet, and lily fair, The dappled pink, and blushing rose, To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn the nymph vouchsaf'd to place Upon her brow the various wreath; The flowers less blooming than her face, The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flow'rs she wore along the day; And ev'ry nymph and shepherd said.

That in her hair they look'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed.

Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colour past, She chang'd her look; and on the ground Her garland and her eyes she cast.

The eye dropt sense distinct and clear As any muse's tongue could speak; When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling, what I knew too well— My love, my life, said I, explain This change of humour: pr'ythee tell, The falling tear—what does it mean?

She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flow'rs Pointing, the lovely moralist said, See! friend, in some few fleeting hours, See yonder, what a change is made.

Ah me! the blooming pride of May, And that of Beauty are but one: At morn both flourish bright and gay, Both fade at evening, pale and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung, The am'r us youth around her bow'd! At night her fatal knell was rung! I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is, who dy'd to-day, Such, I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.

The MERRY ANDREW.

SLY Merry Andrew, the l••st Southwark fair, (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear, So peevish was the edict of the Mayor:) At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he shew'd, To please our masters, and his friends the crowd, A huge ne••'s tongue be•••• his right hand held, His left was with a good Have pudding fill••d. With a grave look, in the odd eq••••page,

The clownish mimic does traverse the stage: Why how now, Andrew, cries his brother droll, To day's conceit, methinks, is something dull: Come on, Sir, to our worthy friends explain, What does your emblematic worship mean? Quoth Andrew, honest English let us speak, Your emblem—(what do you call't) is heathen Greek, To tongue or pudding thou haft no pretence, Learning thy talent is; but mine is sense, That busy fool I was which thou art now, Desirous to correct, not knowing how; With very good design, but little wit, Blaming or praising things as I thought fit. I for this conduct had what I deserv'd, And, dealing honestly, was almost starv'd: But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat, Since I have found the secret to be great. O dearest Andrew, says the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey, and thou controul, Provided thou impart'st thy useful skill. Bow then, says Andrew, and for once I will. Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much, think little, and talk less: Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong: But cat your pudding, slave, and hold your tongue.

A rev'rend prelate stopp'd his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks; But when he heard him give this golden rule, Drive on, he cry'd, this fellow is no fool.

AMBITION and CONTENT. A FABLE.

WHILE yet the world was young, and men were few, Nor lurking fraud, nor tyrant rapine knew; In virtue rude, the gaudy arts they scorn'd, Which, virtue lost, degen'rate times adorn'd: No sumptuous fabrics yet were seen to rise, Nor gushing fountains taught t' invade the skies; With nature art had not begun the strife, Nor swelling marble rose to mimic life: No pencil yet had learn'd t' express the fair: The bounteous earth was all their homely care.

Then did Content exert her genial sway, And taught the peaceful world her pow'r t' obey,

Content, a female of celestial race, Bright and complete in each celestial grace: Serenely fair she was, as rising day, And brighter than the sun's meridian ray: Joy of all hearts, delight of ev'ry eye, Nor grief nor pain appear'd when she was by; Her presence from the wretched banish'd care, Dispers'd the swelling sigh, and stopt the falling tear.

Long did the nymph her regal state maintain, As long mankind were blest beneath her reign; 'Till dire Ambition, hellish fiend! arose To plague the world, and banish man's repose: A monster sprung from that rebellious crew, Which mighty Jove's phlegraean thunder flew, Resolv'd to dispossess the royal fair, On all her friends he threaten'd open war. Fond of the novelty, vain, fickle man, In crowds to his infernal standard ran; And the weak maid, defenceless left alone, T' avoid his rage was forc'd to quit the throne.

It chanc'd as wand'ring through the fields she stray'd, Forsook of all, and destitute of aid, Upon a rising mountain's flowery side, A pleasant cottage roof'd with turf, she spy'd: Fast by a gloomy venerable wood Of shady plains, and ancient oaks it stood: Around a various prospect charm'd the sight: Here waving harvests clad the fields with white: Here a rough shaggy rock the clouds did pierce, From which a torrent rush'd with rapid force: Here mountain-woods diffus'd a dusky shade, Here flocks and herds in flowery vallies play'd, While o'er the matted grass the liquid crystal stray'd, In this sweet place there dwelt a choerful pair, Tho' bent beneath the weight of many a year; Who wisely flying public noise and strife, In this obscure retreat had pass'd their life; The husband Industry was call'd, Frugality the wife, With tenderest friendship mutually blest, No houshold jars had ere disturb'd their rest. A num'rous offspring grac'd their homely board, That still with nature's simple gifts was stor'd. The father rural business only knew,

The sons the same delightful art pursue: An only daughter, as a goddess fair, Above the rest was the fond mother's care: Plenty, the brightest nymph of all the plain, Each heart's delight, ador'd by every swain.

Soon as Content this charming scene espy'd, Joyful within herself the goddess cry'd: This happy sight my drooping heart doth raise, The gods, I hope, will grant me better days: When with prosperity my life was blest, In yonder house I've been a welcome guest; There now, perhaps, I may protection find, For royalty is banish'd from my mind; I'll thither haste: how happy should I be, If such a refuge were reserv'd for me!

Thus spoke the fair, and straight she bent her way To the tall mountain where the cottage lay: Arriv'd, she makes her chang'd condition known; Tells how the rebels drove her from the throne; What painful dreary wilds she'd wandered o'er, And shelter from the tyrant doth implore.

The faithful aged pair at once were seiz'd With joy and grief, at once were pain'd and pleas'd: Grief for their banish'd Queen their hearts possest, And joy succeeded for their future guest: And if you'll deign, bright goddess, here to dwell, And with your presence grace our humble cell, Whate'er the gods have given with bounteous hand, Our harvests, fields, and flocks, our all command.

Meanwhile Ambition, on his rival's flight, Sole lord of man, attain'd his wishes' height; Of all dependence on his subjects ceas'd, He rang'd without a curb, and did whate'er he pleas'd: As some wild flame driv'n on by ••••rious winds Wide spreads destruction, nor, ••••sistance finds; So rush'd the field, destructive o'er the plain, D••••••c'd the labours of th' industrious swain; Polluted every st•••••• with human gore, And scatter'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and death from shore to shore,

G••e••t Jove 〈◊〉〈◊〉 it from th' Olympian ••ow'rs, Where ••at 〈◊〉〈◊〉 all the heav'nly pow'rs;

Then mith a nod that shook th' Empyrean throne, Thus the Saturnian thunderer begun: You see, immortal inmates of the skies, How this vile wretch almighty power defies: His darling crimes, the blood which he has spilt, Demand a torment equal to his guilt; Then, Cyprian goddess, let thy mighty boy Swift to the tyrant's guilty palace fly; There let him chuse his sharpest, hottest dart, And with his former rival wound his heart. And thou, my son, (the god to Hermes said) Snatch up thy wand, and plume thy heals and head; Dart thro' the yielding air with all thy force, And down to Pluto's realms direct thy course; There rouse Oblivion from her ••able cave, Where dull she sits by L••the's sluggish wave; Command her to secure the sacred bound, Where lives Content retir'd, and all around Diffuse the deepest gloom of Stygian night, And screen the virgin from the tyrant's sight, That the vain purpose of his life may try Still to explore what still eludes his eye. He spoke; loud praises shake the bright abode, And all applaud the justice of the god.

A HYMN.

THESE, as they change, Almighty Father! these Are but the varied GOD. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields, the soft'ning air is balm; Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles; And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd, And spreads a common feast for all that live. In Winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms

Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd Majestic darkness on the whirlwinds wings Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combin'd, Shade, unperceiv'd, so soft'ning into shade, And all so forming an harmonious whole, That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wand'ring oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep, shoots, streaming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature, ••urls the tempest forth; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join, every living soul Beneath the spacious temple of the sky: In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes? Oh talk of him in solitary glooms! Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heav'n Th' impetuous song, and say from whom ye rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune; ye trembling rills: And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale: and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits and flow'rs, In mingled clouds to him; whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints; Ye forests, bend: ye harvests, wave to him:

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heav'n, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre: Great source of day! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls: be hush'd the prostrate world; While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye massy rocks, Retain the sound 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the broad responsive low, Ye valleys rise: for the Great Shepherd reigns; And his unsuff'ring kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves; and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night his praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear. At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; And, as each mingling flame increases each, In one united ardour rise to heav'n: Or▪ if you rather chuse the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove, There let th•• shepherd's lute, the virgin's lay, The 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉, and the poet's lyre, Still sing, the God of Seasons as they roll, For me, 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 ••••he darling theme. Whether the blossom 〈◊〉〈◊〉, the Summer ray Russ••ts the plain, inspiring 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••••ams, Or Winter 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in the blackening 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Be my tongue mute, my fancy print no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat.

Should f•••• command me to the ••••rthest verge Of the green earth, to distant 〈◊〉〈◊〉 climes, Rivers unknown to long; where first the su••

Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles; 'tis nought to me: Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste, as in the city full; And where he vital breathes, there must be joy, When ev'n at last the solemn hours shall co•••••• And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will they 〈◊〉〈◊〉 There with new powers, Will rising wonder 〈◊〉〈◊〉: I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and be••••••—still, In infinite progression—but I lose Myself in HIM, In LIGHT INEFABLE! Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise.

MIND superior to BODY.

WHAT is the blooming tincture of the skin, To peace of mind, and harmony within? What the bright sparkling of the finest eye, To the soft soothing of a calm reply? Can comeliness of form, or shape, or air, With comeliness of words of deeds compare? No—those at first th' unwary heart may gain; But these, these only can the heart retain.

CONTENT. A PASTORAL.

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, & bare, As 'wilder'd and weary'd I room. A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me—o'er lawns to her home. Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor. Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod-seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast; Fresh fruits! and the cull'd me the best; While thrown from my guard by same glances she cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly reply'd, Ye virgins, her voice was divine!) 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ones rejected, and great ones deny'd, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 take me, fond shepherd—I'm ••hine.

Her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 was so modest, her aspect so meek! So 〈◊〉〈◊〉, yet sweet were her charms; I kiss'd 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek, And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the lov'd maid in my arms. Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, And if, by you prattler, the stream, Reclin'd on her bosom I sink into sheep, Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Delighted with pastoral views, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, And point out new 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for my muse, To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent; The cottager, Peace, is well known for her fire, And shepherds have nam'd ••er Content.

The FOX and the CAT. A FABLE.

THE FOX and the Cat, as they travell'd one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way; 'Tis great, says the Fox, to make justice our guide; 'How godlike is mercy!' Grimalkin reply'd.

While thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood, Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood. Kushed forth—is he few the dull shepherd asleep, And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. In vain, wretched victims, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand, says the wolf, I must eat.

Grimalkin's astonish'd—The Fox stood aghast, To see the fell beast at his bloody repast. What a wretch, says the Cat—'tis the vilest of brutes; Does he feed upon flesh, when there's herbage & roots Cries the Fox—' While our oaks give us acorns so good,' What a tyrant is this, to spill innocent blood;' Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still, Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill;

Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes, And made (spite of morals) a pullet his prize. A mouse too that chanc'd from her covert to stray, The greedy Grimalkin secur'd as her prey.

A spider that sat in her web on the wall, Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pity'd their fail: She cry'd—Of such murders how guiltless am I! So ran to regale on a new-taken fly.

MORAL.

The faults o' our neighbours with freedom we blame, But tax not ourselves, though we practise the same.

On the taking of BIRD-NESTS.

I HAVE found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear! She will say 'tis a barbarous deed.

He ne'er can be true, she averr'd, Who can rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tenderness drop from her tongue.

An ELEGY on a BLACK BIRD.

THE sun had chac'd the winter snow, And kindly loos'd the frost-bound soil; The melting streams began to flow, And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil.

'Twas then amidst the vernal throng, Whom nature wakes to mirth and love, A Blackbird rais'd his am'rous song, And thus it echo'd through the grove.

O fairest of the feather'd train, For whom I sing, for whom I burn; Attend with pity to my strain, And grant my love a kind return.

See see the winter storms are flown, And zephyrs gently fan the air!

Let us the genial influence own, Let us the vernal pastime share.

The raven plumes his jetty wing, To please his croaking paramour; The larks responsive love-tales sing, And tell their passion as they soar.

But trust me, love, the raven's wing Is not to be compar'd with mine; Nor can the lark so sweetly sing As I, who strength with sweetness join.

With thee I'll prove the sweets of love, With thee divide the cares of life; No fonder husband in the grove, Nor none than thee a happier wife.

I'll lead thee to the clearest rill, Whose streams among the pebbles stray; There will we sit and sip our fill, Or on the flowery border play.

I'll guide thee to the thickest brake, Impervious to the school-boy's eye: For thee, the plaster'd nest I'll make, And on thy downy pinions lie.

To get thee food I'll range the fields, And cull the best of every kind; Whatever nature's bounty yields, Or love's assiduous care can find.

And when my lovely mate would stray, To taste the summer sweets at large, At home I'll wait the live long day, And tend at home our infant charge.

When prompted by a mother's care, Thy warmth shall form th' imprison'd young; With thee the task I'll fondly share, Or cheer thy labours with my song.

He ceas'd his song. The melting dame With tender pity heard his strain; She own'd, she felt a mutual flame, And hasten'd to relieve his pain.

He led her to the nuptial bow'r And nestled closely by her side,

The happiest bridegroom in that hour, And She the most enamour'd bride.

Next morn he wak'd her with the song— Arise! behold the new-born day! The lark his matten peal has rung; Arise, my love, and come away.

Together thro' the fields they stray'd, And to the verdant riv'let's side, Renew'd their vows and hopp'd and play'd, With honest joy and decen•• pride.

But O! my muse with pain relates The mournful sequel of my tale; Sent by an order of the fates, A gunner met them in the vale.

Alarm'd, the lover cry'd, 'My dear, Haste, haste away! from danger fly! Here, gunner turn thy vengeance here! O! spare my love, and let me die.'

At him the gunner took his aim; The aim he took was much too true; O! had he chose some other game, Or shot as he has used to do!* 10.6

Divided pair: forgive the wrong, While I with tears your fate rehearse: I'll join the widow's plaintive song, And save the lover in my verse.

The LADLE.

TWO gods long since came from above, One Mercury, the other Jove; The humour was, it seems, to know If all the favours they bestow, Cou'd from our own perverseness ease us, And, if our wish enjoy'd, would please us.

Discoursing largely on this theme, O'er hills and dales their godships came; 'Till well nigh tir'd at almost night, They thought it proper to alight.

Not here, and 'tis as true as odd is, That in disguise a god or goddess Exerts no supernatural powers; But acts on maxims just like ours.

They spy'd at last a country farm, Where all was snug and clean, and warm; For woods before, and hills behind, Secur'd it both from rain and wind: Large oxen in the field were lowing: Good grain was sown; good fruit was growing; Of last year's corn in barns great store; Fat turkies gobbling at the door: And wealth, in short, with peace consented, That people here should live contented: But did they in effect do so? Have patience, friend, and thou shalt know.

The honest farmer and his wife, To years declin'd from prime of life, Had struggled with the marriage noose, (As almost every couple does:) Sometimes my plague, sometimes my darling! Kissing to-day, to-morrow snarling; Jointly submitting to endure That evil which admits no cure.

Our gods the outward gate unbarr'd▪ Our farmer met them in the yard: Thought they were folks that lost their way, And ask'd them civilly to stay; Told them for supper or for bed, They might go on, and be worse sped. So said, so done; the gods consent, All three into the parlour went: They compliment, they sit, they chat; Fight o'er the wars, reform the state; A thousand knotty points they clear, Till supper and my wife appear.

Well then. Things handsomely were serv'd, My mistress for the strangers carv'd: How strong the beer, how good the meat, How loud they laugh'd, how much they eat, In epic sumptuous would appear, Yet shall be pass'd in silence here:

For I would grieve to have it said, That by a fine description led, I made my episode too long; Or tir'd my friends to grace my song.

The grace-cup serv'd, the cloth away, Jove thought it time to shew his play; Landlord and landlady, he cry'd Folly and jesting lay aside, That ye thus hospitably live, And strangers with good cheer receive, Is mighty grateful to your betters, And makes e'en gods themselves your debtors, To give this Thesis plainer proof, You have to-night beneath your roof A pair of gods; nay, never wonder, This youth can fly, and I can thunder. I'm Jupiter, and he Mercurius, My page, my son indeed, but spurious. Form then three wishes, you and madam, And sure as you already had 'em, The things desir'd in half an hour, Shall all be here and in your pow'r.

Thank ye great gods, the woman says; O may your altars ever blaze; A ladle for our silver dish Is what I want—is what I wish— A ladle! cries the man—a ladle! Odzooks, Corisca, you have pray'd ill; What should be great you turn to farce, I wish the ladle in your a—e.

With ••qual g••••ef and shame my muse The sequel of the tale pursues: The ladle fell into the room, And stuck in old Corisca's bum; Our couple weep two wishes past, And kindly join to form the last; To ease the woman's awk ward pain, And wish the ladle out again.

MORAL.

This commoner has worth and parts, Is prais'd for arms, or lov'd for arts; His 〈◊〉〈◊〉 aches for a coronet; And who is bless'd that is not great?

Some sense, and more estate, kind heav'n, To this well lotted peer has giv'n: What then? He must have rule and sway; And all is wrong, 'till he's in play. The miser must take up his plumb; And dares not touch the hoarded sum. The sickly dotard wants a wife, To draw off his last dregs of life. Against our peace we arm our will, Amidst our plenty Something still For horses, houses, pictures, planting, To thee, to me, to him is wanting.

The cruel Something unpossess'd, Corrodes and leavens all the rest. That Something if we could obtain, Would soon create a future pain: And to the coffin, from the cradle, 'Tis all a Wish, and all a Ladle.

The EXPERIMENT. A TALE.

VIRTUE and Vice, two mighty pow'rs, Who rule this motley world of ours, Disputed once which govern'd best, And whose dependants most were blest; They reason'd, rally'd, crack'd their jokes, Succeeding much like other folks; Their logic wasted, and their wit, Nor one nor t'other would submit; But both the doubtful point consent To clear by fair experiment: For this some mortal, they declare, By turns shall both their bounties share: And, either's power to bless him try'd, Shall then the long dispute decide.

On Hodge they fix, a country boor, As yet rough, Ignorant, careless, poor: Vice first exerts her power to bless, And gives him Riches to excess: With gold she taught him to supply Each rising wish of luxury: Hodge grew at length polite and great, And liv'd like minister of state:

He swore with grace, got nobly drunk, And kept in pomp his twentieth punk.

One morning, as in easy chair, Hodge sat with ruminating air, Vice, like a lady fair and gay, Approach'd, and thus was heard to say, (Behink her Virtue all the while Stood slily list'ning with a smile) "Know, favour'd mortal, know that I The pleasures of thy life supply; I rais'd thee from the clay-built cell, Where Want, Contempt and Slavery dwell; And (as each joy on earth is sold) To purchase all, I gave thee gold; This made the charms of beauty thine, This bless'd thee with the joys of wine; This gave thee in the rich repast, Whate'er can please the tutor'd taste! Confess the blessings I bestow, And pay the grateful thanks you owe. My name is Vice!"—Cry'd Hodge, and leer'd, "Long be your mighty name rever'd! Forbid it, heav'n! thus bless'd by you, That I should rob you of your due; To Wealth, 'twas you that made me heir, And gave, for which I thank you, Care; Wealth brought me wine, 'tis past a doubt, And wine—see here's a leg!—the gout: To Wealth my French ragout I owe, Whence scurvy, pains and asthmas flow; And now to shew how much I prize The joys which from your bounties rise, Each coupled with so dear a brother, I'll give you one to take the other. Avaunt, depart from whence you came, And thank your stars that I am lame." Enrag'd and griev'd, away she slew, And with her gifts from Hodge withdrew.

Now in this sad repe••••tant hour, Celestial Virtue try'd her pow'r: For Wealth CONTENT the goddess gave, Th' unenvy'd treasure of the slave! From wild desires she set him free,

And fill'd his breast with charity! No more loud ••••mpers riot breeds, And temperature gluttony succeeds.

Hodge, in his native cot at rest, Now Virtue found, and thus address'd: "Say, for 'tis yours by proof to know, Can Virtue give the bliss below? Content my gift, and Temperance mine, And Charity, though meek, divine!" With blushing cheeks, and kindling eyes, The man transported thus replies:

"My goddess! on this favour'd head, The life of life, thy blessings shed! Many annual thousands when I told, Insatiate still I sigh'd for gold; You gave Content, a boundless store, And rich indeed! I sigh'd no more. With Temperance came delightful guest! Health, tasteful food, and balmy rest; With Charity's seraphic flame, Each generous social pleasure came; Pleasures which in possession rise, And retrospective thought supplies! Long to attest it may I live, That, all Vice promises, you give."

Vice heard, and swore that Hodge for hire, Had giv'n his verdict like a lawyer; And Virtue, turning with disdain, Vow'd ne'er to speak to Vice again.

A CONTEMPLATION on NIGHT.

WHETHER amid the gloom of night I stray, Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day, Still nature's various face involves my sense Of an All-wise, all powerful Providence. When the gay sun first breaks the shade of night, And strikes the distant eastern hills with light, Colour returns, the plains their livery wear, And a bright verdure clothes tho smiling year; The blooming flowers with opening beauties glow, And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show;

The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise, And a pure azure arches o'er the skies. But when the gloomy reign of night returns, Stripp'd of her fading pride all nature mourns The trees no more their wonted verdure boast, But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost; No distant Landscapes draw our curious eyes Wrapp'd in night's robe the whole creation lies. Yet still, ••'en now, while darkness clothes the land, We view the traces of th' Almighty hand; Millions of stars in heaven's wide vault appear, And with new glories hang the boundless sphere: The silver moon her eastern couch forsakes, And o'er the skies her nightly circle 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Her solid globe beats back the sunny 〈◊〉〈◊〉, And to the world her borrow'd light repays.

Whether these stars that twinkling 〈◊〉〈◊〉 send, Are 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and rolling worlds those suns attend, Man may to decture, and new schemes declare, Yet all his systems but conjectures are; But this we know that heaven's eternal King, Who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 this universe from nothing spring, can at his word bid numerous worlds appear, And rising worlds th' all-pow'rful word shall hear.

When to the western main the sun descends, To other lands a rising day he lends, The spreading dawn another shepherd spies, The wakeful flocks from their warm folds arise: Refresh'd the peasant seeks his early toil. And bids the plough correct the fallow soil; While we in sleep's embraces waste the night; The climes oppos'd enjoy meridian light; And when those lands the busy sun forsakes, With us again the rosy morning wakes. In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away, And neither clime laments his absent ray. When the pure soul is from the body flown, No more shall night's alternate reign be known▪ The sun no more shall rolling light bestow, But from th' almighty streams of glory flow. O may some nobler thought my soul employ. Than empty, transient, sublunary joy!

The stars shall drop, the sun shall lose his flame, But thou, O God, for ever thin'st the ••••me,

The UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

FATHER of all! I in every age, In every clime ador'd by saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

Thou Great First Cause, least understood, Who all my sense confin'd, To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind.

Yet gave me in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding Nature fast in fate, Left free the human will.

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not do. This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heav'n pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives, T' enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round.

Let not this weak unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, Or deal damnation round the land, On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, O teach my heart Still in the right to stray: If I am wrong, thy grace impart, To find the better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has deny'd, Or aught thy goodness 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

Teach me to feel another's 〈◊〉〈◊〉, To hide the fault I see: That mercy I to others show, That mercy shew to me.

Mean the I am, not wholly so, Since quickened by thy breath: O lead me wheresoe'er I go, Thro' this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot; All else beneath the sun Thou kn••'st if best bestow'd, or not, And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies; One chorus let all beings raise! All Nature's incense rise!

FINIS.

Notes

• * 9.1

  This was exactly the case of a poor farmer, who died in a miserable condition in YORK Castle.
• * 10.1

  On account of the promise at first setting our.
• * 10.2

  To steal the cup from the generous man, and give it to a wretch that would scarce admit them within his gate.
• * 10.3

  Second means—God often appoints Wicked and abandoned wretches to be his instruments of justice upon others. for some ends tending to public good, though unperceived by human eyes.
• † 10.4

  Child of his age—A child born to him when in years, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 whom he douted too fondly.
• † 10.5

  He gave largely to the poor.
• * 10.6

  Never having killed any thing before nor since.