The Moral story teller. Uniting pleasure with instruction. : Nothing is inserted that has not its foundation in truth.

THE MORAL STORY TELLER.

FILIAL AFFECTION.

MANLIUS, The Roman dictator, having exercised great violence and cruelty over the citizens, was cited at the expiration of his office to answer for his conduct. Among other things that were laid to his charge, he was accused of treating with barbarity 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of his own sons. Ma••lius, it seems, had no other cause of complaint against this 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in his hav|ing an impediment in his speech. For this rea|son he was banished for from the city, from his home, and the company of those of his own age and fortune, and condemned to servile works, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prison like a slave. All were highly, exasperated against so severe a dictator, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 human a father, except the son himself, who, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with filial piety and under the greatest concern that he should furnish matter of accusation against his father, resolved upon a most extraordinary method to relieve him. One morning, without apprising any body, he came to the city armed with a dagger, and went directly to the house of the tribune Pompon|ius, who had accused his ••••ther. Pomponius

was yet in bed. He sent up his name, and was immediately admitted by the tribune, who did not doubt but he was come to discover to him some new instances of his father's severity. After they had saluted each other, young Manlius desired a private conference; and as soon as he saw himself alone with the tribune, he drew out his dagger, presented it to his breast, and declared he would stab him that moment, if he did not swear in the form he should dictate, "Never to hold the assembly of the people for accusing his father." Pompon|ius, who saw the dagger glittering at his breast, himself alone without arms, and attacked by a robust young man, full of a bold confidence in his own strength, took the oath demanded of him, and afterwards confessed, with a kind of complacency in the thing, and a sincerity which sufficiently argued he was not sorry for what he had done, that it was that violence which obliged him to desist from his enter|prize.

CONSCIENCE.

A JEWELLER, a man of a good charact|er, and considerable wealth, having occasion in the way of of his business to travel at some distance from the place of his abode, took 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with him a servant, in order to take care of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 portmanteau. He had with him some of his best jewels, and a large sum of money, to which his servant was likewise privy. The

master having occasion to dismount on the road, the servant watching his opportunity, took a pistol from his master's saddle, and shot him dead on the spot: then rifled him of his jewels and money, and hanging a large stone to his neck, he threw him into the nearest ca|nal. With this booty he made off to a distant part of the country, where he had reason to believe that neither he nor his master were known. There he began to trade in a very low way at first, that his obscurity might screen him from observation, and in the course of a good many years, seemed to rise by the natural pro|gress of business, into wealth and considera|tion; so that his good fortune appeared at once the effect and reward of industry and vir|tue. Of these he counterfeited the appearance so well, that he grew into great credit, marri|ed into a good family, and by laying out his sudden stores discreetly, as he saw occasion, and joining to all an universal affability, he was admited to a share of the government of the town, and rose from one post to anoth|er till at length he was chosen chief magistrate. In this office he maintained a fair character, and continued to fill it with no small applause, both as governor and a judge; till one day as he sat on the bench with some of his brethren, a criminal was brought before him, who was accused of murdering his master. The evidence came out full, the jury brought in their ver|dict that the prisoner was guilty, and the whole

assembly waited the sentence of the president of the court (which he happened to be that day) with great suspence. Mean while he appeared to be in unusual disorder and agitation of mind; his colour changed often; at length he arose from his seat and coming down from the bench, placed himself just by the unfortunate man at the ba••••, to the no small astonishment of all present. "You see before you," said he, addressing himself to those who had sat on the bench with him, "a striking instance of the just awards of heaven, which this day, af|ter thirty years concealment, presents to you a greater criminal than the man just now found guilty." Then he made an ample confession of his guilt, and of all 〈◊〉〈◊〉 aggravations. "Nor can I feel," continued he, "any relief from the agonies of an awakened conscience, but by requiring that justice be forthwith done against me in the most public and solemn manner."

We may easily suppose the amazement of all the assembly, and especially of his fellow-judges. 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉, they proceeded, upon his confession, to pass sentence upon him, and he died with all the symptoms of a penitent mind.

Mr. D. F••••rdyce, in his dialouges on Edu|cation, vol. ii. p. 401, says the above is a true story, and happened in a neighbouring state not many years ago.

GAMING.

THE late colonel Daniel, who took great pleasure in giving advice to young officers, guiding them in their militay functions, the management of their 〈◊〉〈◊〉 &c. whenever he was upon the article of ••••aming, he used al|ways to tell the following story of himself, as a warning to others, and to shew that a little resolution may conquer this absurd passion. In Queen Anne's wars, he was an ensign in the English army then in Spain: but he was so absolutely possessed by this evil, that all duty, and every thing else that prevented his gratify|ing his darling passion, was to him most griev|ous: he scarcely allowed himself time for rest; or if he slept, his dreams presented packs of cards to his eyes, and the rattling of dice to his ears:—his meals were neglected, or if he at|tended them, he looked upon that as so much lost time; swollowed his meat with precipit|ance, and hurried to the dear gaming-table a|gain. In one word; he was a professed game|ster. For some time, fortune was his friend: and he was so successful, that he has often spread his winnings on the ground, and roll|ed himself on them, in order that it might be said of him, "he wallowed in gold." Such was his life for a considerable time; but as he ••ath often said, and I dare say every consider|ate man will join with him, "it was the most miserable part of it."—After some time he was ordered on the recruiting duty, and at Bar|celona

he raised one hundred and fifty recruits for the regiment; though this was left entirely to his serjeant, that he might be more at leis|ure to attend to his darling passion. After some changes of good and ill-luck, fortune declared so openly against him, that in one unlucky run, he was totally stript of the last farthing. In this distress he applied to a cap|tain of the same regiment with himself, for a loan of ten guineas; which was refused with this speech, "What! lend my money to a professed gamester! No, Sir, I must be ex|cused: for of necessity I must lose either my money or my friend; I therefore choose to keep my money." With this taunting refus|al he retired to his lodging, where he threw himself on the bed, to lay himself and his sor|rows to a momentary rest, during the heat of the day. A bug, gnat, or some such vermin, happening to bite him, he awoke; when his melancholy situation immediately presented itself to him. Without money! and no pros|pect how to get any to subsist himself and his recruits to the regiment, then at a great dist|ance from him? and should they desert for want of pay, he must be answerable for it;—and he could expect nothing but cashiering for disappointing the queen's service. He had no friend, for he whom he had esteemed so had not only refused to lend him money, but had added taunts to his refusal. He had no ac|quaintance there! and strangers he knew

would not let him have so large a sum as was answerable to his real necessity. This natur|ally led him to reflect seriously on what had in|duced him to commence gamester, and this he presently perceived was idleness. He had now found the cause, but the cure was still wanting: how was that to be effected so as to prevent a relapse? Something must be done, some method must be pursued so effect|ually to employ his time, as to prevent his having any to throw away at gaming. It then occurred to him, that the adjatancy of the re|giment was to be disposed of, and this he de|termined to purchase, as a post the most likely to find him a sufficient and laudable way of passing his time. He had letter of credit to draw for what sum he pleased for his promo|tion in the army; but not to throw away idly, or to encourage his extravagancy. This was well: but the main difficulty remained, and he must get to the regiment before he could take any steps towards the intended purchase, or draw for the sum to make it with. While he was endeavouring to fall upon some expe|dient to extricate himself out of 〈…〉〈…〉 his friend, who had refused him in the morn|ing, came to pay him a visit. After a very cool reception on the colonel's 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the other began by asking him, what 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he intended to take to relieve 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from the anxiety he plainly 〈…〉〈…〉 him all that he had thought upon that head,

and the resolution he had made of purchasing the adjutancy as soon as he could join the re|giment: his friend then getting up and em|bracing him, said, "My dear Daniel, I refused you in the morning in that abrupt manner in order to bring to a sense of the dangerous sit|••ation you were in, and to make you reflect seriously on the folly of the way of life you had got into. I heartily rejoice that it has had the desired effect. Pursue the laudible resolu|tion you have made, for be assured that IDLE|NESS AND GAMING ARE THE RUIN OF YOUTH. My interest, advice, and purse, are now at your command; there, take it, and please yourself with what is necessary to subsist yourself and recruits to the regiment. This presently bro't the colonel off the bed; and this afternoon's behaviour entirely obliterated the harshness of his friend's morning refusal; he now viewed him in the agreeble light of a sincere friend, and for ever after esteemed, and found him such. In short, the colonel set out with his recruits for the regiment, where he gained great applause for his success, which, as well as his commission, he had well nigh lost by one morning's folly: he immediately solicited for, and purchased, the adjutancy; and from that day forward never touched cards or dice, but, as they ought to be used, merely for diversion, or to unbend the mind after too close an attention to serious affairs.

FRIENDLY ADVICE TO OFFICERS.

VICE AND VIRTUE.

AMONG the dancers of the palace in the reign of Abbas the great, king of Persia, there was a young maid named Idris, whom the master of the revels, on the report of her charms, had sent for from Casbin to Ispahan. Her mother being of the same profession, she had followed the fame way of life: but as she honorably distinguished herself from her fe|male companions, she demonstrated that vir|tue is practicable in every situation of life, however slippery or dangerous it may be.

Scarcely had Idris appeared on the theatre of the capital, but she found herself beset by the grandees, who strove to please her by the same means that had won others in that sta|tion. One exhausted all his rhetoric in com|mending her shape and manner. Another extolled the form of her face, her complex|ion, and the regularity of her features. A third, to give weight to the encomiums he had bestowed on her voice, repeated an air he had heard her sing, and declared his distrac|tion to arrive at that grace with which she gave life to the words. A fourth, boasting his precision and skill in dancing, exhibited instantly some of the attitudes he had learned of her. A first-rate Sir Fopling gave her a list of the pretty women he had deserted from the moment he first saw her. A young man, by birth entitled to become a Mollah, silently displayed his figure and his dress. An old

finger••r of the public money dazzled her eyes with a diamond of the first water, and offer|ed it, besides the perquisites of the contracts, which it was his custom to bestow upon his mistress. An officer of the crown made a pompous description of the presents with which he had recompensed the friendship of the little Zaki. In fine, every one exerted his faculties and his address in order to gain the preference over his rivals.

But Idris was not to be caught by such baits. At the palace, at assemblies, in the public walks, and in all places, the discourse turned upon the new dancer. Every one talked of her beauty, her wit, and her en|gaging behaviour, and, which was more than they had said of any other of her profession, they agreed in acknowledging her to be very virtuous. It is the property of none but the most exalted virtue to gain the respect and admiration of young courtiers. Mahmut con|ceived a high opinion of Idris's virtue, from the extraordinary effect it produced.

Mahmut bore among the lords of the court the same character which Idris maintained among the dancers of her sex: proof against the defects of his equals, and the vices of his station. As soon as he began to appear in the world, he became sensible of the ridicu|lousness of that noisy, obstreperous giddiness, which most young people of quality affect; and being happily, prejudiced against the idle

〈◊〉〈◊〉 he saw them ••••ad, he took care not to follow their example, yet without seeming to condemn them. While their days were divid|ed between the toilet, the table, visits, and gaming, he spent the morning in his closet a|mong his books, or those whose conversation could instruct him better. In the afternoon he frequented the manufactories and working places about the palace; talked with the ablest hands in the several arts; and observed, with the utmost attention, how they proceeded in their works. In the evening he was at some or other of the public entertainments, which he enjoyed with a moderation that is ever in|separable from taste and discernment. After which he repaired to some of the most brilliant assemblies of Ispahan, as well to avoid a singu|larity that would have rendered him odious, as to acquire a greater share of the complai|sance and politeness which reigned in them.—Mahmut's wit, and the use he made of it, ren|dered him superior to those who were his e|quals in birth; and besides the advantage of a good figure and graceful air, he distinguish|ed himself no less among them by his natural and acquired talents. Idris could not behold this amiable Persian without emotion: she shunned all her importunate suitors, and com|placency fancying him free from all their faults, she secretly wished that the beauty which they had so highly extolled might make an impression on him. Her wishes were met

more than half way; Mahmut soon let 〈◊〉〈◊〉 know that he loved her most passionately, and her answer to his declaration, on account of its singularity, deserves to be given entire.

"Doubtless you give the name of love." said she, with a charming smile, "to that which is only an effect of your taste for novel|ty; I will not my lord, go farther at present on this head; it is your business to fix my judgment. I will ingenuously confess, though it will give you some unfavourable opinion of me, if you are not the man I take you to be, that I am not displeased at your liking me.—But if ever I see occasion to alter the idea I have conceived of you, hope not that I shall in the least indulge my inclination. I shall not take it ill if you give your heart to a woman more virtuous than I, therefore do not com|plain of your lot if I dispose of mine in favour of any man whom I may find superior to you in virtue."

Mahmut struck with admiration, and over|flowing with joy, loboured to rise to such a pitch as might oblige Idris to be constant to him. He applied himself with fresh vigour to acquire the arts and sciences necessary for a man in his station. He made it his business to relieve indigent merit and unfortunate virtue. His humanity, generosity, capacity and modes|ty, were equally conspicuous; and Idris abun|dantly rewarded him for all the pains he took to please her. Praise, grounded on truth,

and coming from the mouth of so charming a person, filled the tender Mahmut's heart with joy and satisfaction. He read in the eyes of his beauteous mistress how dear he was to her: he talked of his passion, and described its vio|lence. Idris listened to him with pleasure, vowed she would make him a just return, and thus animated him to give her no occasion to repent her engagement. In the overflowings of their hearts, which none but true lovers can know and feel all the sweetness of, they laid open to each other the most secret recesses of their souls. Mahmut was grieved when he took leave of Idris, nor could she bear his ab|sence without a visible concern. They always parted under the greatest impatience to meet again.

Between two neighbours so powerful as the Grand Signior and the king of Persia, there can be no long peace: a war soon broke out, and Mahmut was obliged to set out for the ar|my. He waited upon Idris, ••o deplore with her the dire necessity that forced them asun|der; but whilst he lay at her feet he durst not disclose to her all his grief. The fortitude of the fair one daunted him; he was afraid of lessening himself in her esteem, by discovering any weakness. Idris perceived the conflict in his breast, and loved him for it more intensely.

Mahmut had not been gone a month when he gave way to his desire of an interview with Idris. He slipped away privately from the ar|my,

and with the help of relays, which he pro|vided on the road, he was at the gates of Is|pahan before they mised him in the camp.—Alighting at the house of one of his old ser|vants he disguised himself in the apparel of a peasant, that he might not be known in the city; and, impatient of an interview with his Idris, he flew to her house.

The charming maid was sitting at her bal|cony, as Mahmut was advancing, and knew him, notwithstanding his disguise. Grieved to see him thus neglect his glory and his duty, she ran directly to her closet, charged her slave to admit no visitor whatever. She melted in|to tears at the weakness of her lover; but soon recovered herself, and wrote him the follow|ing billet:

Idris to the peasant.

"Friend, I know thou art to be forthwith at the army. Call upon Mahmut, and tell him from me that I desire him to remember the conditions on which the heart of Idris is to be secured."

Mahmut was too much confounded with these words to ask any questions of the slave that delivered him the billet. He went back to his domestic's house, to put off his disguise; and fluctuating between admiration, grief, and fear, he repaired again to the army with as much haste as he had travelled up to Ispahan. His chief study being to make amends for the fault he had committed, he behaved the rest of

the campaign with so much ardour, bravery, and conduct, that he was deservedly promoted to a higher post, which the king conferred on him, with the most honorable eulogies, at the head of the army. Idris wrote him a congat|ulatory letter on his promotion, in which with|out mentioning his weakness, she gave him to understand that she had forgiven him.

Mahmut, transported with joy, hastened back to Ispahan, as soon as the army was or|dered into winter-quarters, and listened to no other considerations but his esteem for the virtuous girl: he entreated her to complete his happiness in becoming his wife. "Your wife, my lord!" cried Idris, with an emotion that at once discovered the tenderest passion and concern for the glory of her lover;—"what! would Mahmut forget himself so far? In disposing of your heart you may indeed consult nothing but your inclinations; but when the question is to choose a partner in your dignity and fortune, you hold both. I have the deepest sense of gratitude for this signal testi|mony of your esteem; but what will your re|lations say? What will all Persia say, whose eyes are, upon you, and who see nothing in me but the mean profession I was bred to? No, Mah|mut, it must not be; I see my error, I am ashamed of my weakness; I that am ready to sacrifice my life were it necessary to preserve your glory, cannot be instrumental myself in sullying it."

Sentiments like these made the passionate Mahmut only more pressing. "What are those things," said he, "which create so great a disparity between us? An instant may de|prive me of them; but the dowry which you will bring me charming Idris, is a blessing that depends not on ••••en nor fortune." In 〈◊〉〈◊〉 these words his countenance began to be clouded with grief; fresh denials drove him to despair; he drew his poniard, and was go|ing to plunge it into his breast. The tender Idris could hold out no longer. "Ah! Mah|mut," cried she, "stop your hand and live; to-morrow I shall be yours, grant me this short respite." She could utter no more, tears put an end to her surprise, and stopt her breath.

The news of their marriage soon took wind, and those who envied him the possession of so much beauty, abused him for his meanness; while the sober and thinking part of the world extolled her virtues, and only lamented that her birth and fortune had not rendered them more conspicuous and attracting. She was presented to the king, who was charmed with her person, and finding her heart and her sen|timents would not disgrace the highest quality, conferred a title and place at court.

CHASTITY.

LUCRETIA was a lady of great beauty and noble extraction: she married Collatinus,

a relation of Tarquinius Superbus, king of Rome. During the siege of Ardea, which lasted much longer than was expected, the young princes passed their time in entertain|ments and diversions. One day as they were at supper, at Sextus Tarquin's, the king's eldest son, with Collatinus, Lucretia's husband, the conversation turned on the merit of their wives: every one gave his own the preference. "What signify so many words?" says Colla|ti••••s; "you may in a few hours, if you please, be convinced by your own eyes how much my Lucretia excels the rest. We are young: let us mount our horses, and go and surprise them. Nothing can better decide our dispute than the state we shall find them in at a time when, most certainly they will not ex|pect us." They were a little warmed with wine. "Come on, let us go," they all cried together. They quickly galloped to Rome, which was about twenty miles from Ardea, where they find the princesses, wives of the young Tarquins, surrounded with company, and every circumstance of the highest mirth and pleasure. From thence they ride to Col|lata, where they saw Lucretia in a very different situation. With her maids about her, she was at work in the inner part of her house, talking on the dangers to which her husband was exposed. The victory was ad|judged to her unanimously. She received her guests with all possible politeness and civility••

Lueretia's virtue, which should have com|manded respect, was the very thing which kindled in the breast of Sextus Tarquin a strong and detestable passion. Within a few days he returned to Collatia, and upon the plausible excuse he made for his visit, he was received with all the politeness due to a near relation, and the eldest son of a king. Watch|ing the fittest opportunity, he declares the passion she had excited at his last visit and em|ployed the most tender intreaties, and all the artifices possible to touch a woman's heart; but all to no purpose. He then endeavoured to extort her compliance by the most terrible threatnings. It was in vain. She still persist|ed in her resolution; nor could she be moved, even by the fear of death. But, when the monster told her, that he would first dispatch her, and then having murdered a slave, would lay him by her side, after which he would spread a report, that having caught them in the act of adultery, he had punished them as they deserved; this seemed to shake her reso|lution. She hesitated, not knowing which of these dreadful alternatives to take, whether, by consenting to dishonor the bed of her hus|band, whom she tenderly loved; or, by refus|ing, to die under the odious character of hav|ing prostituted her person to the lust of a slave. He saw the struggle of her soul; and seizing the unluckly moment, obtained an inglorious conquest. Thus Lucretia's virtue, which had

been proof against the fear of death, could not hold out against the fear of infamy. The young prince, having gratified his passion, re|turned home as in triumph.

On the morrow, Lucretia, overwhelmed with grief and despair, sent early in the morn|ing to desire her father, and her husband to come to her, and bring with them each a trus|ty friend, assuring them there was no time to lose. They came with all spead, the one ac|companied with Valerius, (so famous after under the name of Publicola) and the other with Brutus. The moment she saw them come, she could not command her tears; and when her husband asked her if all was well: "By no means," said she, "it cannot be well with a woman after she has lost her honor. Yes, Collatinus, thy bed has been defiled by a stran|ger: but my body only is polluted; my mind is innocent, as my death shall witness. Prom|ise me only, not to suffer the adulterer to go unpunished: it is Sextus Tarquinius, who last night, treacherous guest, or rather cruel foe, offered me violence, and reaped a joy fa|tal to me; but if you are men, it will be more fatal to him." All promised to revenge: and, at the same time, tried to comfort her with rep|resenting, "That the mind only sins, not the body; and where the consent is wanting there can be no guilt." "What Sextus deserves," replies Lucretia, "I leave you to judge; but for me, though I declare myself innocent of

the crime, I exempt not myself from punish|ment. No immodest woman shall plead Lu|cretia's example to outlive her dishonor."—Thus saying, she plunged in her breast a dag|ger she had concealed under her robe, and ex|pired at their feet.

PARENTAL AFFECTION.

ZALEUCUS, prince of the Locrians, made a decree, that whoever was convicted of adul|tery, should be punished with the loss of both his eyes. Soon after this establishment, the legislator's own son was apprehended in the ve|ry fact and brought to a public trial. How could the father acquit himself in so tender and delicate a conjuncture? Should he execute the law in all its rigour, this would be worse than death to the unhappy youth: should he pardon so notorious a delinquent, this would defeat the design of his salutary institution. To avoid both these inconveniencies, he ordered one of his own eyes to be pulled out, and one of his son's.

FILIAL AFFECTION.

AMONG an incredible number of illustri|ous men who were falsely accused and put to death by Nero, the cruel emperor of Rome, was one Bareas Soranus, a man, as Tacitus in|forms us, of singular vigilance and justice in the discharge of his duty. During his con|finement, his daughter Servilia was appre|hended

and brought into the senate, and there arainged. The crime laid to her charge was that she had turned into money all her orna|ments and jewels, and the most valuable part of her dress, to defray the expence of consul|ting magicians. To this the young Servilia, with a flood of tears, replied, "That she had indeed consulted magicians, but the whole of her inquiry was to know whether the emperor and senate would afford protection and safety to her dear and indulgent parent against his accusers. With this view, said she, I presented the diviners, men till now utterly unknown to me, with my jewels, apparel, and the oth|er ornaments peculiar to my quality, as I would have presented my blood and life, could my blood and life have procured my father's liberty. But whatever this my proceeding was, my unfortunate father was an utter stranger to it, and if it is a crime, I alone am the delinquent."

She was, however, together with her fath|er, condemned to die, but in what manner his|tory is silent.

VALERIUS MAXIMUS likewise relates a very singular fact upon this subject. A wo|man of illustrious birth had been condemned to be strangled. The Roman praetor deliver|ed her up to the triumvir, who caused ••••r to be carried to the prison, in order to her being put to death. The goaler, who was ordered to execute her, was struck with compassion,

and could not resolve to kill her. He chose therefore to let her die of hunger. Besides which he suffered her daughter to see her in prison; taking care, however, that she bro't her nothing to eat. As this continued many days, he was surprised that the prisoner lived so long without eating; and suspected the daughter, upon watching her, he discovered that she nourished her mother with her own milk. Amazed at so pious, and at the same time so ingenious an invention, he told the fact to the triumvir, and the triumvir to the praetor, who believed the thing merited relat|ing in the assembly of the people. The criminal was pardoned; a decree was passed that the mother and daughter should be subsisted for the rest of their lives, at the expence of the public, and that a temple sacred to piety should be erected near the prison.

EDUCATION.

EUGENIO is just out of his minority, and in the twenty-second year of his age; he prac|tises the man with all that virtue and decency that makes his father's acquaintance covet his company; and indeed they may learn by his discourse the art of good reasoning, as well as the precepts of religion from his example.—He is an entertaining companion to the gay young gentlemen his equals; and yet divines and philosophers take a pleasure to have Eu|genio amongst them. He is caressed by his

superiors in honor and years; and though he is released from the discipline of parently edu|cation, yet he treats the lady his mother with all the affectionate duty that could be desired or demanded of him ten years ago; his father is content to see his own youth outshone by his son, and confesses that Engenio already promises greater things than Agathus did at thirty.

If you ask whence these happy qualities a|rise, I grant there was some foundations for them in his very nature, there was something of a complexional virtue mingled with his frame; but it is much more owing to the wise conduct of his parents from his very infancy, and the blessings of Divine Grace attending their labours, their prayers, and their hopes.

He was trained up from the very cradle to all the duties of infant virtue, by the allure|ments of love and reward, suited to his age; and never was driven to practice any thing by a frown or a hasty word, where it was possible for kinder affections to work the same effect by indulgence and delay.

As fast as his reasoning powers began to ap|pear and exert themselves, they were conduct|ed in an easy track of thought, to find out and observe the reasonableness of every part of his duty, and the lovely character of a child obe|dient to reason and to his parents will; while every departure from duty was shewn to be so contrary to reason, as laid an early foundation

for conscience to work upon: conscience be|gan here to assume its office, and to manifest its authority in dictates, and reproofs, and re|flections of mind peaceful, or painful, accor|ding to his behaviour. When his parents ob|served this inward monitor to awake in his soul, they could better trust him out of their fight.

When he became capable of conceiving of an Almighty and invisible Being, who made this world and every creature in it, he was taught to pay all due regard to God his Ma|ker; and from the outhority and love of his father on earth, he was led to form right ideas (as far as childhood permitted) of the power, government, and goodness of the universal and supreme father of all in heaven.

He was informed why punishment was due to an offence against God or his parents, that his fear might become an useful passion to a|waken and guard his virtue; but he was in|structed, at the same time, that where he hear|tily repented of a fault, and returned to his duty with new diligence, there was forgive|ness to be obtained both of God and man.

When at any time a friend interceded for him to his father, after he had been guilty of a fault, he was hereby directed into the doct|rine of Jesus the mediator between God and man ••and thus he knew him as an intercessor, before he could well understand the notion of his sacrifice and atonement.

In his younger years he passed but twice under the correction of the rod; once for a fit of obstinacy and persisting in a falsehood; then he was given up to severe chastisement, and it dispelled and cured the sullen humour forever; and once for the contempt of his mother's authority he endured the scourge again, and he wanted it no more.

He was enticed sometimes to the love of let|ters, by making his lesson a reward of some domestic duty; and a permission to pursue some parts of learning was the appointed re|compence of his diligence and improvement in others.

There was nothing required of his memory but what was first (as far as possible) let into his understanding; and by proper images and representations, suited to his years, he was taught to form some conception to things des|cribed, before he was bid to learn the words by heart. Thus he was freed from the dan|ger of treasuring up the cant and jargon of mere names, instead of the riches of solid knowledge.

Where any abstruse and difficult notions oc|curred in his course of learning, his precep|tor postponed them till he had gone through that subject in a more superficial way; for this purpose he passed twice through all the sciences; and to make the doctrines of Chris|tianity easy to him in his childhood, he had two or three Catechisms composed by his tutor,

each of them suited to his more early or more improved capacity, till at twelve years old he was thought fit to learn that public form, which is more universally taught and approv|ed.

As he was inured to reasoning from his childhood, so he was instructed to prove eve|ry thing, according to the nature of the sub|ject, by natural or moral arguments, as far as years would admit: and thus he drew much of his early knowledge from reason or from revelation by the force of his judgment, and not merely from his teachers, by the strength of his memory.

His parents were persuaded indeed that they ought to teach him the principles of virtue while he was a child, and the most important truth of religion both natural and revealed, be|fore he was capable of deriving them from the fund of his own reason, or of framing a religion for himself out of so large a book as the Bible. They thought themselves under the obliga|tion of that divine command, "Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old he will nor depart from it." And therefore from a child they made him acquaint|ed with the Holy Scriptures, and persuaded him to believe that they were given by the in|spiration of God, before it was possible for him to take in the arguments from reason, his|tory, tradition, &c. which must be joined to|gether to confirm the sacred canon, and prove

the several books of the Bible to be divine.—Thus, like Timothy, "he continued in the things which he learned, and had been assured of knowing of whom he had learned them." Yet as his years advanced, they thought it re|quisite to show him the solid and rational foun|dations of his faith, that his hope might be built upon the authority of God, and not of men.

After he arrived at fifteen, he was suffered to admit nothing into his full assent, till his mind saw the rational evidence of the propo|sition itself; or at least till he felt the power of those reasons which obliged him to assent, up|on moral evidence and testimony, where the evidences of sense or of reason were not to be expected. He knew that he was not to hope for mathematical proofs that there is a pope at Rome, that the Turks have dominion over Ju|dea, that St. Paul wrote an Epistle to the Ro|mans, that Christ was crucified without the gates of Jerusalem, and that in three days time he rose from the dead; and yet that there is just and reasonable evidence to enforce and support the belief of all these facts. Where truths were too sublime for present compre|hension, he would never admit them as a part of his faith till he saw the full evidence of a speaking God and a divine revelation.

His tutor never imposed any thing on him with a magisterial air, but by way of advice re|commended to him such studies and such

methods of improvement, as his experience had long approved; he gave frequent hints of the danger of some opinions, and the fatal consequences of some modish and mistaken principles. He let him know generally what sentiments he himself embraced among the divided opinions of the age; and what clear and comprehensive knowledge, what satisfac|tion of judgment, serenity of mind, and peace of conscience were to be found in the princi|ples which he had chosen; but he exhorted his pupil still to choose wisely for himself, and, in common and sacred affairs, to frame his own sentiments by just rules of reasoning:—though Eugenio did not superstitiously con|fine his belief to the opinions of his instructor, yet he could not but love the man that indulged him such a liberty of thought, and gave him such an admirable clue, by which he let him|self into the secrets of knowledge, human and divine: thus, under the happy influences of so prudent a supervisor, he traced the paths of learning, and enjoyed the unspeakable pleasure of being his own teacher, and of framing his opinions himself. By this means he began early to use his reason with freedom, and to judge for himself, without a servile submission to the authority of others; and yet to pay a just and solemn deference to persons of age and experience, and particularly to those who were proper and appointed guides of his youth, and who led him on so gently in the paths of knowledge.

He was not kept a stranger to the errors and follies of mankind, nor was he let loose amongst them, either in books or in compa|ny, without a guard and a guide. His pre|ceptor let him know the gross mistakes and iniquities of men, ancient and modern, but in|laid him with proper principles of truth and virtue, and furnished him with such rules of judgment, as led him more easily to distinguish between good and bad: and thus he was se|cured against the infection and the poison, both of the living and the dead.

He had early cautions given him to avoid the bantering tribe of mortals, and was instruct|ed to distinguish a jest from an argument, so that a loud laugh at his religion never puts him nor his faith out of countenance. He is ever ready to render a reason of his Christian hope, and to defend his Creed; but he scorns to enter the lists with such a disputant that has no artillery but squib and flash, no argu|ments beside grimace and ridicule. Thus he supports the character of a Christian with hon|or: ••he confines his faith to his Bible, thinks as freely as that vain herd of Atheists and De|ists, who arrogate the name of Free-thinkers to themselves.

You will enquire, perhaps, how he came to attain so manly a conduct in life at so early an age, and how every thing of the boy was worn off so soon. Truly, besides other influ|ences; it is much owing to the happy manage|ment

of Eraste, (the name of the lady his mo|ther) she was frequent in the nursery, and in|spired sentiments into his childhood becoming riper years. When there was company in the parlour, with whom she could use such a a freedom, she brought her son in among them, not to entertain them with his own noise and tattle and impertinence but to hear their discourse and sometimes to answer a lit|tle question or two they might ask him. When he was grown up to a youth, he was often ad|mitted into the room with his father's acquaint|ance, and was indulged the liberty to ask and enquire on subjects that seemed to be above his years: he was encouraged to speak a sentence or two of his own thoughts, and thus to learn and practise a modest assureance. But when the company was gone, he was approved and praised if he behaved well, or received kind hints of admonition that he might know when he had been too silent, and too forward to speak. Thus, by enjoying the advantage of society above the level of his own age and understanding, he was always aspiring to imita|tion; and the excesses and defects of his con|duct were daily noticed and cured.

His curiosity was ••ratified abroad with new sights and scenes as often as his parents could do it with convenience, that he might not stare and wonder at every strange object or occur|ence; but he was made patient of restraint and disappointment, when he seemed to in|dulge

an excessive desire of any needless diver|sion. If he sought any crimial pleasures, or diversions attended with great danger and in|convenience, the pursuit of them was absolute|ly forbidden; but it was done in so kind a manner, as made the guilt or peril of them appear in the strongest light, and thereby they were rendered hateful or formidable, rather than the objects of wish or desire.

When Eugenio first began to go a broad in the world, his companions were recommend|ed to him by the prudence of his parents; or if he chose them himself, it was still within the reach of his tutor's observation, or the notice of his father's eye: nor was he suffer|ed to run aloose into promiscuous company, till it appeared that his mind was furnished with steady principles of virtue, till he had knowledge enough to defend those principles, and to repel the assaults that might be made upon his faith and manners.

Yet it was hardly thought fit to trust him to his own conduct for whole days together, lest he should meet some temptations too hard for his virtue, till he had gained resolution enough to say no boldly, and to maintain an obstinate refusal of pernicious pleasures. He was told before hand how the profane and the lewd would use all the arts of address, and how subtilely they would practise upon good hu|mour with powerful and tempting importuni|ties. This set him ever upon his guard; and

though he carried his sweetness of temper al|ways about with him, yet he learned to conceal it wheresoever it was neither proper nor safe to appear. By a little converse in the world, he found that it was necessary to be positive, bold, and unmoveable in rejecting every pro|posal which might endanger his character or his morals; especially as he soon became sen|sible that a soft and cold denial gave courage to new attacks, and left him liable to be teased with fresh solicitations. He laid down this therefore for a constant rule, that where his reason had determined any practice to be either plainly sinful, or utterly inexpedient, he would give so firm a denial, upon the principles of virtue and religion, as should for ever discour|age any farther solicitations. This gave him the character of a man of resolute virtue, even among the rakes of the time, nor was he ever esteemed the less on this account. At first in|deed he thought it a happy victory which he had gotten over himself, when he could defy the shame of the face of vice and infidel|ity: he found the shortest way to conquer this foolish shame was to renounce it at once; then it was easy to practice singularity amidst a profane multitude. And when he began to get courage enough to profess resolute piety without a blush, in the midst of such company as this, Agathus and Eraste then permitted their son to travel abroad, and to see more of the world, under the protection of their daily

prayers. His first tour was through the neigh|bouring counties of England; he afterwards enlarged the circuit of his travels till he had visited foreign nations, and learned the value of his own.

In short, the restraints of his younger years were tempered with so much liberty, and ma|naged with such prudence and tenderness, and these bonds of discipline were so gradually loosened as fast as he grew wise enough to govern himself, that Eugenio always carried about with him an inward conviction of the great love and wisdom of his parents and his tutor. The humours of the child now and then felt some reluctance against the pious discipline of his parents; but now he is arriv|ed at man's estate, there is nothing that he looks back upon with greater satisfaction than the steps of their conduct, and the instances of his own submission. He often recounts these things with pleasure, as some of the chief favours of heaven, whereby he was guarded through all the dangers and follies of youth and childhood, and effectually kept, through Divine Grace opperating by these means, from a thousand sorrows, and perhaps from everlasting ruin.

Though he was released some years from the strictness of parental government, yet he still makes his parents his chosen friends: and though they cease to practise authority upon him, and absolute command, yet he pays the

utmost deference to their counsels, and to the first notice of their inclinations. You shall never find him resisting and debating against their desires and propensities in little common things of life, which are indifferent in them|selves; he thinks it carries in it too much contempt of those whom God and nature re|quire him to honor. Whensoever he enters into any important action of life, he takes a filial pleasure to seek advice from his worthy parents; and it is uneasy to him to attempt any thing of moment without it. He does not indeed universally practise all their sentiments, but he gains their consent to follow his own reason and choice.

Some of the wild young gentlemen of the age may happen to laugh at him for being so much a boy still, and for showing such subjection to the old folks, (as they call them:) with a scorn|ful smile they bid him "Break off his leading-strings and cast away his yokes of bondage." But for the most part he observes, that the same persons shake off all yokes at once, and at once break the bonds of nature, duty, and religion: they pay but little regard to their superior in heaven, any more than those on earth, and have forgotten God and their pa|rents together. "Nor will I ever be moved (says he) with the reproaches of those who make a jest of things sacred as well as civil, and treat their mother and their Maker with the same contempt."

LOVE.

THE intentions of Erastus are very honor|able; he has a passionate fondness for Isabella, which is easily discovered in the advantageous picture he gives of her; yet there appears one feature wanting to finish the portrait: he says nothing of the character and disposition of her mind. These are not what affect him. Her beauty, her graceful air, her lively gaiety, have irresistable charms; these are enough for him, and he imagines there can be no greater happiness than the possession of so love|ly a person. While under the beams of her eyes, he is transported with extasy; but when she is absent, languishes and pines in restless uneasiness. Is not this love? Erastus thinks it is; and believes he is more passionately in love than any other man upon earth: but I see from whence his error springs; he mis|takes for love what is only a corporeal appe|tite.

NEVER did love appear more ardent than between Lysander and Daphne. Innumerable obstacles stood in their way, over which their courage enabled them to triumph. Bolts, bars, and walls secured the fair prisoner. Three or four prudish jailors with a devout twang of the nose exhorted her to continence; and proposing themselves for an example, invited her to sigh like them for no other husband than the spouse in the Canticles: but the lad|der delivered her at once from the cloisters

and these lectures. Lysander, whose father at the same time was endeavouring to disinher|it him, preferred the interest of his heart to that of his fortune, and the possession of Daph|ne to the ties of blood. He fled with her to vow at the foot of the altar an eternal fidelity.—The first year is not yet past, and Lysander is already false. Daphne weeps, sighs, and la|ments: however, she has comforters who may one day help her to revenge his perfidy. But what can be the cause of this sudden change? Lysander and Daphne had mistaken for love the powerful impulses of a warm consti|tution. This deceived them, and as they are both impatient and impetuous spirits, their vexations and disappointments are as keen as their appetites are violent.

CALISTA was young and beautiful, blest with an uncommon share of solid sense enliven|ed by the most sprightly wit. Agathocles ex|ceeded her very little in point of age; he was well made, brave, and prudent. He had the good fortune to be introduced at Calista's, where his looks, wandering indifferently over a brilliant circle, soon distinguished and fixed upon her: but endeavouring to recover him|self from the short extasy which his first glance produced, he immediately reproached himself as being guilty of rudeness and disregard to the rest of the company; and this fault he endeavoured to repair, by looking round upon other objects. Vain attempt! they are at|tracted

by an irresistable charm, and again turned towards Calista. He blushed as well as she, whilst a sweet emotion hitherto unfelt played about his heart and disconcerted all his looks. They both became at the same time more timid and more curious. With pleasure he gazed at Calista, and yet could not do it without trembling: whilst she, secretly pleased with this flattering preference, looked at him by stealth. They were both afraid, but espe|cially Calista, of being caught by the other in the fact, and both were so almost every mo|ment. The hour of separation came, and they thought came too soon. They made painful reflections on the rapidity of time. Imagina|tion, however, did not suffer a total separation to take place: for the image of Calista was deeply engraven on the mind of Agathocles, and the lineaments of his person were as strong|ly impressed on that of Calista. They both appeared less cheerful the rest of the day; a lively and interesting sentiment, whatever it was, employed their minds, which no amuse|ment could banish. It was two days before they saw each other again; and though dur|ing this interval their whole time had been filled up, either by business or recreations, they both felt a languid anxiety which render|ed every thing insipid, a void in their minds which we want words to define, and of which they knew not the cause; but discovered it the very instant at their meeting; for the

perfect contentment, the soothing delight, which they tasted in the presence of each oth|er, would not suffer them to be longer ignorant of the cause of their melancholy. Agathocies now collected himself, and assumed the cour|age to address Calista; he accosted her with the most polite and obliging expressions, and for the first time enjoyed the happiness of a particular conversation with her. He had hitherto seen only her exterior charms: he now discovered the beauties of her mind, the integrity of her heart, the dignity of her senti|ments, and the delicacy of her wit; but what still more delighted him, was the pleasing hope that she did not think him unworthy of her esteem. From this time his visits became very frequent; in every one of which he dis|covered some new perfection. This is the characteristic of real merit; it is a gainer by being laid open to the inspection of a judicious eye. A man of understanding will soon be disgusted with the wanton, the foolish, and the giddy: but if he has conceived a passion for a woman worthy of himself, time, so far from weakening his attachment, can only serve to increase and strengthen it.

The fixed inclination of Agathocles made him now sensible, that which he felt for Ca|lista was love; and that of the most tender and passionate kind. This he knew; but Calista was still unacquainted with it, or at least had never learnt it from his lips. Love is timor|ous

and dissident: a bold and daring suitor is not the lover of the lady he addresses; the only object of his love is pleasure. At last he took the resolution to lay open his heart to Calista, but not in the studied language of a romantic passion. "Lovely Calista," said he, "ingenuously, it is not merely esteem that en|gages me to you; but the most passionate and tender affection. I feel that I cannot live with|out you. Can you without reluctance resolve to make me happy? I have hitherto loved without offending you, this is a tribute which your merit demands; but may I flatter my|self with the hope, that you will make me some small return?" A coquette would have affected to be displeased; but Calista not on|ly heard her lover without interruption, but answered him without severity, and permitted him to hope. Nor did she put his constancy to a needless trial. The happiness for which he sighed was deferred no longer than was proper, to make the necessary preparations. The marriage-settlements were easily adjusted, for in these, sordid interest had no share; this solemn contract chiefly consisted in a mutual exchange of hearts, and this was already per|formed. What will be the lot of this newly wedded pair? I will venture to foretel that it will be the happiest that mortals can enjoy on earth. No pleasure is comparable to that which affects the heart; nor does any o|ther affect it with such exquisite delight as the pleasure of loving and being beloved. To

this tender union of souls we can never apply the words of Democritus, that "the pleasure of love is only a short epilepsy." He without doubt had the sensual pleasure in his thought, which is so different from love, that the enjoy|ment may be without the passion, and the passion without the enjoyment. Their love, will be constant. This I dare prophesy, and I know the cause: their passion is not founded on the dazzling charms of beauty, they are both the friends of virtue: they love each other on this account; their love, therefore, will last as long as their virtue, and the con|tinuance of that is secured by their union:—for nothing can secure our perseverance in the paths of wisdon so effectually as having incess|antly a loving and beloved example walking before us. Their felicity can never be disturb|ed unless by those disasters and misfortunes from which their mutual tenderness cannot shelter them: but supposing these should full to their share, they would then only partake of the common lot of mankind. Those who have never tasted the tender delights of love are equally exposed to disappointment; and the l••ver is at least a gainer, with respect to those pleasures which are of great account in the estimation of the value of life. Add to this, that love will greatly diminish the sense of their misfortunes. It has the peculiar vir|tue of rendering the sufferings of two well|paired hearts less acute, and their delights

more exquisite. It would seem as if by com|municating their distresses, each one felt but half their weight; while on the contrary, sat|isfactions are doubled by the participation.—As a squadron of soldiers is with more difficul|ty defeated in proportion to its closeness, so the happy pair resist ••he attacks of trouble and adversity with so much the more strength and success as they are firmly united.

LUXURY.

WHEN Cyrus had received an account that the Lydians had revolted from him, he told Croesus, with a good deal of emotion, that he had almost determined to make them all slaves. Croesus begged him to pardon them: "But" says he, "that they may no more rebel, or be troublesome to you, command them to lay aside their arms, to wear long vests and bus|kins, i. e. to vie with eack other in the elegance and richness of their dress. Order them to sing and play on the harp, let them drink and debauch, and you will soon see their spirits broken, and themselves changed from men to women, so that they will no more rebel, or give you uneasiness;" and the event answer|ed the advice.

The luxury of Capua destroyed the bravest army which Italy ever saw, flushed with con|quest, and commanded by Hannibal. The moment Capua was taken, the moment the walls of Carthage trembled. They caught the

infection, and grew fond of pleasure; which rendered them effeminate, and of course an easy prey to their enemies.

IT is to the victory over Antiochus, and the conquest of Asia, that Pliny dates the corrup|tion of the manners of the Roman common|wealth, and of the fatal change that happened in it by introducing at Rome, with the rich|es it brought thither, a taste for luxury and vo|luptuousness. Asia conquered Rome by its vices. Foreign riches put an end to the love of industry and the antient simplicity which had been the principles of its honor and strength. Luxury, which entered Rome as in triumph, with the superb spoils of Asia, brought with it in its train all kinds of disor|ders and crimes, made more havock than the most numerous armies could have done, and, in that manner avenged the conquered globe. Thus the face of the state was changed, vir|tue, valour, and disinterestedness were no longer esteemed; the opposite vices prevailed, and the government from just and wise be|came tyrannical and insupportable.

WHAT is the subtle secret poison which thus lurks under the pomp of luxury and the charms of pleasure, and is capable of enerva|ting at the same time both the whole strength of the body, and the vigour of the mind; It is not very difficult to comprehend why it has this terible effect. When men are accustom|ed to a soft and voluptuous life, can they be

very fit for undergoing the fatigues and hard|ships of war? Are they qualified for suffering the rigour of the seasons, for enduring hung|er and thirst, for passing whole nights without sleep upon occasion, for going through con|tinual exercise and action, for facing danger and dispising death? The natural effect of vo|luptuousness and delicacy, which are the in|separable companions of luxury, is to render them subject to a multitude of false wants and necessities, to make their happiness depend up|on a thousand trifling conveniencies and super|fluities, which they can no longer be without, and to give them an unreasonable fondness for life on account of a thousand secret ties and engagements that endear it to them, and which by stifling in them the great motives of glory, of love for their country, render them fearful and cowardly, and hinder them from expos|ing themselves to dangers which may in a moment deprive them of all those things wherein they place felicity.

MAGNANIMITY.

THE inhabitants of Privernum being sub|dued and taken prisoners after a revolt, one of them being asked by a Roman senator, who was for putting them all to death, what punishment he and his fellow captives deserv|ed, answered with great intrepidity, "We de|serve that punishment which is due to men who are jealous of their 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and think

themselves worthy of it." Plautinus perceiv|ing that his answer exasperated some of the senators, endeavored to prevent the ill effects of it, by putting a milder question to the pri|soner: "How would you behave, says he, if Rome should pardon you?" "Our conduct, replied the generous captive, depends upon yours. If the peace you grant be an honora|ble one, you may depend on a constant fidelity on our part; if the terms of it be hard and dishonorable, lay no stress on our adherence to you." Some of the judges construed these words as menaces; but the wiser part finding in them a great deal of magnanimity, cried out, that a nation whose only desire was lib|erty, and their only fear that of losing it, was worthy to become Roman. Accordingly a decree passed in favor of the prisoners. Thus the bold sincerity of one man saved his coun|try, and gained it the privilege of being in|corporate into the Roma•• ••tate.

FRIENDSHIP.

WHEN Damon was sentenced by Dionysius of Syracuse to die on a certain day, he begged permission, in the interim, to retire to his own country, to set the affairs of his disconsolate family in order. This the tyrant intended pe|remtorily to refuse, by granting it, as he con|ceived, on the impossible conditions of his pro|curing some one to remain as hostage for his return, under equal forfeiture of life. Pythi|as

as heard the conditions, and did not wait for an application upon the part of Damon; he in|stantly offered himself as security for his friend, which, being accepted, Damon was immedi|ately set at liberty. The king and all the courtiers were astonished at this action; and therefore when the day of execution drew near, his majesty had the curiosity to visit Pythias in his confinement. After some con|versation on the subject of friendship, in which the tyrant delivered it as his opinion that self|interest was the sole mover of human actions; as for virtue, friendship, benevolence, love of one's country, and the like; he looked upon them as terms invented by the wise to keep in awe and impose upon the weak. "My lord," said Pythias, with a firm voice and noble as|pect, "I would it were possible that I might suffer a thousand deaths, rather than my friend should fail in any article of his honor. He cannot fail therein my lord: I am as confident of his virtue as I am of my own existence.—But I pray, I beseech the gods, to preserve the life and integrity of my dear Damon to|gether: oppose him, ye winds, prevent the eagerness and impatience of his honorable en|deavours, and suffer him not to arrive till by my death I have redeemed a life a thousand times of more consequence, of more value, than my own; more estimable to his lovely wife; to his precious little innocents, to his friends, to his country. O leave me not to

die the worst of deaths in my Damon." Dio|nysius was awed and confounded by the digni|ty of these sentiments, and by the manner in which they were uttered: he felt his heart struck by a slight sense of invading truth;—but it served rather to perplex than undeceive him. The fatal day arrived. Pythias was brought forth, and walked amidst the guards with a serious, but satisfied air, to the place of execution. Dionysius was already there; he was exalted on a moving throne, that was drawn by six white horses, and fat pensive and attentive to the prisoner. Pythias came, he vaulted lightly on the scaffold, and beholding for some time the apparatus of his death, he turned with a placid countenance, and address|ed the spectators: "My prayers are heard," he cried, "the gods are propitous; you know, my friends, that the winds have been contrary till yesterday. Damon could not come, he could not conquer impossibilites; he will be here to|morrow, and the blood which is shed to-day, shall have ransomed the life of my friend. O could I erase from your bosom every doubt, every mean suspicion, of the honor of the man for whom I am about to suffer, I shall go to my death even as I would to my bridal. Be it sufficient in the mean time, that my friend will be found noble, that his truth is unimpeach|able; that he will speadily prove it: that he is now on his way, hurrying on, accusing him|self, and adverse elements, and the gods: but

I haste to prevent his speed; executioner, to your office." As he pronounced the last words, a buz began to rise among the remo|test of the people; a distant voice was heard; the croud caught the words, and Stop Stop the execution, was repeated by the whole ass|embly: a man at full speed; the throng gave way to his approach: he was mounted on a steed of foam: in an instant he was off his horse, on the scaffold, and held Pythias straitly embraced. "You are safe," he cried, "you are safe, my friend, my beloved friend, the gods be praised, you are safe. I now have nothing but death to suffer and am delivered from the anguish of those reproaches which I gave myself, for having endangered a life so much dearer than my own." Pale, cold, and half speechless in the arms of his Damon, Pythias replied in broken accents—"Fatal haste!—Cruel impatience!—What envious powers have wrought impossibilities in your favour?—But I will not be wholly disappoint|ed.—Since I cannot die to save, I will not survive you." Dionysius heard, beheld, and considered all with astonishment. His heart was touched, he wept, and leaving his throne, he ascended the scaffold. "Live, live, ye in|comparable pair!" he cried, "ye have borne unquestionable testimony to the existence of virtue! and that virtue equally evinces the ex|istence of a God to reward it. Live happy, live renowned: and, O! form me by your

precepts, as ye have invited me by your ex|ample, to be worthy of so sacred a friendship."

GENEROSITY.

THE conduct of the wa•• against Falisci be|ing committed to the care of Camillus, the Roman dictator, he besieged Falerii, their ca|pital city, and surrounded it with lines; but at so great a distance from their walls, that there was sufficient room for the besieged to take the air without danger. The Falisci had brought from Greece the custom of commit|ting all their children to the care of one man, who was to instruct them in all the branches of polite literature, to take them out a walk|ing with him, and see them perform the exer|cises proper for their age. The children had used often to walk with their master without the walls-of their city before the siege; and the fears of an enemy, who kept quiet and as such a distance, were not great enough to make them discontinue their exercise after|wards. But the present school-master proved a traitor. He at first led the youths only a|long the walls, then he carried them a little farther; and at length, when a favorable op|portunity offered, he led them through the guards of the Roman camp, quite to the ge|neral's tent. As they were the children of the best families in the place, their treacher|ous leader, when he c••me into 〈◊〉〈◊〉 presence, addressed him thus: "With these

children I deliver the place 〈◊〉〈◊〉 besieg•• into your ••ands; they were committed to my care and 〈◊〉〈◊〉, but I prefer the friendship of Rome to my employment at 〈◊〉〈◊〉" Ca|millus, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with horror at the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, and looking on him with a menacing air:—"Traitor, says he, you do not address your|self with your impious present either to a ge|neral or a 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that resemble you; we have indeed no express and formal alliance with the 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 that which nature hath esta|blished between all men both does, and shall 〈◊〉〈◊〉 between 〈◊〉〈◊〉. War has its rights as well as peace; and we have learned to make it with no less justice than 〈◊〉〈◊〉. We are in arms, not against an age which is spared even in cities taken by assault, but against men armed like ourselves; men, who, without any previous injury from us, attacked the Roman camp at Veii. Thou, to the utmost of thy power, hast succeeded them by a new and different kind of crime; but for me, I shall conquer, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Veil, by Roman arts, by va|lour, works, and perseverance."

The traitor was not dismissed with this re|primand only: Camillus caused him to be stripped, and to have his hands tied behind him; and arming the young scholars with rods he ordered them to drive him back into the city, and to scourge him all the way, which no doubt they did with a good will.

At this sight the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, who had been

inconsolable for the loss of their children, rais|ed cries of joy: they were charmed to such a degree, with so uncommon an example of justice and virtue, that in an instant they en|tirely changed their disposition in respect to the Romans, and resolved that moment to have a peace with such generous enemies. Ac|cordingly they sent deputies first to the camp, and afterwards to Rome; where, when they had audience of the senate, they addressed themselves to it in these terms: "Illustrious fathers, conquered by you, and your general, in a manner that can give no offence to gods and men, we come to surrender ourselves to you; and we assure ourselves, than which nothing can be more glorious for victors, that we shall live happier under your government, than under our own laws. The event of this war has brought forth two excellent examples for mankind. You, fathers, have preferred justice to immediate conquest; and we, ex|cited by that justice which we admire, volun|tarily present you the victory.

HAPPINESS.

MONIMA was a lady whom all Greece ad|mired, not so much for her beauty, though confessedly exquisite, as for her wisdom and prudence. Mithridates, king of Pontus, who, excepting Alexander, was the greatest of kings, having fallen desperately in love with her, had forgotten nothing that might incline her to

favour his passion: he sent her at once fifteen thousand pieces of gold; but her virtue was proof against every attack. She refused his pre|sents till he gave her the quality of a wife and queen, sent her the royal tiara or diadem; an essential ceremony in the marriage of the kings of those nations. Nor did she then comply without extreme regret. A more humble station was what she would much rather have chosen; but her friends, dazzled with the splendor of a crown, and the power of Mithri|dates, who was at that time every where victo|rious, and at the height of his glory, insisted on her acceptance of so advantageous an offer. She complied, and the world thought her happy; but they were greatly mistaken. That unfortunate princess passed her life in contin|ual sadness and affliction, lamented her fatal beauty that instead of an husband had given her a master, and instead of procuring her an honorable abode and the endearments of con|jugal society, had confined her in a close pris|on, under a guard of barbarians; 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 removed from the delightful regions of Greece she only enjoyed a dream of that happiness with which she had been flattered, and really lost that solid and substantial good she possessed in her own country. But her misery was not yet complete. Mithridates, who for thirty years had maintained a war against the Ro|mans, was at last defeated by Lucullus in the plains of Cabirae. Even at this battle fortune

sec••••ed to smile on him as formerly, so he had greatly the advantage in the 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 but, on a sudden, fortune, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, wealth, and every thing the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 calls great, forsook him, in short, he was so completely conquered in a third 〈…〉〈…〉 obliged to make his escape on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and with|out a single servant ••o attend him. 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 this defeat and supposing that his 〈◊〉〈◊〉 would fall into the hands of Lucu••••••••, jealously 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cruelty prompted him to send her orders to die by the hands of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the eunuch. When this messenger of death arrived and had signified to the princess the order of Mith|ridates, which favoured her no 〈◊〉〈◊〉 than to leave her at liberty to chuse the kind of death she thought most gentle and 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉, taking the diadem from her hand, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 it round her neck, and hung herself up by it; but that wreath not being strong enough, and breaking, she cried out, "Ah, fatal trifle, you might at least do me this mournful office." Then throwing it away with indignation, ••he presented her neck to Bacchidas, who dispatch|ed her with one resentless stroke. As for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 though he recovered his kingdom again, he did not long enjoy it; for being dri|ven by Pompey to his son Pharnaces, he there 〈…〉〈…〉 which 〈…〉〈…〉

then living himself abandoned by all the world, and that even his son would no•• suffer him to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 where he could, retired to his apartment, and after giving poison to such of his wives and daughters 〈◊〉〈◊〉 were with him at the time, he took the same himself; but when he perceived that it had not its effect up|on him, he had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to his sword.

WORLD.

ALMET, the dervise, who watched the sa|cred lamp to the sepolchre of the prophet, as he one day rose up from the devotions of the mor••ing, which he had performed at the gate of the temple, with his body, turned towards the ••ast, and his forehead on the earth, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be|fore him a man in splendid apparel 〈◊〉〈◊〉 by a long 〈◊〉〈◊〉, who gazed stedfastly at him with a look of mournful compla•••••••••• and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 desired, to speak, but unwilling to of|fend.

The 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 a short silence, advanced, 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 him with the calm dignity which 〈…〉〈…〉 upon humility, request|ed 〈…〉〈…〉 his purpose. 〈…〉〈…〉

and as I expect nothing in the future but the vanities of the past, I do not wish that the future 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 sea upon the path of a ship, and leave no traces of my ex|istence more durable than the furrow which remains after the waves have united. If in the treasures of thy wisdom, there is any pre|cept to obtain felicity, vouchsafe it to me: for this purpose I am come: a purpose which yet I feared to reveal, lest, like all the former, it should be disappointed." Almet listened with looks of astonishment and pity, to this com|plaint of a being in whom reason was known to be a pledge of immortality: but the serenity of his countenance soon returned; and, stretch|ing out his hand towards heaven, "Stranger," said he, "the knowledge which I have receiv|ed from the prophet I will communicate to thee."

As I was sitting one evening at the porch of the temple, pensive and alone, mine eye wandered among the multitude that was scat|tered before me; and while I remarked the weariness and solicitude which was visible in every countenance, I was suddenly struck with a sense of their condition. "Wretched mor|tals," said I, "to what purpose are ye busy? If to produce happiness, by whom is it enjoyed? Do the linens of Egypt, and the silks of Per|sia,

bestow felicity on those who wear them, equal to the wretchedness of vonder 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 tra|verse the desart: a scene of dreadful uniform|ity, where a barren level i•• bounded only by the horizon; where no change of prospect, or variety of images, relieves the travellor from a sense of toil and danger, of whirl-winds, which in a moment may bury him in the sand, and of thirst, which the wealthy have given half their possessions to alley? Do those on whom hereditary diamonds sparkle with unregarded lustre gain from the possession, what is left by the wretch who seeks them in the mine; who lives excluded from the common bounties of nature, to whom even the vicissitude of day and night is not known, who sighs in perpet|ual darkness, and whose 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 one mournful alternative of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and labour. If th••se are not happy who possess in proportion at these are wretched who bestow, how vain a dream is the 〈…〉〈…〉

of a sudden influence 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 Arozan, the minister of reproof. When I saw him, I was afraid, I cast mine eye upon the ground, and was about to desperate 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 presumption 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, beauti|ful 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 im|penetrable 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 impreg|nated the breeze with fragrance, and painted the path with her beauty: on 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 perceiv|ed a man stealing along the walk with a thoughtful and deliberate pace: his eyes were fixed upon the earth, and his arms crossed on his bossom: 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 mo|ment on the desart that lay before him, he seemed as if he wished to stop, but was impel|led forward by some invisible power; his fea|tures, however, soon settled again into a calm melancholy; his eye was again fixed on the ground; and he went on as before, with ap|parent reluctance, but without emotion. I was struct with this appearance; and turning hastily to the angel, was about to enquire what could produce such infelicity in a being sur|rounded 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 af|forded no shade; the sun burised in the ze|nith, and every spring was dried up; but the valley terminated in a country that was pleas|ant and fertile, shaded with woods and adorn|ed with buildings. At a second view I discov|ered

a man in the 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 run, but that he was restrained, as the other had been impelled, by some secret influence: sometimes, indeed, I perceived a sudden expression of pain, and sometimes he stopped 〈◊〉〈◊〉, as if his foot was pierced by the asperities o•• the way: but the sprightliness of his countenance instantly returned, and he pressed forward without appearance of repin|ing o•• com|plaint.

I returned again toward the angel, impa|tient, to enquire from what secret source hap|piness was derived, in a situation so different from that in which it might have been expect|ed but he again prevented my request: "Al|met," said he, "remember what thou hast seem and let this memorial be written upon the tablets of thy heart. Remember, Almet, that the world in which thou art placed, is but the road to another, and that happiness de|pends not upon the path, but the end, the value of this period of thy existence is fixed by hope and fear. The wretch who wished to linger in the garden, who looked round upon its 〈◊〉〈◊〉 with terror, was destitute of enjoyment, be|cause he was destitute of hope, and was perpe|tually tormented by the dread of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 he 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not enjoy: the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had been 〈◊〉〈◊〉 till it was not heard,

and the flowers had so often recurred that their beauty was not seen; the river glided by unnoticed; and he feared to lift his eye to the prospect, lest he should behold the waste that circumscribed it. But he that toiled thro' the valley was happy, because he looked for|ward with hope. Thus, to the sojourner up|on earth, it is of little moment whether the path he treads be strewed with flowers or with thorns, if he perceives himself to approach those regions; in comparison of which 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 distributed? That which can make every sta|tion happy, and without which every station must be wretched, is acquired by virtue; and virtue is possible to all. Remember Almet, the vision thou hast seen; and let my words be written on the tablet of thy heart, that thou mayest direct the wanderer to happiness, and justify God to men."

While the voice of Azoran was yet sound|ing in my ear, the prospect vanished from be|fore me, and I found myself again sitting at the porch of the temple. The sun was going down, the multitude was retired to rest, and the solemn quiet of midnight concurred with the resolution of my doubts to complete the tranquility of my mind.

Such, my son, was the vision which the pro|phet

vouchsafed me, not for my sake only, but for thine. Thou hast sought felicity in tem|poral things, and therefore thou art disappoint|ed. Let not instruction be lost upon thee, as the seal of Mahomet in the well of Aris: but go thy way, let thy flock clothe the naked, and thy table feed the hungry; deliver the poor from appression, and let thy conversation be above. Thus shalt thou rejoice in hope, and look forward to the end of life as the con|summation of thy felicity.

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

VIRTUE AND VICE.

AN eminent citizen, who had lived in good fashion and credit, was, by a train of accidents, and by an unavoidable perplexity in his af|fairs, reduced to a low condition. There is a modesty usuly attending faultless poverty, which made him rather choose to reduce his manner of living to his present circumstances, than solicit his friends, in order to support the shew of an estate, when the substance was gone. His wife, who was a woman of sense and vir|tue, behaved herself on this occasion with un|common decency, and never appeared so ami|able in his eyes as now. Instead of upbraid|ing him with the ample fortune she had bro't, or the many great offers she had refused for his sake, she redoubled all the instances of her

affection, while her husband was continually pouring out his heart to her in complaints, that he had ruined the best of women in the world. He sometimes came home at a time when she did not expect him, and surprised her in tears; which she endeavoured to conceal, and always put on an air of cheerfulness to re|ceive him. To less••n their expence, their eld|est 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 pri|vately engaged a friend in the neighbourhood to give her an account of what passed from time to time 〈◊〉〈◊〉 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 a hear|ty aversion to marriage. He therefore enter|tained a desing upon Amanda's virtue, which at present he thought fit to keep private.—The innocent creature, who never suspected 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 capacity for supporting her im|poverished relations. One 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 strip|ped of every thing by an execution. The lov|er, who with some difficulty found out the cause of her grief, took this occasion to make her a proposal. It is impossible to express A|manda's confusion when she found his preten|sions were not honourable. She was now de|serted of all her hopes, and had no power to speak; but rushing from him in the utmost disturbance, locked herself up in her chamber. He immediately dispatched a messenger to her father with the following letter:

SIR,

I HAVE heard of your misfortune, and have offered your daughter, if she will live with me, to settle on her four hundred pounds a year, and lay down the sum for which you are now distressed. I will be so ingenuous, 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 surprise and concern. She did not think it proper to explain herself to the messenger;—but desiring him to call again the next morn|ing, she wrote to her daughter as follows:

"Dearest child,

YOUR father and I have just now receiv|ed 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 their children to infamy and ruin? It is a mean and cruel artifice to make this proposal at a time when he thinks our neces|sities 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 a|void the snare 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 had brought us an unexpected supply of a debt which has long been owing! Oh! I will now tell thee all. It is some days I have lived almost without sup|port, 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 ••••on be at liberty. That cruel letter would have broke his heart, but I have concealed it from

him. I have no companion at present besides 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 discover|ed that my present trouble is about you. But do not think 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 cheer|fully an affliction, which we have not brought on 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 dear child.

Thy affectionate mother—

The messenger, notwithstanding he promis|ed to deliver 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 impa|tient to know the success of his proposal, and therefore 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 resolv|ed not to suppress the letter, but carefully seal|ed 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 mo|ther. He would not part with it but upon condition that she would read it without leav|ing

the room. While she was perusing it, he fixed his eyes on her face with the deepest at|tention; 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 resolved to make rep|aration for having been the occasion of it. My reader will not be displeased to see the second epistle which he now wrote to Amanda's mo|ther.

MADAM,

"I AM full of shame, and will never for|give myself, if I have not your pardon for what I lately wrote. It was far from my in|tention 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 endeavour to make you amends as a son. You cannot be unhappy, while A|manda is your daughter: nor shall be, if any thing can prevent it which is in the power of,

Madam,

Your most obdient humble servant—.

This letter he sent by his steward, and soon after went up to town himself to complete the generous act he had now resolved on. By his friendship and assistance Amanda's father was quickly in a condition of retrieving his per|plexed affairs. To conclude, he married A|manda, and enjoyed the double satisfaction of

having restored a worthy family to their for|mer prosperity, and of making himself happy by an alliance to their virtues.

THE following letter is written with such an air of sincerity, and affords so worthy an ex|ample to every person in the same circumstan|ces, and under the same temptation, that I can|not resist the pleasure of adding it to this col|lection. It is from a young lady of small for|tune ••o a gentleman who had made a declar|tion of his passion for her: but the inequality of their fortunes made him think he could not answer it to the world, if he pursued his de|signs by way of marriage, and, therfore had made proposals of gaining her upon other terms.

SIR,

AFTER very much perplexity in myself, and revolving how to acquaint you with my own sentiments, and expostulate with you concerning yours, I have chosen this way;—by which means I can be at once revealed to you, or, if you please lie concealed. If I do not within a few days find the effect which I hope from this, the whole affair shall be buri|ed in oblivion. But, alas! what am I going to do, when I am about to tell you that I love you? But after I have done so, I am to assure you, that with all the passion which ever en|tered a tender heart, I know I can banish you from my sight forever, when I am convinced that you have no inclinations towards me but

to my dishonor. But, alas! Sir why should you sacrifice the real and essential happiness of life to the opinion of a world, that moves upon no other foundation but professed error and prejudice? You all can observe, that riches alone do not make you happy, and yet give up every thing else when it stands in competi|tion with riches. Since the world is so bad that religion is left to us silly women, and you men act generally upon principles of profit and pleasure, I will talk to you without argu|ing from any thing but what may be most to your advantage, as a man of the world. And I will lay before you the state of the case;—supposing that you had it in your power to make me your mistress or your wife, and hope to convince you that the latter is more for your interest, and will contribute more to your pleasure.

We will suppose then the scene was laid, and you were now in expectation of the ap|proaching evening wherein I was to meet you, and be carried to what convenient corner of the town you thought fit, to consummate all which your want on imagination has promised you in the possession of one who is in the bloom of youth, and in the reputation of innocence: you would soon have enough of me, as I am sprightly, young, gay an ••airy. When fancy is sated, and finds all the promises it made itself false, where is now the innocence which charmed you? The first hour you are alone

you will find that the pleasure of a debauchee is only that of a destroyer? he blasts all the fruit he tastes; and where the brute has been devouring, there is nothing left worthy the relish of man. Reason resumes her place af|ter imagination is cloyed; and I am, with the utmost distress and confusion, to behold my|self the cause of uneasy reflections to you, to be visited by stealth, and dwell for the future with the two companions, (the most unfit for each other in the world) solitude and guilt.—I will not insist upon the shameful obscurity we should pass our time in, nor run over the little short snatches of fresh air and free com|merce which all people must be satisfied with, whose actions will not bear examination, but leave them to your reflections, who have seen much of that life of which I have but a mere idea.

On the other hand, if you can be so good and generous as to make me your wife, you may promise yourself all the obedience and tender••ess with which gratitude can inspire a virtuous woman. Whatever gratifications you may promise yourself from an agreeable person, whatever compliances from an easy temper, whatever consolations from a sincere friendship, you may expect as the due of your generosity. What at present in your ill view you promise yourself from me, will be follow|ed by distaste and satiety; but the transports of a virtuous love are the least part of its happi|ness.

The raptures of innocent passion are but like lightning to the day, they rather in|terrupt than advance the pleasure of it. How happy then is that life to be, where the high|est pleasures of sense are but the lowest parts of its felicity.

"Now am I to repeat to you the unnatural request of taking me in direct terms. I know there stands between me and that happiness, the haughty daughter of a man who can give you suitably to your fortune. But if you weigh the attendance and behavior of her who comes to you in partnership of your fortune, and expect an equivalent, with that of her who enters your house as honoured and obli|ged by that permission, whom of the two will you choose? You, perhaps, will think fit to spend a day abroad in the common entertain|ments of men of sense and fortune, she will think herself ill used in that absense, and contrive at home an expence proportioned to the appear|ance which you make in the world. She is in all things to have a regard to the fortune which she brought you, I to the fortune to which you introduced me. The commerce between you two will eternally have the air of a bargain, between us of a friendship; joy will ever enter into the room with you, and kind wishes attend my benefactor when he leaves it. Ask yourself, how would you be pleased to enjoy for ever the pleasure of having laid an immediate obligation on a greatful mind?—

Such will be your case with me. In the oth|er marriage you will live in a constant compar|ison of benefits, and never know the happi|ness of confering or receiving any.

"It may be you will, after all, act rather in the prudential way, according to the sense of the ordinary world. I know not what I think or say, when that melancholy reflection comes upon me: but shall only add more, that it is in your power to make me your grateful wife, but never your abandoned mistress.

T."

I know not how to conclude this subject more affectingly than with the following el|egy, describing the sorrow of an ingenuous mind on the melancholy event of a licentious amour. By this single example we may col|lect this important truth, that true pleasure is only to be found in the paths of virtue, and every deviation from it will be attended with pain and remorse, enless by frequent repeti|tion the mind becomes callous and totally lost to every humane, tender, and virtuous sensa|tion; and then the very pleasure we receive in the practice of vice is in itself a punishment, because while that pleasure continues there is no hope of leaving it.

WHY mourns my friend! why weeps his down cast eye? That eye where mirth, where fancy us'd to shine, Thy cheerful meads reprove that swelling sigh; Spring n'er enamell'd fairer meads than thine.

Art thou not lodg'd in Fortune's worm em|brace? Wert thou not form'd by nature's partial care? Blest in thy song, and blest in ev'ry grace That wins the friend or that enchants the fair? Damon, said he, thy partial praise restrain; Not Damon's friendship can my peace re|store; Alas! his very praise awakes my pain, And my poor wounded bosom bleeds the more. For oh! that nature on my birth had frown'd! Or fortune fix'd me to some lowly cell! Then had my bosom 'scap'd this fatal wound, Nor had I bid these vernal sweets farewel. But led by Fortune's hand, her darling child, My youth her vain licentious bliss admir'd; In Fortune's train the syren Flatt'ry smil'd, And rashly hallow'd all her queen inspir'd. Of folly studious, e'en of vices vain, Ah vices gilded by the rich and gay! I chas'd the guileless daughters of the plain, Nor dropt the chace till Jessy was my prey. Poor artless maid! to stain thy spotless name, Expence and art, and toil, united strove; To lure a breast that felt the purest flame; Sustain'd by virtue, but betray'd by love. School'd in the science of love's mazy wiles, I cloth'd each feature with affected scorn; I spoke of jealous doubts, and fickle smiles, And, feigning, left her anxious and forlorn.

Then while the fancy'd rage alarm'd her care, Warm to deny and zealous to disprove; I bade my words the wonted softness wear, And seiz'd the minute of returning love. To thee, my Damon, dare I paint the rest; Will yet thy love a candid ear incline? Assur'd that virtue, by misfortune prest, Feels not the sharpness of a pang like mine. Nine envious moons matur'd her growing shame; Ere while to flaunt it in the face of day: When scorn'd of virtue, stigmatiz'd by fame, Low at my feet desponding Jessy lay. "Henry, she said, by thy dear form sabdu'd, See the sad reliques of a nymph undone! I find, I find this rising sob renew'd: I sigh in shades, and sicken at the sun. Amid the dreary gloom of night I cry, When will the morn's once pleasing scenes return? Yet what can morn's returning ray supply, But foes that triumph, or but friends that mourn! Alas! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, And ting'd a mother's glowing cheek with shame. The vocal birds that raised their matin strain, The sportive lambs, increase my pensive moan, All seem to chase me from the cheerful plain,

And talk of truth and innocence alone. If thro' the garden's flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, Hope not to find delight in us, they say, For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure. Ye flow'rs! that well reproach a nymph so frail, Say, could ye with my virgin fame com|pare? The brightest bud that scents the vernal gale, Was not so fragrant, and was not so fair. Now the grave old alarm the gentler young, And all my fame's abhorr'd contagion flee; Trembles each lip, and faulters ev'ry tongue, That bids the morn propitious smile on me. Thus for your sake I shun each human eye! I bid the sweets of blooming youth adieu; To die I languish, but I dread to die, Lest my sad fate should nourish pangs for you. Raise me from earth; the pains of want re|move, And let me silent seck some friendly shore, There only banish'd from the form I love, My weeping virtue shall relapse no more. Be but my friend; I ask no dearer name; Be such the need of some more artful fair; Nor could it heel my peace, or chase my shame, That pity gave, what love refus'd to share. Force not my tongue to ask its scanty bread;

Nor hurl thy Jessy to the vulgar crew; Not such the parent's board at which I fed! Not such the precept from his lips I drew! Haply, when age has silver'd o'er my hair, Malice may learn to scorn so mean a spoil; Envy may slight a face no longer fair; And pity welcome to my native soil." She spoke—nor was I born of savage race; Nor could these hands a niggard boon as|sign; Grateful she clasp'd me in a last imbrace, And vow'd to waft her life in pray'rs for mine. I saw her foot the lofty bark ascend; I saw her breast with ev'ry passion heave; I left her—torn from ev'ry earthly friend; Oh! my hard bosom, which could bear to leave. Brief let me be; the fatal storm arose; The billows rag'd; the pilot's art was vain; O'er the tall mast the circling surges close; My Jessy—floats upon the wat'ry plain; And—see my youth's impetuous fires decay; Seek not to stop reflection's bitter tear; But warn the frolic, and instruct the gay, From Jessy floating on her wat'ry bier!

FRATERNAL AFFECTION.

IN the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Portugese carracks sailed from Lisbon to Goa, a very great, rich, and flourishing colo|ny of that nation in the East-Indies. There

was no less than twelve hundred souls, marin|ers, passengers, priests, and friars, on board one of these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous; they had doubled the southern extremity of the great continent of Africa, called the cape of Good Hope, and were steering their course northeast, to the great continent of India, when some gentle|men on board, who, having studied geography and navigation, (arts which reflect honor on the possessors) found in the latitude in which they were then sailing a large ridge of rocks laid down in the sea-charts. They no sooner made this discovery, than they acquainted the captain of the ship with the affair, desiring him to communicate the same to the pilot;—which request he immediately granted, re|comended him to lie by in the night, and slack|en sail by day, until they should be past the danger. It is a custom always among the por|tuguese absolutely to commit the failing part, or the navigation of the vessel to the pilot, who is answerable with his head for the safe con|duct or carriage of the king's ships, or those belonging to private traders; and he is un|der no manner of direction from the captain, who commands in every other respect.

The pilot being one of those self-sufficient men who think every hint given them from others in the way of their profession deroga|tory from their understandings, took it as an affront to be taught his art, and instead of

complying with the captain's request, actaul|ly crowded more sail than the vessel had car|ried before. They had not sailed many hours, but just about the dawn of day, a terrible dis|aster befel them, which would have been pre|vented if they had lain by. The ship struck upon a rock. I leave to the reader's imagin|ation, what a scene of horror this dreadful acci|dent must occasion among twelve hundred per|sons, all in the same inevitable danger; behold|ing with fearful astonishment, that instantane|ous death which now stared them in the face!

In this distress, the captain ordered the pin|nace to be launched, into which having toss|ed a small quantity of biscuit and some boxes of marmalade, he jumped in himself with nine|teen others, who with their swords, prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat should sink. In this condition they put off into the great Indian ocean, without a compass to steer by, or fresh water but what might happen to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them. After they had rowed to and fro four days in this miserable condi|tion, the captain, who had been for some time very sick and weak, died; this added, if possi|ble, to their misery, for as they now fell into confusion, every one would govern, and none would obey. This obliged them to elect one of their own company to command them, whose orders they implicitly agreed to follow. This person proposed to the company to draw

lots, and cast every fourth man over-board; as their small stock of provisions was so far spent, as not to be able at a very short allow|ance to sustain life above three days longer.—They were now nineteen persons in all: in this number were a friar and a carpenter, both of whom they would exempt, as the one was useful to absolve and comfort them in their last extremity, and the other to repair the pin|nace in case of a leak or other accident. The same compliment they paid to their new cap|tain, he being the odd man, and his life of much consequence. He refused their indul|gence a great while; but at last they obliged him to acquiesce, so that there were four to die out of the sixteen remaining persons.

The three first, after having confessed and received absolution, submitted to their fate.—The fourth, whom fortune condemned, was a Portugese gentleman that had a younger bro|ther in the boat, who seeing him about to be thrown over-board, most tenderly embraced him, and with tears in his eyes besought him to let him die in his room, enforcing his arguments by telling him that he was a married man, and had a wife and children at Goa, besides the care of three sisters, who absolutely depended upon him; that as for himself, he was single, and his life of no great importance: he there|fore conjured him to suffer him to supply his place. The elder brother, astonished and melt|ing with this generosity, replied, that since

the divine Providence had appointed him to suffer, it would be wicked and unjust to permit any other to die for him, especially a brother, to whom he was so infinitely obliged. The younger, persisting in his purpose, would take no denial: but throwing himself on his knees, held his brother so fast, that the company could not disengage them. Thus they disputed for a while, the elder brother bidding him be a father to his children, and recommended his wife to his protection, and as he would inherit his estate, to take care of their common sis|ters; but all he could say could not make the young man desist. This was a scene of tender|ness that must fill every breast susceptible of generous impressions with pity. At last the constancy of the elder yielded to the piety of the other. He acquiesced, and suffered the gallant youth to supply his place, who being cast into the sea, and a good swimmer, soon got to the stern of the pinnace, and laid hold of the rudder with his right hand, which being perceived by one of the sailors, he cut off the hand with his sword; then dropping into the sea, he presently caught hold again with his left, which received the same fate by a second blow; thus dismembered of both hands, he made a shift notwithstanding to keep himself above water with his seer and two stumps, which he held bleeding upwards.

This moving spectacle so raised the pity of the whole company, that they cried out, He i••

but one man, let us endeavour to save his life; and he was accordingly taken into the boat, where he had his hands bound up as well as the place and circumstances could permit.—They rowed all that night and the next morn|ing: when the sun arose, as if heaven would reward the gallantry and piety of this young man, they descried land, which proved to be the mountains Mozambique, in Africa, nor far from a Portuguese colony. Thither they all safe arrived, where they remained until the next ship for Lisbon passed by and carried them to Goa.

At that city, Linschoton, a writer of good credit and esteem, assures us, that he himself saw them land, supped with the two brothers that very night, beheld the younger with his stumps, and had the story from both their mouths as well as from the rest of the compa|ny.

CHASTITY.

CHIOMARA, the wife of Ortiagon, a Gan|lish prince, was equally admirable for her beau|ty and chastity. During the war between the Romans and the Gauls, A. R. 563, the lat|ter were totally defeated on Mount Olympus. Chiomary, among many other ladies, was taken prisoner, and committed to the care of a cen|turion, no less passionate for money than wo|men. He, at first, tried to gain her consent to his in infamous desires; but not being able to

prevail upon her, and subvert her constancy, he thought he might employ force with a wo|man who misfortune had reduced to slave|ry. Afterwards, to make her amends for that treatment, he offered to restore her liberty; but not without ransom. He agreed with her for a certain sum, and to conceal this design from the Romans, he permited her to send any one of the prisoners she should choose to her relations, and assigned a place near the riv|er where the lady should be exchanged for gold. By accident there was one of her own slaves among the prisoners. Upon him she fix|ed: and the centurion soon after carried her beyond the advanced posts, under cover of a dark night. The next evening two of the relations of the princess came to the place ap|pointed, whither the centurion also carried his captive. When they delivered him the Attic talent they had brought, which was the sum they had agreed on, the lady, in her own language, ordered those who came to receive her to draw their swords and kill the centurion, who was then amusing himself with weighing the gold. Then, charmed with having revenged the in|jury done her chastity, she took the head of the officer, which she had cut off with her own hands and hiding it under her robe, went to her husband Ortiagon, who had returned home after the defeat of his troops. As soon as she came into his presence, she threw the centurion's head at his feet. He was strange|ly

surprised at such a sight; and asked her whose head it was, and what had induced her to do an act so uncommon to her sex? With a face covered with a sudden blush, and at the same time expressing her fierce indignation, she declared the outrage which had been done her, and the revenge she had taken for it.

During the rest of her life, she stedfastly re|tained the same attachment for the purity of manners which constitutes the principal glory of the sex, and nobly sustained the honor of so glorious, bold, and heroic an action.

THE IMPOSTERS.

By Don Manuel, Prince of Spain.

VULGAR errors maintain their ground, because men have not spirit enough to detect them. It is common for us to praise or con|demn against our own conviction, and to adopt idle opinions, lest we appear to have less taste and discernment than those who invented them. Imposture, however, has but its day, and per|haps it may be a long one; but it must give way at last, and truth will shine out with a re|doubled lustre.

Three sharpers, having found means to be introduced to a king, told him that they could weave a brocade of exquisite workmanship, and of so rare a property, that it would be invisible to any person who was either base born, dishonored by his wife, or had been guilty of any villainy. The king desirous to

possess so great a rarity, gave them a kind re|ception, and allotted them a palace to carry on the manufacture. He furnished them with mo|ney, gold, silver, silk and all other materials. They fixed up their looms, and reported that they were all day employed upon the web. Af|ter some time, one of them waited upon the king, and acquainted him that the work was begun, and that the brocade would be the most beautiful in the world, as his majesty might be convinced, if he would condescend to come and see it alone. The king, to prove the re|ality of their pretentio••s, instead of going him|self, sent his chamberlain, but without drop|ping any hint of the danger of an imposition. The chamberlain went: but when the weavers told him the property of the brocade, he had not courage enough to say that he did not see it, but told the king that the work went on, and that the piece would be of unparalleled beauty. The king sent another nobleman, who, from the same motive, made the same report. After that he sent many others, who all declared they had seen the piece. At length the king went himself, and upon entrance ob|served that their whole conversation turned upon the success of their work; one saying, "here is a noble foliage!" another, "what a grand design!" a third, "how beautiful is this colour!" But as he saw nothing all this time except the loom, and as he could not sus|pect the report which had been brought him

by so many courtiers without any variation, he was struck to the heart, and began to doubt of the legitimacy of his own birth. However, he thought it most prudent to express himself highly pleased with the goodness and beauty of this master piece of art. At the end of three days, he sent of his steward, who, that he might not lose his honor, praised the work even more extravagantly than the king had done.—This redoubled the king's vexation; and he and all the courtiers remained in the utmost doubt and perplexity; no one daring to confess that this famous piece was a non entity to him.

In this state the affair continued, till upon occasion of a great festival, some courtiers pressed his majesty to have robes made of this silk in honor of the day. When the weavers came to the presence chamber, and were ac|quainted with the king's purpose, they insisted that none could make up the brocade so well as themselves, pretended that they had bro't it with them curiously wrapped up, and busied themselve as if they were unfolding it. They also took measure of his majesty, handled their scissors, and practised all the motions of persons busy in cutting out. On the festival day they returned, pretended they brought the robe, made as if they were trying it on, and at length told his majesty that it fitted him, and adorned him beyond imagination. The king, credulous and confounded, walked down stairs,

mounted his horse, and began the solemn cav|alcade, in w••ich he shewed himself to the peo|ple; who having heard that he who could not see the brocade must be a villian, a bastard, or cuckold, unanimosly declared, that they saw it, and extolled the magnificence of it. At length a Moor, who belonged to the king's stables, could not help crying out, "The king is in his shirt, the king is naked." The ice was now broke. The next person to him said the same, and the confession of not seeing this imaginary brocade, was soon made by every mouth; till at last the king himself and all his courtiers, encouraged by the multitude, divest|ed themselves of their fears, and ventured to own the deception. Upon this orders were given to apprehend the sharpers; but they had very wifely taken care of themselves, and made off with the money, gold, silver, silk, and other valuables, with which the king had supplied them. Thus many erroneous opinions prevail in the world, from the dread of incur|ing the censure of singularity, though the sin|gularity should be ever so reasonable.

PRUDENCE.

IN the reign of king Charles the second there was a young lady, whom I shall call Pru|dentia who was the reigning toast of that gal|lant age, and equally admired by the men of pleasure and the men of wit; her soul was as lovely as her person: with her beauty she was

strictly modest, with her wit she was discreet and good-natured. Among her numerous train of admirers, none seemed so agreeable and deserving her esteem as the young lord Amiable, who, incapable of any base designs, gave such assurances of his love, that Pruden|tia easily surrendered her heart. Prudentia's aunt, who was her guardian, and loved her as her own child, was pleased with a conquest which would so much contribute to the hon|or and happiness of her niece; she readily con|sented to the match, and the nuptials were cel|ebrated with mutual joy. As this was a match not maid up by treaty, but by free choice and inclination, they did not fall into that modish coldness and complaisant indifference people of fashion are soon apt to do. My lord was a man of u••••sual sweetness and affability of tem|per, which, when joined to that of Prudentia's, must necessarily make him happy with his wife; yet his easiness, and credulity of the generosi|ty of some of his companions had like to have lessened his domestic felicity, but the discretion of Prudentia prevented it. My lord had con|tracted a most intimate acquaintance with one Mr. Maskwell, a man of pleasing conversation, which served only to conceal the tricking game|ster and the designing pander. To render himself more powerful with men of quality he made himself instrumental to their follies or their vices. Though lord Amiable was not in|clined to any of those vices Maskwell was pro|curer

of, yet this wretch had cunning enough to draw him into all. With drinking, his health soon began to be impaired; with loss|es his temper was ruffled; with wenching, that fondness and cordial love he used to shew to his lady, began to cease. Prudentia was not a little concerned at this conduct: she too well knew all his vices; yet discreetly thought that any violent opposition would but heighten the mischief: she took care to make home as easy to him as possible: studious of obliging, she never disgusted him by harsh reproaches and satirical reflections on his conduct; neith|er, though careful to please him, did she run into an extreme of fondness; she was not fond when she thought it would be disagreeable; for she knew that a wife without discretion my make the tenderest endearments the most troublesome. Prudentia was gay or fond as she found her lord in the temper to receive ei|ther; and, without letting him know that she had information of his gaming abroad, would propose a game of cards at home with such company as she thought would most please him, and never forgot to include Mr. Mask|well.

Sometimes her proposal was accepted; and by that means she found out the sharper, the pander, the flatterer, and the villain, in the sil|ver-tongued Mr. Maskwell.

It happened that Mrs. Thoughtless, a beau|tiful lady, who had married my lord's broth|er,

was extremely uneasy at being informed of her husband's keeping company with women of the town, and in danger of being ruined by sharpers at gaming: she came one day to my lord to complain of his brother's bad conduct and falsehood to her bed: she cried, she raved, and threatened not to live a moment with him longer. My lord did what he could to paci|fy her, but all in vain; my lady succeeded bet|ter, who taking this opportunity to shew my lord his own foibles, thus addressed herself to her sister: "I fancy, dear sister, you want a little discreet good-humour to reclaim your husband; beauty and wit will not avail with|out discretion; there is a passive kind of vir|tue nessary to shew him his folly, it must not be done with ill-nature and constant reproach|es on his conduct, which I am afraid is your method. If my lord Amiable was guilty of such follies, which I dare affirm he never will, I should myself act as I advise you. You have beauty enough to please a husband, have there|fore an equal desire to do it: be the more studious of his humour as he is more faulty in his conduct, and let your affability shew his injustice in wronging you: the mistresses the men visit exert all their little arts to please them, for gain only, without honor, without conscience, and without love: why then should not a virtuous woman shew as great a desire to please her husband as as these artful jilts do to please a gallant."

Mrs. Thoughtless was pleased with her ad|vice: my lord approved of it and was secretly touched to the soul for his transgressions a|gainst so incomparable a wife, who had acted what she spoke, and had more personal charms than the woman his false friend had introdu|ced him to. When he had recollected him|self, he proposed that his sister should bring her husband to dinner the next day; and that his lady should repeat what she had alrea|dy said, and he was assured that it would have and excellent effect. It was agreed on; but with this discreet caution of Lady Amiable, that her discourse should be directed to my lord, to take off any suspicion that it was in|tended for Mr. Thoughtless. The next day they met, and my Lord Amiable saw himself prudently attacked by his lady for his real faults, while she seemed only to take them for imaginary ones. To what she had said before, she added some reflections on the ill choice men of quality make of their acquaintance, a|mong whom are the merry, laughing buffoons, who lead them into all the vices of the age, under the false preteuce of friendship; at which words, looked at her lord in the most tender manner, she concluded, "These, my lord, are wretched friends, who lead you into such evil; on the contrary, the friendship between man and wife is cemented by virtue, love, and interest, and cannot be dissolved without destroying the happiness of both. Let

not then, my lord, any false friends deceive you to your ruin. I desire a continuance 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your love only so long as I continue to deserve it." At these last words, my lord, overcome with the gentle reproach, flung himself about her neck, and amidst a thousand kisses, prom|ised mutual love. These transports were fol|lowed by the like in my lady's brother and wife, who owned himself a convert to virtue and matrimonial affection.

Thus what neither beauty nor wit could ef|fect, discretion did: their lives afterwards were prosperous, and their deaths happy:

Good-humour only teaches charms to last, Still makes new conquests and improves the last. Love, rais'd on beauty, will like that decay; Our hearts may bear its slender chains a day, As flow'ry bands in wo••tonness are worn, A morning's pleasure, and at evening torn; This binds in ties more easy and more strong The willing heart, and only holds it long— POPE.

CONSTANCY.

SIR William Askew, of Kelsay, in Lincoln|shire, was blessed with several daughters. His second, name Anne, had received a genteel education; which, with an agreeable person, and good understanding, rendered her a very proper person to be at the head of a family.—Her father, regardless of his daughter's incli|nation

and happiness, obliged her to marry a gentleman who had nothing to recommend him but his fortune, and who was a most big|oted papist. No sooner was he convinced of his wife's regard for the doctrines of the re|formation from popery, than, by the instiga|tion of the priests, he violently drove her from his house, though she had borne him two chil|dren, and her conduct was unexceptionable.—Abandoned by her husband, she came up to London, in order to procure a divorce, and to make herself known to that part of the court who either professed, or were favourers of protestantism: but, as Henry VIII, with con|sent of parliament, had just enacted the law of the six articles, commonly called the bloody statute, she was cruelly betrayed by her own husband; and upon his information, taken into custody, and examined concerning her faith. The act above mentioned denounced death to all those who should deny the doct|rine of transubstantiation; or, that the bread and wine made use of in the sacrament was not converted, after consecration, into the real bo|dy and blood of Christ; or maintain the ne|cessity of receiving the sacrament in both kinds; or affirm, that it was lawful for priests to mar|ry; that the vows of celibacy might be bro|ken; that private masses were of no avail;—that auricular confession to a priest was not ne|cessary to salvation. Upon these articles, she was examined by the 〈◊◊〉〈◊◊〉 a priest, the

lord-mayor of London, and the bishop's chan|cellor; and to all their queries gave proper and pertinent answers; but not being such as they approved, she was sent back to prison; where she remained eleven days to ruminate alone on her alarming situation, and was deni|ed the small consolation of a friendly visit.—The king's council being at Greenwich she was once more examined by chancellor Wrio|thesley, Gardiner, bishop of Winchester, Dr. Cox, and Dr. Robinson; but not being able to convince her of her supposed errors, she was sent to the Tower. It was strongly sus|pected, that Mrs. Askew was favoured by some ladies of high rank; and that she carried on a religious correspondence with the queen.—So that the chancellor Wriothesley, hoping that he might discover something that would afford matter of impeachment against that princess, the earl of Hertford, or his countess, who all favoured the reformation, ordered her to be put to the rack: but her fortitude in suffering, and her resolution not to betray her friends, was proof against that diabolical inven|tion. Not a groan, not a word could be ex|torted from her. The chancellor, provoked with what he called her obstanacy, augment|ed her tortures with his own hands, and with unheard of violence: her courage and con|stancy were invincible; and these barbarians gained nothing by their crueltiés, but ever|lasting disgrace and infamy. As soon as she

was taken from the rack she fainted away;—but being recovered, she was condemned, to, the flames. Her bones were dislocated in such a manner, that they were forced to carry her in a chair to the place of execution. While she was at the stake, letters were brought her from the lord chancellor, offering her the king's pardon if she would recant. But she refused to look at them; telling the messenger, that "she came not thither to deny her lord and master." The same letters were also tendered to three other persons, condemned to the same fate; and who, animated by her example, refused to accept them. Whereupon the lord mayor commanded the fire to be kindled;—and, with savage ignorance, cried out Fiat jus|titia, Let gustice take its course. The faggots being lighted, she commended her soul, with the utmost composure, into the hands of her Maker; and, like the great founder of the re|ligion she professed expired, praying for her murderers, July 16, 1546, about the 25th year of her age.

TREACHERY.

ATHELBERT, the last king of the East|Angels, was of a very amiable temper, a fine person and great virtues. The goodness of his nature, and the humility of his mind, the regard he shewed to religion in his actions, and justice in his administration, rendered him the delight of his people, who wanted noth|ing

to complete their happiness but an heir to succeed to the crown in case of his decease.—He was young; had been bred to letters, and being fond of books, had not been susceptible of any impression from beauty; perhaps, the reigning passion of the age, inclining to celib|acy, might have contributed, in some meas|ure to his insensibility. The universal desire and common good of his people, the distraction and convulsions the kingdom would be expos|ed to for want of an heir, were the topics used by the nobility and bishops, which induced him to call a council to consider of the mat|ter. It being their unanimous opinion that it would be best for him to marry; Athelrida, the daughter of Ossa, king of Mercia, a prin|cess of great beauty and merit, was immediate|ly fixed on as a suitable match. The young king, not long after set out with a splendid re|tinue, accompanied by count Oswald, the chief of his council, and the person who had first named the lady to the king. Being arriv|ed on the borders of the Mercian territories, they waited for a safe-conduct, and the con|sent of the lady's father, who was then keep|ing his court at Hertford. On the recep|tion of this message a council was held to con|sider on the manner in which Athelbert should be treated. The courtiers, who easily per|ceived the intentions of their monarch, and thinking this a fine opportunity to annex the hingdom of East-Angles to that of Mercia,

determined to murder Athelbert and seize his dominions. The more effectually to ac|complish this villainous design, he was invited with the greatest shew of friendship to a con|ference with Ossa, under the pretence of set|tling the preliminaries of his marriage; and going thither without any attendants, was seiz|ed in his way by Guimbert, and privately be|headed. The young princess, shocked at her father's perfidious cruelty, sent the earliest no|tice of this catastrophe to the nobility who waited for the return of the king. Unable to revenge his death, and fearful of the like fate, they immediately mounted their horses, and made the best way to their own country. Athel|bert's corpse and head were buried at first by Offa's order in an obscure place on the banks of the Lugge, but were afterwards removed to Fernley, since called Hertford, the cathe|dral of which city is dedicited to his honor.