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DILIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement of time, are material duties of the young.
The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most hon|ourable occupations of youth.
* 1.1Whatever useful or engaging endowments we pos|sess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre.
Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplish|ed and flourishing manhood.
Sincerity and truth form the basis of every virtue.
Truth and error, virtue and vice, are things of immu|table nature.
Change and alterations form the very essence of the world.
True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise.
In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must be our first study to rectify inward disorders.
Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart.
From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy pleasure.
A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are the best safeguard of the mind, in this uncertain and changing state.
There is nothing, except simplicity of intention, and purity of principle, that can stand the test of near ap|proach and strict examination.
The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by the relief which it can bring us in the time of our greatest need.
No person who has once yielded up the government of his mind, and given loose rein to his desires and pas|sions, can tell how far these may carry him.
Tranquility of mind is always most likely to be at|tained, when the business of the world is tempered with thoughtful and serious retreat.
He who would act like a wise man, and build his house on the rock, and not on the sand, should contemplate hu|man life, not only in the sunshine, but in the shade.
Let usefulness and beneficence, not ostentation and vanity, direct the train of your pursuits.
To maintain a steady and unbroken mind, amidst all the shocks of the world, marks a great and noble spirit.
Patience, by preserving composure within, resists the impression which trouble makes from without.
Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to the heart.
They who have nothing to give, can often afford re|lief to others, by imparting what they feel.
Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really good or evil, should correct anxiety about worldly success.
The veil which covers from our sight the events of suc|ceeding years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy.
The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futu|rity, consists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a cheerful submission to the will of Heaven.
THE chief misfortunes that befal us in life, can be traced to some vices or follies which we have com|mitted.
Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and di••+tress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious indolence and sloth.
To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinion of the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three things so very different, as rarely to coincide.
Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floating on the stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction of the current.
The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, frustrate the effect of every advantage which the world confers on them.
The external misfortunes of life, disappointments, po|verty, and sickness, are nothing in comparison of those inward distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by guilt.
No station is so high, no power so great, no character so unblemished, as to exempt men from being attacked by rashness, malice, or envy.
Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not so much from what men are taught to know, as from what they are brought to feel.
He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet has no feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to admire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason to distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility.
When, upon rational and sober inquiry, we have es|tablished our principles, let us not suffer them to be shaken by the scoffs of the licentious, or the cavils of the sceptical.
When we observe any tendency to treat religion or mo|rals with disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be be a sure indication of a perverted understanding, or a de|praved heart.
Every degree of guilt incurred by yielding to tempta|tion, tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the generous and benevolent principles of human nature.
Luxury, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much in|fluence in corrupting the sentiments of the great, as ig|norance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions of the multitude.
Mixed as the present state is, reason and religion pro|nounce, that generally, if not always, there is more hap|piness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the con|dition of man.
Society, when formed, requires distinction of property, diversity of conditions, subordination ••f ••anks, and a multiplicity of occupations, in order to adva••e the ge|neral good.
That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in general, the whole conduct and character of men, are in|fluenced by the example and disposition of the persons with whom they associate, is a reflection which has long since passed into a proverb, and been ranked among the standing maxims of human wisdom, in all ages of the world.
THE desire of improvement discovers a liberal mind; and is connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues.
Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind; and leaves it open to every pleasing sensation.
Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the tempe••ate: in the midst of his studied refinements, the voluptuary languishes.
Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our man|ners; and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery.
That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its feat in the heart: and, let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can render even external manners truly pleasing.
Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be ha|bitually active: not breaking forth occasionally with a transient lustre, like the blaze of the comet; but regular in its returns, like the light of day: not like the aromatic gale, which sometimes feasts the sense; but like the ordi|nary breeze, which purifies the air, and renders it healthful.
The happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind, than upon any one external cir|cumstance: nay, more than upon all external things put together.
In no station, in no period, let us think ourselves se|cure from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every age, and every station they beset; from youth to grey hairs, and from the peas••nt to the prince.
Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to cri|minal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very possibly overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those pleasures may cut short our health and life.
He who is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound instructor will lift his voice, and awaken within the heart those latent suggestions, which the world had overpowered and suppressed.
Nothing can be more amiable than a constant desire to please; and an unwillingness to offend or hurt.
He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes; and regret, in the last hour, his useless intentions and barren zeal.
The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and affa|bility. It gives a native, unaffected ease to the beha|viour. It is social, kind, and cheerful, far removed from that gloomy and illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the temper, dejects the spirit, and teach|es men to fit themselves for another world by neglect|ing the concerns of this.
Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice.
Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent; always afflicted, would be sullen and despondent. Hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recal, from time to time, the admonitions of conscience.
TIME once past never returns: the moment which is lost, is lost for ever.
There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of undisturbed rest; nor so powerful, as to afford us constant protection.
The house of feasting too often becomes an avenue to the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the interval between them.
It is of great importance to us, to form a proper esti|mate of human life; without either loading it with im|aginary evils, or expecting from it greater advantages than it is able to yield.
Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and intimate connexion. When any one of them is adopted into our family, it seldom quits us until it has fathered upon us all its kindred.
Charity, like the sun, brightens every object on which it shines: a censorious disposition casts every character into the darkest shade it will bear.
Many men mistake the love, for the practice of virtue; and are not so much good men, as the friends of goodness.
Genuine virtue has a language that speaks to every heart throughout the world. It is a language which is understood by all. In every region, every clime, the homage paid to it is the same. In no one sentiment were ever mankind more generally agreed.
The appearances of our security are frequently deceit|ful. When our sky seems most settled and s••rene, in some unobserved quarter gathers the little black cloud, in
which the tempest ferments, and prepares to discharge it|self on our head.
The man of true fortitude may be compared to the castle built on a rock, which defies the attacks of sur|rounding waters: the man of a feeble and timourous spirit to a hut placed on the shore, which every wind shakes, and every wave overflows.
Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as violent anger. It overpowers reason; confounds our ideas; distorts the appearance, and blackens the appearance of every object. By the storm which it raises within, and by the mischiefs which it occasions without, it generally brings on the passionate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can bring on the object of his resentment.
The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as placed on the summit of a hill; in the ascent of which, labour is requisite, and difficulties are to be surmounted; and where a conductor is needed, to direct our way, and to aid our steps.
In judging of others, let us always think the best, and employ the spirit of charity and candour. But in judg|ing of ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe.
Let him that desires to see others happy, make haste to give while his gift can be enjoyed; and remember, that every moment of delay, takes away something from the value of his benefaction. And let him who proposes his own happiness reflect, that while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and "the night cometh when no man can work.
To sensual persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most, is always farthest from the reality. There are voices which sing around them; but
whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites to repose; but to slumber upon it, is death.
If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is not solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and his retinue, we are to look. Unless we could see farther, and discern what joy, or what bitterness, his heart feels, we can pronounce nothing concerning him.
The book is well written; and I have perused it with pleasure and profit. It shows, first, that true devoti•• is rational and well founded; next, that it is of the highest importance to every other part of religion and virtue; and, lastly, that it is most conducive to our happiness.
There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed; to trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. It ought therefore to be the care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired.
WHAT avails the show of external liberty, to one who has lost the government of himself?
He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less qualified to live well to-morrow.
Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a
situation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts his principles, disorders his temper, and, finally, oversets his virtue?
What misery does the vicious man secretly endure!— Adversity! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in comparison with those of guilt!
When we have no pleasure in goodness, we may with certainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is all derived from an opposite quarter.
How strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a change in their condition!
How many have had reason to be thankful, for being disappointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which, if successfully accomplished, they have afterwards seen, would have occasioned their ruin?
What are the actions which afford in the remembrance a rational satisfaction? Are they the pursuits of sen|sual pleasure, the riots of jollity, or the displays of show and vanity? No: I appeal to your hearts, my friends, if what you recollect with most pleasure, are not the inno|cent, the virtuous, the honourable parts of your past life.
The present employment of time should frequently be an object of thought. About what are we now busied? What is the ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares? Can we justify them to ourselves? Are they likely to produce any thing that will survive the mo|ment, and bring forth some fruit for futurity?
Is it not strange, (says an ingenious writer,) that some persons should be so delicate as not 〈◊〉〈◊〉 bear a disagreeable picture in the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force every face they see about them, to wear the gloom of un|easiness and discontent?
If we are now in health, peace, and safety; without any particular or uncommon evils to afflict our condition; what more can we reasonably look for in this vain and uncertain world? How little can the greatest prosperity add to such a state? Will any future situation ever make us happy, if now, with so few causes of grief, we imagine ourselves miserable? The evil lies in the state of our mind, not in our condition of fortune; and by no altera|tion of circumstances is likely to be remedied.
When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to ingross their time, and to stir up their passions; the day of ruin,—let them take heed, and beware! the day of irrecoverable ruin, begins to draw nigh. Fortune is squandered; health is broken; friends are offended, affronted, estranged; aged parents, perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning, to the dust.
On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the slothful and lazy? To whom are the hours so lingering? Who are so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every expedient, which can help them to get rid of them|selves? Instead of producing tranquility, indolence pro|duces a fretful restlessness of mind; gives rise to cravings which are never satisfied; nourishes a sickly effeminate delicacy, which sours and corrupts every pleasure.
WE have seen the husbandman scattering his seed up|on the furrowed ground! It springs up, is gathered
into his barns, and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. —Thus the man who distributes his fortune with ge|nerosity and prudence, is amply repaid by the gratitude of of those whom he obliges; by the approbation of his own mind; and by the favour of Heaven▪
Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to happiness: intemperance, by enervating them, ends ge|nerally in misery.
Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious; but an ill one, more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a prince; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant.
An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to use the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his even|ing declination: he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude; and pleases more, though he dazzles less.
If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they would exchange their entire situations with the per|sons envied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, fortunes, and dignities,)—I presume the self-love common to human nature, would generally make them prefer their own condition.
We have obliged some persons:—very well!—what would we have more? Is not the consciousness of doing good, a sufficient reward?
Do not hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of pleasure. Consult your who•• ••ature. Consider your|selves not only as sensitive, but as rational beings; not on|ly as rational, but social; not only as social, but immortal.
Art thou poor?—Show thyself active and industrious, peaceable and contented. Art thou wealthy?—Show
thyself beneficent and charitable, condescending and hu|mane.
Though religion removes not all the evils of life, though it promises no continuance of undisturbed pros|perity, (which indeed, it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, if it mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our state, it m•• ••stly be said to give
rest to them who labour and ar•• ••eavy laden.
What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations, give to every surrounding object, and every returning day! With what a lustre does it gild even the small ha|bitation, where such placid intercourse dwells! where such scenes of heartfelt satisfaction succeed uninterrupt|edly to one another!
How many clear marks of benevolent intention ap|pear every where around us! What a profusion of beau|ty and ornament is poured forth on the face of nature! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man! What supply contrived for his wants! What a variety of objects set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his understanding, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden his heart!
The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of consolation to good men. Under trouble, it sooths their minds; amidst temptation, it supports their virtue; and, in their dying moments, enables them to say "O death! where is thy sting? O grave! where is thy victory?"
AGESILAUS, king of Sparta, being asked, "What things he thought most proper for boys to learn," answer|ed, "Those which they ought to practise when they come to be men." A wiser than Agesilaus has inculcated the same sentiment: "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it."
An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, "that time was his estate." An estate, indeed, which will pro|duce nothing without cultivation; but which will al|ways abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence; to be over-run with noxious plants; or laid out for show, rather than use.
When Aristotle was asked, "What a man could gain by telling a falsehood," he replied, "Not to be credited when he speaks the truth."
L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us, that a number o•• frolicksome boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of a pond; and that, as any of them put their heads above the water, they pelted them down again with stones, One of the frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, made this striking observation: "Children, you do not consider, that though this may be sport to you, it is death to us."
Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained at his table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugali|ty to which he had been accustomed in early life. He was frequently reproached, by the courtiers, for this sim|plicity; but he used to reply to them, in the words of an
ancient philosopher: "If the guests are men of sense, there is sufficient for them: if they are not, I can very well dispense with their company."
Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of his mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. His cleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and de|cency, which governed all his actions; and the care which he took of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and tranquil.
Eminently pleasing and honourable was the friendship between David and Jonathan. "I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving David; "very pleasant hast thou been to me: thy love for me was wonderful; passing the love of women."
Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wounded by a musket-ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. He was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp; and being faint with the loss of blood, and proba|bly parched with thirst through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him: but as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened at that instant to be car|ried by him, looked up to it with wishful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to the soldier, saying "thy ne|cessity is yet greater than mine."
Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate whom he had taken, by what right he infested the seas? "By the same right," replied he, "that Alexander enslaves the world. But I am called a robber, because I have only one small vessel; and he is styled a conqueror, because he
commands great fleets and armies." We too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their actions.
Antoninus Pius, the Roman Emperor, was an amiable and good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflame him with a passion for military glory, he used to answer: That he more desired the preservation of one subject, than the destruction of a thousand enemies."
Men are too often ingenious in making themselves miserable, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all the evils which they endure. They compare themselves with none but those whom they imagine to be more happy; and complain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of human sorrows. Would they look with a more impartial eye on the world, they would see themselves surrounded with sufferers; and find that they are only drinking out of that mixed up, which Pro|vidence has prepared for all.—I will restore thy daughter again to life," said the eastern sage, to a prince who griev|ed immoderately for the loss of a beloved, child "provided thou art able to engrave on her tomb, the names of three persons who have never mourned." The prince made inquiry after such persons; but found the inquiry vain, and was silent.
HE that hath no rule over his own spirit, is like a city that is broken down, and without walls.
Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stall|ed ox and hatred therewith.
A soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger.
Pride goeth before destruction; and a haughty spirit before a fall.
Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayst be truly wise.
He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth to the Lord: that which he hath given, will he pay him again.
The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold; he shall therefore beg in harvest, and have nothing.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke is better than se|cret love.
He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.
If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink.
Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope of a fool than of him.
It is better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.
He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? He that formed the eye, shall he not see?
I have been young, and now I am old; yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.
I have seen the wicked in great power; and spreading himself like a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away: I sought him, but he could not be found.
Happy is the man that findeth wisdom. Length o•• days is in her right-hand; and in her left-hand, riches and honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.
How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like precious ointment—Like the dew of Hermon, and the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion.
I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding: and lo! it was all grown over with thorns; nettles had covered its face; and the stone-wall was broken down. Then I saw, and consider|ed it well; I looked upon it, and received instruction.
Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time; nor that which is measured by number of years:— But wisdom is the grey hair to man; and an unspotted life is old age.
Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind.— If thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for ever.
THAT every day has its pains and sorrows, is univer|sally experienced, and almost universally confessed.—But let us not attend only to mournful truths: if we look im|partially about us, we shall find, that every day has like|wise its pleasures and its joys.
We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. The Author of all good nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts that are unknown to us; and be|holds repentance ready to spring up among many, whom we consider as reprobates.
No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the sight of his Creator. In our several stations, we are all sent forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. Every man has his work allotted, his talent committed to him; by the due improvement of which he may, in one way or other, serve God, promote virtue, and be useful in the world.
The love of praise should be preserved under proper subordination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful motive to action; but when allowed to extend its influence too far, it corrupts the whole character and pro|duces guilt, disgrace, and misery. To be entirely desti|tute of it, is a defect. To be governed by it, is depra|vity. The proper adjustment of the several principles of action in human nature, is a matter that deserves our highest attention. For when any one of them becomes either too weak or too strong, it endangers both our vir|tue and our happiness.
The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once obtained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They make him feel that he is subject to various, contra|dictory, and imperious masters, who often pull him differ|ent ways. His soul is rendered the receptacle of many repugnant and jarring dispositions; and resembles some barbarous country, cantoned out into different principali|ties, which are continually waging war on one another.
Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far from being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man. They are much more frequently the offspring of his own misguided choice. Intemperance engenders dis|ease, sloth produces poverty, pride creates disappoint|ments, and dishonesty exposes to shame. The ungovern|ed
passions of men betray them into a thousand follies; their follies into crimes; and their crimes into misfor|tunes.
When we reflect on the many distresses which abound in human life; on the scanty proportion of happiness which any man is here allowed to enjoy; on the small difference which the diversity of fortune makes on that scanty proportion; it is surprising, that envy should ever have been a prevalent passion among men, much more that should have prevailed among Christians. Where so much is suffered in common, little room is left for envy. There is more occasion for pity and sympathy, and incli|nation to assist each other.
At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted with the world and its snares, when every pleasure en|chants with its smile, and every object shines with the gloss of novelty; let us beware of the seducing appear|ances which surround us; and recollect what others have suffered from the power of headstrong desire. If we al|low any passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, our inward peace will be impaired. But if any which has the taint of guilt, take early possession of our mind, we may date, from that mo|ment, the ruin of our tranquility.
Every man has some darling passion, which generally affords the first introduction to vice. The irregular gratifications into which it occasionally seduces him, ap|pear under the form of venial weaknesses; and are in|dulged, in the beginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But, by longer practice, these restraints weaken, and the power of habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By a sort of natural affinity they connect and en|twine
themselves together; till their roots come to be spread wide and d•• ••ver all the foul.
WHENCE arises the misery of this present world? It is not owing to our cloudy atmosphere, our changing sea|sons, and inclement skies. It is not owing to the debili|ty of our bodies, or to the unequal distribution of the goods of fortune. Amidst all disadvantages of this kind, a pure, a stedfast, and enlightened mind, possessed of strong virtue, could enjoy itself in peace, and smile at the impo|tent assaults of fortune and the elements. It is within ourselves that misery has fixed its seat. Our disordered hearts, our guilty passions, our violent prejudices, and misplaced desires, are the instruments of the trouble which we endure. These sharpen the darts which adver|sity would otherwise point in vain against us.
While the vain and the licentious are revelling in the midst of extravagance and riot, how little do they think of those scenes of sore distress which are passing at that mo|ment throughout the world; multitudes struggling for a poor subsistence, to support the wife and the children whom they love, and who look up to them with eager eyes for that bread which they can hardly procure; multitudes groaning under sickness in desolate cottages, untended and unmourned; many, apparently in a better situation of life, pining away in secret with concealed griefs; families weeping over the beloved friends whom they have lost, or, in all the bitterness of anguish, bidding those who are just expiring the last adieu.
Never adventure on too near an approach to what is evil. Familiarise not yourselves with it, in the slightest instances, without fear. Listen with reverence to every reprehension of conscience; and preserve the most quick and accurate sensibility to right and wrong. If ever your moral impressions begin to decay, and your natural abhor|rence of guilt to lessen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of virtue is fast approaching.
By disappointments and trials the violence of our pas|sions is tamed, and our minds are formed to sobriety and reflection. In the varieties of life, occasioned by the vi|cissitudes of worldly fortune, we are inured to habits both of the active and the suffering virtues. How much so|ever we complain of the vanity of the world, facts plain|ly show, that if its vanity were less, it could not answer the purpose of salutary discipline. Unsatisfactory as it is, its pleasures are still too apt to corrupt our hearts. How fatal then must the consequences have been, had it yielded us more complete enjoyment? If, with all its troubles, we are in danger of being too much attached to it, how entirely would it have seduced our affections, if no troubles had been mingled with its pleasures?
In seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon ourselves to dejection, carries no mark of a great or a worthy mind. Instead of sinking under trouble, and declaring "that his soul is weary of life," it becomes a wise and a good man, in the evil day, with firmness to maintain his post; to bear up against the storm; to have recourse to those advantages which, in the worst of times, are always left to integrity and virtue; and never to give up the hope that better days may yet arise.
How many young persons have at first set out in the world with excellent dispositions of heart; generous, charitable and humane; kind to their friends, and amia|ble among all with whom they had intercourse! And yet, how often have we seen all those fair appearances unhap|pily blasted in the progress of life, merely through the in|fluence of loose and corrupting pleasures; and those very persons, who promised once to be blessings to the world, sunk down, in the end, to be the burden and nuisance of society!
The most common propensity of mankind, is, to store futurity with whatever is agreeable to them; especially in those periods of life, when imagination is lively, and hope is ardent. Looking forward to the year now be|ginning, they are ready to promise themselves much, from the foundations of prosperity which they have laid; from the friendships and connexions which they have se|cured; and from the plans of conduct which they have formed. Alas! how deceitful do all these dreams of hap|piness often prove! While many are saying in secret to their hearts, "To-morrow shall be as this day, and more abundantly," we are obliged in return to say to them; "Boast not yourselves of to-morrow, for you know not what a day may bring forth!"
DIONYSIUS, the tyrant Sicily, was far from being happy, though he possessed great riches, and all the plea|sures which wealth and power could procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, deceived by these specious appear|ances of happiness, took occasion to compliment him on the extent of his power, his treasures, and royal magnificence; and declared that no monarch had ever been greater or happier than Dionysius. "Hast thou a mind, Damocles," says the King, "to taste this happi|ness; and to know, by experience, what the enjoyments are, of which thou hast so high an idea?" Damocles, with joy, accepted the offer. The King ordered that a royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded sofa, cover|ed with rich embroidery, placed for his favourite. Side|boards, loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value, were arranged in the apartment. Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to attend his table, and to obey his commands with the utmost readiness, and the most pro|found submission. Fragrant ointments, chaplets of flow|ers, and rich perfumes, were added to the entertainment. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles, intoxicated with pleasure,
fancied himself amongst superior beings. But in the midst of all this happiness, as he lay indulging himself in state, he sees let down from the ceiling, exactly over his head, a glittering sword hung by a single hair. The sight of impending destruction put a speedy end to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, the glitter of the carved plate, and the delicacy of the viands, cease to afford him any pleasure. He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table. He throws off the garland of roses. He hastens to remove from his dangerous situ|ation; and earnestly entreats the king to restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer a happiness so terrible.
By this device, Dionysius intimated to Damocles, how miserable he was in the midst of all his treasures; and in possession of all the honours and enjoyments which royal|ty could bestow.
CICERO.IN the days of Joram, King of Israel, flourished the prophet Elisha. His character was so eminent, and his fame so widely spread, that Benhadad the King of Syria, though an idolater, sent to consult him, concerning the issue of a distemper which threatened his life. The mes|senger employed on this occasion was Hazael, who ap|pears to have been one of the princes, or chief men, of the Syrian court. Charged with rich gifts from the king, he presents himself before the prophet; and accosts him in terms of the highest respect. During the conference which they held together, Elisha fixed his eye stedfastly
on the countenance of Hazael; and discerning, by a pro|phetic spirit, his future tyranny and cruelty, he could not contain himself from bursting into a flood of tears. When Hazael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of this sudden emotion, the prophet plainly informed him of the crimes and barbarities, which he foresaw that he would after|wards commit. The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this time, the thoughts of cruelty. Uncorrupted, as yet, by ambition or greatness, his indignation rose at being thought capable of such savage actions, as the prophet had men|tioned; and, with much warmth, he replies: "But what? is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?" Elisha makes no return, but to point out a re|markable change, which was to take place in his condi|tion; "The Lord hath shown me that thou shalt be king over Syria." In course of time, all that had been predicted came to pass. Hazael ascended the throne, and ambition took possession of his heart. "He smote the children of Israel in all their coasts. He oppressed them during all the days of king Jehoahaz:" and, from what is left on record of his actions, he plainly appears to have proved, what the prophet foresaw him to be, a man of violence, cruelty, and blood.
In this passage of history, an object is presented, which deserves our serious attention. We behold a man who, in one state of life, could not look upon certain crimes without surprise and horror; who knew so little of him|self, as to believe it impossible for him ever to be concern|ed in committing them; that same man, by a change of condition, and an unguarded state of mind, transformed in all his sentiments; and as he rose in greatness rising
also in guilt; till at last he completed that whole charac|ter of iniquity, which he once detested.
BLAIR.AHASUERUS, who is supposed to be the prince known among the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes, had advanced to the chief dignity in his kingdom, Haman, an Amalekite, who inherited all the ancient enmity of his race to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is recorded of him, to have been a very wicked minister. Raised to greatness without merit, he employed his pow|er solely for the gratification of his passions. As the ho|nours which he possessed were next to royal, his pride was every day fed with that servile homage, which is pe|culiar to Asiatic courts; and all the servants of the king prostrated themselves before him. In the midst of this general adulation, one person only stooped not to Haman. This was Mordecai the Jew; who, knowing this Am|alekite to be an enemy to the people of God, and, with virtuous indignation, despising that insolence of prosperi|ty with which he saw him lifted up, "bowed not, nor did him reverence." On this appearance of disrespect from Mordecai, Haman "was full of wrath: but he thought scorn to lay hands on Mordecai alone." Personal revenge was not sufficient to satisfy him. So violent and black were his passions, that he resolved to exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belonged. Abusing, for this cruel purpose, the favour of his credulous sove|reign, he obtained a decre•• to be sent forth that, against a certain day, all the Jews throughout the Persian domi|nions
should be put to the sword. Meanwhile, confi|dent of success, and blind to approaching ruin, he continu|ed exulting in his prosperity. Invited by Ahasuerus to a royal banquet, which Esther the queen had prepared, "he went forth that day joyful, and with a glad heart." But behold how slight an incident was sufficient to poi|son his joy! As he went forth, he saw Mordecai in the king's gate; and observed, that he still refused to do him homage: "He stood not up, nor was moved for him;" although he well knew the formidable designs, which Ha|man was preparing to execute. One private man, who despised his greatness, and disdained submission, while a whole kingdom trembled before him; one spirit, which the utmost stretch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted his triumphs. His whole soul was shak|en with a storm of passion. Wrath, pride, and desire of revenge, rose into fury. With difficulty he restrained himself in public; but as soon as he came to his own house, he was forced to disclose the agony of his mind. He gathered together his friends and family, with Zeresh his wife. "He told them of the glory of his riches, and the multitude of his children, and of all the things wherein the king had promoted him; and how he had advanced him above the princes and servants of the king. He said, moreover, Yea, Esther the queen suffered no man to come in with the king, to the banquet that she had prepared, but myself; and to-morrow also am I in|vited to her with the king." After all this preamble, what is the conclusion?—"Yet all this availeth me no|thing, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate."
The sequel of Haman's history I shall not now pursue. It might afford matter for much instruction, by the con|spicuous justice of God in his fall and punishment. But contemplating only the singular situation, in which the expressions just quoted present him, and the violent agita|tion of his mind which they display, the following reflec|tions naturally arise: how miserable is vice, when one guilty passion creates so much torment! how unavailing is prosperity, when, in the height of it, a single disap|pointment can destroy the relish of all its pleasures! how weak is human nature, which, in the absence of real, is thus prone to form to itself imaginary woes!
BLAIR.AS Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of mer|chandise which the shops offered to his view; and ob|serving the different occupations which busied the mul|titudes on every side, he was awakened from the tranquili|ty of meditation, by a crowd that obstrusted his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief vizier, who, having returned from the divan, was entering his palace.
Ortogrul mingled with the attendants; and being sup|posed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apart|ments, admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets; and despising the simple neatness of his own little habitation.
"Surely," said he to himself "this palace is the seat of happiness; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and dis|content and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever na|ture has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover his table; the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he wishes, and his wish is gratified; all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter him. How different, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the per|petual torments of unsatisfied desire; and who hast no amusement in thy power, that can withhold thee from thy own reflections! They tell thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty? None will flatter the poor; and the wise have very little power of slatter|ing themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before him; and who has none to recon|cile him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich."
Full of this new resolution, he shut himself in his cham|ber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. He sometimes purposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India; and sometimes resolved to dig for diamond in the mines of Golconda. One day, after some hou•••• passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly ••eized him in his chair. He dreamed that he was ranging a desert country, in search of some one that
might teach him to grow rich; and as he stood on the top of a hill, shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing before him. "Ortogrul," said the old man, "I know thy per|plexity; listen to thy father; turn thine eye to the oppo|site mountain." Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the racks, roaring with the noise of thun|der, and scattering its foam on the impending woods. "Now," said his father, "behold the valley that lies be|tween the hills." Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, out of which issued a small rivulet. "Tell me now," said his father, "dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain-torrent; or for a slow and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding from the well? "Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; "let the golden stream be quick and violent." "Look round thee," said his father, "once again." Ortogrul looked, and perceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He awoke, and determined to grow rich, by silent profit, and persevering industry.
Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise; and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which he invited all the ministers of Pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courteous and liberal; he gave all that approach|ed him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please
him, hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found himself unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties; his own understanding reproached him with its faults. "How long," said he, with a deep sigh, "have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at last is useless! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered!"
DR. JOHNSON.This excellent personage was descended from the Roy|al Line of England by both her parents.
She was carefully educated in the principles of the Reformation; and her wisdom and virtue rendered her a shining example to her sex. But it was her lot to con|tinue only a short period on this stage of being; for, in early life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild ambition of the Duke of Northumberland; who promoted a marriage between her and his son, Lord Guilford Dudley; and raised her to the throne of England, in opposition to the rights of Mary and Elizabeth. At the time of their marriage, she was only about eighteen years of age, and her husband was also very young: a season of life very unequal to oppose the interested views of artful and as|piring men; who, instead of exposing them to danger, should have been the protectors of their innocence and youth.
This extraordinary young person, besides the solid en|dowments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging disposition, the most accomplished parts; and being of an equal age with King Edward VI, she had received all her education with him, and seemed even to possess a greater facility in acquiring every part of manly and classi|cal literature. She had attained a knowledge of the Ro|man and Greek languages, as well as of several modern tongues; had passed most of her time in an application to learning; and expressed a great indifference for other oc|cupations and amusements usual with her sex and station. Roger Ascham, tutor to the Lady Elizabeth, having at one time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party of hunting in the park; and upon his admiring the sin|gularity of her choice, she told him, that she "received more pleasure from that author, than the others could reap from all their sport and gaiety."—Her heart, replete with this love of literature and serious studies, and with ten|derness towards her husband, who was deserving of her affection, had never opened itself to the flattering allure|ments of ambition; and the information of her advance|ment to the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even refused to accept of the crown; pleaded the pre|ferable right of the two princesses; expressed her dread of the consequences attending an enterpise so dangerous, not to say so criminal; and desired to remain in that pri|vate station in which she was born. Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather than reasons, of her father and father-in-law, and above all, of her husband, she submit|ted to their will, and was prevailed on to relinquish her
own judgment. But this honour was of very short con|tinuance. The nation declared for Queen Mary; and the Lady Jane, after wearing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned to a private life, with much more satisfaction than she felt when the royalty was ten|dered to her.
Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of generosity or clemency, determined to remove every per|son, from whom the least danger could be apprehended. Warning was, therefore, given the Lady Jane to prepare for death; a doom which she had expected, and which the innocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had been exposed, rendered no unwelcome news to her. The Queen's bigotted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who molested her with perpetual disputation; and even a reprieve of three days was granted her, in hopes that she would be persuaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to Popery, some regard to her eternal welfare. The Lady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circumstances, not only to defend her religion by solid arguments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greek language; in which, besides sending her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted her to maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. On the day of her execution, her husband, Lord Guil|ford, desired permission to see her; but she refused her consent, and sent him word, that the tenderness of their parting would overcome the fortitude of both; and would too much unbend their minds from that constancy, which their approaching end required of them.—Their separa|tion, she said, would be only for a moment; and they
would soon rejoin each other in a scene, where their af|fections would be for ever united; and where death, dis|appointment▪ and misfortunes, could no longer have access to them, or disturb their eternal felicity.
It had been intended to execute the Lady Jane and Lord Guilford together on the same scaffold, at Tower|hill; but the council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed their orders, and gave directions that she should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. She saw her husband led to execution; and having given him from the window some token of her remembrance, she waited with tranquility till her own appointed hour should bring her to a like fate. She even saw his head|less body carried back in a cart; and found herself more confirmed by the reports, which she heard of the constan|cy of his end, than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. Sir John Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led her to execution, desired her to bestow on him some small present, which he might keep as a per|petual memorial of her. She gave him her table-book, in which she had just written three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body; one in Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. The purport of them was, "that human justice was against his body, but the Divine Mer|cy would be favourable to his soul: and that if her fault deserved punishment, her youth, at least, and her impru|dence, were worthy of excuse; and that God and posterity, she trusted, would show her favour." On the scaffold, she made a speech to the bye-standers, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one complaint
against the severity with which she had been treated. She said, that her offence was, not having laid her hand upon the crown, but not rejecting it with sufficient con|stancy: that she had less erred through ambition than through reverence to her parents, whom she had been taught to respect and obey: that she willingly received death, as the only satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state; and though her infringement of the laws had been constrained, she would shew, by her volun|tary submission to their sentence, that she was desirous to atone for that disobedience, into which too much filial piety had betrayed her▪ that she had justly deserved this punishment for being made the instrument, though the unwilling instrument, of the ambition of others: and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not great mis|deeds, if they tend any way to the destruction of the commonwealth.—After uttering these words, she caused herself to be disrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance submitted herself to the execu|tioner.
HUME.IN that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the dis|coloured foliage of the trees, and all the sweet, but fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind to
benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was wan|dering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness; and I sat down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss; where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquility; and sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries, which the objects around me naturally inspired.
I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of whom press|ed forwards with the liveliest expressions of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in many places steep and difficult. I observed, that those who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought themselves not far from the top; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view; and the summit of the highest they could before discern seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to lose it|self in the clouds. As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly instructor suddenly appeared: "The mountain before thee," said he, "is the Hill of Science. On the top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of her votaries; be si|lent and attentive."
After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep ascent; and observed amongst them a youth of a lively look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular
in all his motions. His name was Genius. He dart|ed like an eagle up to the mountain; and left his com|panions gazing after him with envy and admiration: but his progress was unequal, and interrupted by a thousand caprices. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he min|gled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured to the tottering edge. He delight|ed in devious and untried paths; and made so many ex|cursions from the road, that his feebler companions often outstripped him. I observed that the Muses beheld him with partiality; but Truth often frowned, and turned aside her face. While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric flights; I saw a person of a very dif|ferent appearance, named Application. He crept along with a slow and unremitting pace; his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently removing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw most of those below him, who had at first derided his slow and toilsome progress. Indeed, there were few who ascended the hill with equal, and uninterrupted steadiness; for beside the difficulties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside, by a numerous crowd of Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when once complied with, they be|came less and less able to resist: and though they often returned to the path, the asperities of the road were more severely felt; the hill appeared more steep and rugged; the fruits which were wholesome and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill-tasted; their sight grew dim; and their feet tript at every little obstruction.
I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose busi|ness was to cheer and encourage those who were toiling
up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed away at the call of the Passions. They accompanied them, however, but a little way; and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives; and led them away, without resistance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions of Misery. Amongst the innumerable seducers, who were endeavouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, there was one, so little formidable in her appearance, and so gentle and languid in her at|tempts, that I should scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceeding to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herself with re|tarding their progress; and the purpose she could not force them to abandon, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which with|ered the strength of those who came within its influence. Her unhappy captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there; but the ground seemed to slide from beneath their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, before they suspected they had changed their place. The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the stream of Insig|nificance; a dark and sluggish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled passengers are awakened by the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulph of Oblivion.
Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, none seemed less able to return than the followers of In|dolence. The captives of Appetite and Passion could often seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their enchantment; but the do|minion of Indolence was constant and unremitted; and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain.
After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was al|ways pure and exhilirating, the path shaded with laurels and ever-greens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of Science seemed to shed a glory round her vo|taries. Happy, said I, are they who are permitted to as|cend the mountain!—But while I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncommon ardour, I saw, standing be|side me, a form of diviner features, and a more benign radiance. "Happier," said she, "are they whom Vir|tue conducts to the mansions of Content!" "What," said I, "does Virtue then reside in the vale?" "I am found," said she, "in the vale, and I illuminate the moun|tain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence; and to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science may raise thee to eminence, but I alone can guide thee to felicity!"— While Virtue was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her, with a vehemence which broke my slumber. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hasten|ed homeward; and resigned the night to silence and meditation.
A••KIN.OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by de|sire; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.
Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meri|dian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more com|modious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure ir|resistably pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling; but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road; and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, there|fore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardour, except that he was some|times
tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade; and sometimes a|mused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cool|ed with fountains, and murmuring with water-falls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and un|even, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he sup|posed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the com|mon road.
Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo; he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect; he turned a|side to every cascade; and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolu|tions. In these amusements, the hours passed away unac|counted; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds; the day vanished from be|fore him; and a sudden tempest gathered round his head.
He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove; and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.
He now resolved to do what yet remained in his pow|er, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and com|mended his life to the Lord of Nature. He rose with confidence and tranquility, and pressed on with resolution. The beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration. All the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him: the winds roared in the woods: and the torrents tumbled from the hills.
Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to de|struction. At length, not fear, but labour began to over|come him; his breath grew short, and his knees trem|bled; and he was on the point of lying down in resigna|tion to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light; and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a her|mit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The ••••d man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah sed with eagerness and gratitude.
When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the her|mit, "by what chance thou hast been brought hither? I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wil|derness, in which I never saw a man before."—Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.
"Son, said the hermit, "let the errors and follies, the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direct road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time, we remit our fervour, and endea|vour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance; but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to enquire whether ano|ther advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling; and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we purpose to return. But temptation succeeds tempta|tion, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our
disquiet with sensual gratifications. By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entan|gle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy; till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example, not to despair; but shall remember, that, though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made: that reforma|tion is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever un|assisted: that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and cou|rage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."
DR. JOHNSON.I CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like marble in the quarry; which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the colours, makes the surface shine, and discovers every or|namental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the bo|dy of it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which, without such helps, are never able to make their appearance.
If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us, that a statue lies hid in a block of marble; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the super|fluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. What sculp|ture is to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, very often lies hid and con|cealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred, and have brought to light. I am therefore
much delighted with reading the accounts of savage na|tions; and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated: to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair.
Men's passions operate variously, and appear in differ|ent kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one hears of ne|groes, who, upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it sometimes happens in our American planta|tions, who can forbear admiring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful a manner? What might not that savage greatness of soul, which appears in these poor wretches on many occasions, be raised to, were it rightly cultivated? And what colour of excuse can there be, for the contempt with which we treat this part of our species; that we should not put them upon the common foot of humanity; that we should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who murders them; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off from the prospects of happiness in another world, as well as in this; and deny them that which we look upon as the pro|per means for attaining it?
It is therefore an unspeakable blessing, to be born in those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish; though, it must be confessed, there are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which I have been here speaking; as those who have had the advantages of a more liberal education, rise
above one another by several different degrees of perfec|tion. For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough-hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure; sometimes, we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and featu••; sometimes, we find the figure wrought up to great elegancy; but seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or a Praxiteles could not give seve|ral nice touches and finishings.
ADDISON.THERE is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than gratitude. It is accompanied with such inward sa|tisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the performance. It is not, like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive command which en|joined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it, for the natural grati|fication which it affords.
If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more from man to his Maker?—The Supreme Being does not only confer upon us those bounties which proceed more immediately from his hand, but even those benefits which are conveyed to us by others. Every blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it may be derived upon us, is the gift of Him who is the great Author of good, and the Father of mercies.
If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, na|turally produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind
of a grateful man, it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is employed on this great object of gratitude; on this beneficent Being, who has given us every thing we al|ready possess, and from whom we expect every thing we yet hope for.
ADDISON.THE most plain and natural sentiments of equity con|cur with divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgive|ness. Let him who has never in his life done wrong, be allowed the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as are conscious of frailties and crimes, consider for|giveness as a debt which they owe to others. Common failings are the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. Were this virtue unknown among men, order and com|fort, peace and repose, would be strangers to human life. Injuries retaliated according to the exhorbitant measure which passion prescribes, would excite resentment in re|turn. The injured person would become the injurer; and thus wrongs, reta••iations, and fresh injuries, would circulate in endless succ••ssion, till the world was rendered a field of blood. Of all the passions which invade the human breast, revenge is the most direful. When allow|ed to reign with full dominion, it is more than sufficient to poison the few pleasures which remain to man in his present state. How much soever a person may suffer from injustice, he is always in hazard of suffering more from the prosecution of revenge. The violence of an enemy cannot inflict what is equal to the torment he cre|ates
to himself, by means of the fierce and desperate passions which he allows to rage in his soul.
Those evil spirits who inhabit the regions of misery, are represented as delighting in revenge and cruelty. But all that is great and good in the universe is on the side of clemency and mercy. The almighty Ruler of the world, though for ages offended by the unrigheous|ness, and insulted by the impiety of men, is "long-suf|fering and slow to anger." His Son, when he appeared in our nature, exhibited, both in his life, and his death, the most illustrious example of forgiveness which the world ever beheld. If we look into the history of mankind, we shall find that, in every age, they who have been re|spected as worthy, or admired as great, have been distin|guished for this virtue. Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnanimous spirit is always superior to it. It suffers not from the injuries of men those severe shocks which others feel. Collected within itself, it stands un|moved by their impotent assaults; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unwor|thy conduct.—It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself greater, by forgiving it.
BLAIR.TO promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our character with an impartial eye; and to learn, from our own failings, to give that indulgence which in
our turn we claim. It is pride which fills the world with so much harshness and severity. In the fulness of self|estimation, we forget what we are. We claim attentions to which we are not entitled. We are rigorous to offen|ces, as if we had never offended; unfeeling to distress, as if we knew not what it was to suffer. From those airy regions of pride and folly, let us descend to our pro|per level. Let us survey the natural equality on which Providence has placed man with man, and reflect on the infirmities common to all. If the reflection on natural equality and mutual offences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least remember what we are in the sight of our Creator. Have we none of that forbearance to give one another, which we all so earnestly intreat from hea|ven? Can we look for clemency or gentleness from our Judge, when we are so backward to show it to our own brethren?
Let us also accustom ourselves, to reflect on the small moment of those things, which are the usual incentives to violence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour, we view every appearance through a false medium. The most inconsiderable point of interest, or honour, swells into a momentous object; and the slightest attack seems to threaten immediate ruin. But after passion or pride has subsided, we look around in vain for the mighty mischiefs we dreaded. The fabric, which our disturbed imagination had reared, totally disappears. But though the cause of contention has dwindled away, its consequen|ces remain. We have alienated a friend; we have em|bittered an enemy; we have sown the seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust.—Let us suspend our
violence for a moment, when causes of discord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolness, which, of it|self, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how little we have any prospect of gaining by fierce contention, but how much of the true happiness of life we are certain of throwing away. Easily, and from the smallest chink, the bitter waters of strife are let forth; but their course cannot be foreseen; and he seldom fails of suffering most from their poisonous effect, who first allowed them to flow.
BLAIR.AS a suspicious spirit is the source of many crimes and calamities in the world, so it is the spring of certain misery to the person who indulges it. His friends will be few; and small will be his comfort in those whom he possesses. Believing others to be his enemies, he will of course make them such. Let his caution be ever so great, the asperity of his thoughts will often break out in his behaviour; and in return for suspecting and hating, he will incur suspicion and hatred. Besides the external evils which he draws upon himself, arising from alienated friendship, broken confidence, and open enmity, the sus|picious temper itself is one of the worst evils which any man can suffer. If "in all fear there is torment," how miserable must be his state who, by living in perpetual jealousy, lives in perpetual dread? Looking upon him|self to be surrounded with spies, enemies, and designing men, he is a stranger to reliance and trust. He knows
not to whom to open himself. He dresses his counte|nance in forced smiles, while his heart throbs within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hence fret|fulness and ill-humour, disgust at the world, and all the painful sensations of an irritated and embittered mind.
So numerous and great are the evils arising from a suspicious disposition, that, of the two extremes, it is more eligible to expose ourselves to occasional disadvan|tage from thinking too well of others, than to suffer con|tinual misery by thinking always ill of them. It is bet|ter to be sometimes imposed upon, than never to trust. Safety is purchased at ••oo dear a rate, when, in order to secure it, we are obliged to be always clad in armour, and to live in perpetual hostility with our fellows. This is, for the sake of living, to deprive ou••••elves of the com|fort of life. The man of candour enjoys his situation, whatever it is, with cheerfulness and peace. Prudence directs his intercourse with the world; but no black sus|picions haunt his hours of rest. Accustomed to view the characters of his neighbours in the most favourable light, he is like one who dwells amidst those beautiful scenes of nature, on which the eye rests with pleasure. Whereas the suspicious man, having his imagination fill|ed with all the shocking forms of human falsehood, de|ceit, and treachery, resembles the traveller in the wilder|ness, who discerns no objects around him but such as are either dreary or terrible; caverns that open, serpents that hiss, and beasts of prey that howl.
BLAIR.THERE are many who have passed the age of youth and beauty; who have resigned the pleasures of that smi|ling season; who begin to decline into the vale of years, impaired in their health, depressed in their fortunes, stript of their friends, their children, and perhaps still more tender connexions. What resource can this world af|ford them? It presents a dark and dreary waste, through which there does not issue a single ray of comfort. Eve|ry delusive prospect of ambition is now at an end; long experience of mankind, an experience very different from what the open and generous soul of youth had fond|ly dreamt of has rendered the heart almost inaccessible to new friendships. The principal sources of activity are taken away, when those for whom we labour are cut off from us; those who animated, and those who sweet|ened all the toils of life. Where then can the soul find refuge, but in the bosom of Religion? There she is ad|mitted to those prospects of Providence and futurity, which alone can warm and fill the heart. I speak here of such as retain the feelings of humanity; whom mis|fortunes have softened, and perhaps rendered more deli|cately sensible: not of such as possess that stupid insen|sibility, which some are pleased to dignify with the name of Philosophy.
It might therefore be expected, that those philosophers, who think they stand in no need themselves of the assist|ance of religion to support their virtue, and who never feel the want of its consolations, would yet have the hu|manity
to consider the very different situation of the rest of mankind; and not endeavour to deprive them of what habit, at least, if they will not allow it to be nature, has made necessary to their morals, and to their happiness. It might be expected, that humanity would prevent them from breaking into the last retreat of the unfortunate, who can no longer be objects of their envy or resent|ment; and tearing from them their only remaining com|fort. The attempt to ridicule religion may be agreeable to some, by relieving them from restraint upon their pleasures; and may render others very miserable, by making them doubt those truths, in which they were most deeply interested; but it can convey real good and hap|piness to no one individual.
GREGORY.IT is a sure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it. We then, and not till then, are growing wise, when we begin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An absolute perfection of understanding, is impossible: he makes the nearest approaches to it, who has the sense to discern, and the humility to acknowledge, its imperfec|tions. Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth; it covers a multitude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue which it seems to hide: the perfections of men being like those flowers which appear more beauti|ful, when their leaves are a little contracted and folded up, than when they are full blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to the view.
We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt to value ourselves upon any proficiency in the sciences; one science, however, there is, worth more than all the rest, and that is, the science of living well; which shall remain, when "tongues shall cease," and, "knowledge shall van|ish away." As to new notions, and new doctrines, of which this age is very fruitful, the time will come, when we shall have no pleasure in them: nay, the time shall come, when they shall be exploded, and would have been forgotten, if they had not been preserved in those excel|lent books, which contain a confutation of them; like insects preserved for ages in amber, which otherwise would soon have returned to the common mass of things. But a firm belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable to it, will support and invigorate the mind to the last; and most of all, at last, at that important hour, which must decide our hopes and apprehensions: and the wis|dom, which, like our Saviour, cometh from above, will, through his merits, bring us thither. All our other stu|dies and pursuits, however different, ought to be subser|vient to, and centre in, this grand point, the pursuit of eternal happiness, by being good in ourselves, and use|ful to the world.
SEED.TIME we ought to consider as a sacred trust com|mitted to us by God; of which we are now the de|positaries,
and are to render account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted us, is intended partly for the concerns of this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which properly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere with the discharge of our necessary affairs; and let not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay till to-morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying us along smoothly. He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life. The order|ly arrangement of his time is like a ray of light, which darts itself through all his affairs. But, where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution nor review.
The first requisite for introducing order into the man|agement of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us consider well how much depends upon it, and how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in nothing more capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of time. When they think of it, as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize it, and with the greatest anxiety seek to lengthen it out. But when they view it in separate parcels, they appear to hold it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiderate
profusion. While they complain that life is short, they are often wishing its different periods at an end. Covet|ous of every other possession, of time only they are pro|digal. They allow every idle man to be master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to consume it. Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected that order should be observed in its distribution. But, by this fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret are they laying up in store for themselves! The time which they suffer to pass away in the midst of confusion, bitter repentance seeks afterwards to recal. What was omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to be the torment of some future season. Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, op|pressed by cares that belonged to a former period, labours under a burden not its own. At the close of life, the dying man beholds with anguish that his days are finish|ing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly com|menced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed aright, from not being performed in due sea|son.
But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, takes the proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is justly said to redeem the time. By proper manage|ment, he prolongs it. He lives much in little space; more in a few years than others do in many. He can live to God and his own soul, and at the same time attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on the past, and provides for the future. He
catches and arrests the hours as they fly. They are marked down for useful purposes, and their memory re|mains. Whereas those hours fleet by the man of con|fusion like a shadow. His days and years are either blanks of which he has no remembrance, or they are filled up with such a confused and irregular succession of unfinished transactions, that though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can give no account of the business which has employed him.
BLAIR.THE most excellent and honourable character which can adorn a man and a Christian, is acquired by resisting the torrent of vice, and adhering to the cause of God and virtue against a corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in general, that all those, who, in any of the great lines of life, have distinguished themselves for thinking profoundly, and acting nobly, have despised popular pre|judices; and departed, in several things, from the com|mon ways of the world. On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, than where religion and morality are concerned. In times of prevailing licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, and uncorrupted integrity; in a public or a private cause, to stand firm by what is fair and just, amidst discouragements and opposition; despising groundless censure and reproach; disdaining all compliance with public manners, when they are vicious and unlawful; and never ashamed of the punctual
discharge of every duty towards God and man;—this is what shows true greatness of spirit, and will force ap|probation even from the degenerate multitude themselves. "This is the man," (their conscience will oblige them to acknowledge,) "whom we are unable to bend to mean condescensions. We see it in vain either to flatter or to threaten him; he rests on a principle within, which we cannot shake. To this man we may, on any occasion, safely commit our cause. He is incapable of betraying his trust, or deserting his friend, or denying his faith."
It is, accordingly, this steady inflexible virtue, this re|gard to principle, superior to all custom and opinion, which peculiarly marked the characters of those in any age, who have shone with distinguished lustre; and has consecrated their memory to all posterity. It was this that obtained to ancient Enoch the the most singular tes|timony of honour from heaven. He continued to "walk with God," when the world apostised from him. He pleased God, and was beloved of him; so that living among sinners, he was translated to heaven without seeing death; "Yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wicked|ness should have altered his understanding, or deceit be|guiled his soul." When Sodom could not furnish ten righteous men to save it, Lot remained unspotted amidst the contagion. He lived like an angel among spirits of darkness; and the destroying flame was not permitted to go forth, till the good man was called away by a heaven|ly messenger from his devoted city. When "all flesh had corrupted their way upon the earth," then lived No|ah, a righteous man, and a preacher of righteousness. He stood alone, and was scoffed by the profane crew
But they by the deluge were swept away; while on him, Provid••nce conferred the immortal honour, of be|ing the restorer of a better race, and the father of a new world. Such examples as these, an such honours conferred by God on them who withstood the mul|titude of evil doers, should often be present to our minds. Let us oppose them to the numbers of low and corrupt examples, which we behold around us; and when we are in hazard of being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by thinking of those who, in former times, shone like stars in the midst of surrounding dark|ness, and are now shining in the kingdom of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament, for ever and ever.
BLAIR.THOUGH no condition of human life is free from un|easiness, yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness belong|ing to a sinful course, is far greater, than what attends a course of well-doing. If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be assured, that the world, whenever we try the exchange, will lay upon us a much heavier load. It is the outside, only, of a licentious life, which is gay and smiling. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, and deadly sorrow. For vice poisons human happiness in the spring, by introducing disorder into the heart. Those passions which it seems to indulge, it only feeds with im|perfect gratifications; and thereby strengthens them for ••ing, in the end, on their unhappy victims.
It is a great mistake to imagine, that the pain of self-denial is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as much as he who follows Christ, must "take up his cross;" and to him assuredly, it will prove a more op|pressive burden. Vice allows all our passions to range uncontrouled: and where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to gratify all. The predominant desire can only be indulged at the expense of its rival. No mortifi|cations which virtue exacts, are more severe than those, which ambition imposes upon the love of ease, pride up|on interest, and covetousness upon vanity. Self-denial, therefore, belongs, in common, to vice and virtue; but with this remarkable difference, that the passions which virtue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken; whereas, those which vice obliges us to deny, it, at the same time, strengthens. The one diminishes the pain of self-deni|al, by moderating the demand of passion; the other in|creases it, by rendering those demands imperious and vi|olent. What distresses, that occur in the calm life of vir|tue, can be compared to those tortures, which remorse of conscience inflicts on the wicked; to those severe humili|ations, arising from guilt combined with misfortunes, which sink them to the dust; to those violent agitations of shame and disappointment, which sometimes drive them to the most fatal extremities, and make them abhor their existence? How often, in the midst of those di••rous situations, into which their crimes have brought them, have they execrated the seductions of vice; and, with bitter regret, looked back to the day on wh••ch they first forsook the path of innocence!
BLAIR▪CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure 〈◊〉〈◊〉 those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to ••hat he calls the philosopher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude, towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all in|ordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts.
Among the many methods which might be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two following. First of all, a man should always con|sider how much he has more than he wants; and se|condly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is.
First, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants, I am wonderfully pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one, who con|doled him upon the loss of a farm: "Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and you have but one; so that I ought rather to be afflicted for you than you for me." On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost, than what they possess;
and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniencies of life lie in a narrow compass; but it is the humour of mankind to be always looking forward; and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour. For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid poverty; and are per|petually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of mirth, this sily game that is playing over their heads; and, by contracting their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures, cannot be sufficienly exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it may, he is a poor man, if he does not live within it; and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness; but told him, he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to
wealth, and luxury to poverty; or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, "Content is natural wealth," says Socrates; to which I shall add, Luxury is artificial poverty. I shall therefore recommend to the con|sideration of those, who are always aiming at super|fluous and imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, namely, "That no man has so much care, as he who endeavours after the most happiness."
In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much mure unhappy he might be, than he really is.— The former consideration took in all those, who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sufficiently provided with the means to make them|selves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great alleviation, from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between himself and others; or be|tween the misfortunes which he suffers, and greater mis|fortunes which might have befallen him.
I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main-mast, told the standers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was rufled by a person that came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood be|fore them: "Every one," says he, "has his calamity; and he is a happy man that has no greater than this." We find an instance to the same purpose, in the life of Doctor Hammond, written by Bishop Fell. As this
good man was troubled with a complication of dis|tempers, when he had got the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the stone; and when he had the stone; that he had not both these distempers on him at the same time.
I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there never was any system besides that of Christianity, which could effectually produce in the mind of man the virtue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 us contented with our condition, many of the pre|•• philosophers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being able to make any alteration in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ircumstances; others, that whatever evil befalls us ••ed to us by a fatal necessity, to which superior be|•• ••hemselves are subject; while others, very gravely 〈◊〉〈◊〉 man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to keep up the harmony of the universe; and that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••cheme of Providence would be troubled and per|••ed, were he otherwise. These, and the like consider|••, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show 〈◊〉〈◊〉 that his discontent is unreasonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give des|pair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him again: "It is for that very reason," said the emperor, "that I grieve."
On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bettering his condition: nay, it shows him, that bearing his afflictions as he ought to do, will natu|rally
end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter.
ADDISON.Of all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in rank and fortune is the most general. Hence, the ma|lignity which the poor commonly bear to the rich, as en|grossing to themselves all the comforts of life. H•• the evil eye with which persons of inferior station ••+tinise those who are above them in rank; and if they ap|proach to that rank, their envy is generally strong•• ••+gainst such as are just one step higher than themselv•• Alas! my friends, all this envious disquietude, whic•• ••+tates the world, arises from a deceitful figure which im•• on the public view. False colours are hung out: t•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 state of men is not what it seems to be. The o•• society requires a distinction of ranks to take place; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 in point of happiness, all men come much nearer to eq••+ty than is commonly imagined; and the circumstan•• which form any material difference of happiness among them, are not of that nature which render them grounds of envy. The poor man possesses not, it is true, some of the conveniences and pleasures of the rich; but, in return, he is free from many embarrassments to which they are subject. By the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is delivered from that variety of cares, which perplex those who have great affairs to manage, intricate plans to pursue, many enemies, perhaps, to encounter in the pursuit. In the tranpuility of his small habitation, and private family, he enjoys a peace which is often un|known at courts. The gratifications of nature, which are always the most satisfactory, are possessed by him to
their full extent; and if he be a stranger to the refined pleasures of the wealthy, he is unacquainted also with the desire of them, and by consequence, feels no want. His plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a relish, probably, higher than that of the rich man, who sits down to his luxurious banquet. His sleep is more sound; his health more firm; he knows not what spleen, languor, and list|lessness are. His accustomed employments or labours are not more oppressive to him, than the labour of attendance 〈◊〉〈◊〉 courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue of amusements, the very weight of idleness, frequently are to the rich. In the mean time, all the beauty of the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••f nature, all the enjoyments of domestic society, all t•• ••iety and cheerfulness of an easy mind, are as open to him as to those of the highest rank. The splendour of retinue, the sound of titles, the appearances of high respect, are indeed soothing, for a short time, to the great. But, become familiar, they are soon forgotten. Custom effaces their impression. They sink into the rank of th••se ordinary things, which daily recur, without raising any sensation of joy.—Let us cease, therefore, from look|ing up with discontent and envy to those, whom birth or fortune has placed above us. Let us adjust the balance of happiness fairly. When we think of the enjoyments we want, we should think also of the troubles from which we are free. If we allow their just value to the com|forts we possess, we shall find reason to rest satisfied, with a very moderate, though not an opulent and splendid, con|dition of fortune. Often, did we know the whole, we should be inclined to pity the state of those whom we now envy.
BLAIR.THE wide circle of human society is diversified by an endless variety of characters, dispositions, and passions. Uniformity is, in no respect, the genius of the world. Every man is marked by some peculiarity which distin|guishes him from another: and no where can two indi|viduals be found, who are exactly, and in all respects alike. Where so much diversity obtains, it cannot but happen, that, in the intercourse which men are obliged to maintain, their tempers shall often be ill adjusted to that intercourse: shall jar, and interfere with each other. Hence, in every station, the highest as well as the lowest, and in every condition of life, public, pri|vate, and domestic, occasions of irritation frequently arise. We are provoked, sometimes, by the folly and le|vity of those with whom we are connected; sometimes, by their indifference or neglect; by the incivility of a friend, the haughtiness of a superior, or the insolent be|haviour of one in lower station. Hardly a day passes, without somewhat or other occurring, which serves to ruffle the man of impatient spirit. Of course, such a man lives in a continual storm. He knows not what it is to enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neigh|bours, friends, spouse, and children, all, through the un|restrained violence of his temper, become sources of dis|turbance and vexation to him. In vain is affluence; in vain are health and prosperity. The least trifle is suf|ficient to discompose his mind, and poison his pleasures. His very amusements are mixed with turbulence and passion.
I would beseech this man to consider, of what small moment the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines himself to receive, are really in themselves; but of what great moment he makes them, by suffering them to deprive him of the possession of himself. I would beseech him, to consider, how many hours of happiness he throws away, which a little more patience would al|low him to enjoy; and how much he puts it in the pow|er of the most insignificant persons to render him mise|rable. "But who can expect," we hear him exclaim, "that he is to possess the insensibility of a stone? How is it possible for human nature to endure so many repeat|ed provocations? or to bear calmly with such unreason|able behaviour?"—My brother! if thou canst bear with no instances of unreasonable behaviour, withdraw thy|self from the world. Thou art no longer fit to live in it. Leave the intercourse of men. Retreat to the moun|tain, and the desert; or shut thyself up in a cell. For here, in the midst of society, offences must come. We might as well expect, when we behold a calm atmosphere, and a clear sky, that no clouds were ever to rise, and no winds to blow, as that our life was long to proceed, with|out receiving provocations from human frailty. The careless and the imprudent, the giddy and the fickle, the ungrateful and the interested, every where meet us. They are the bri••rs and thorns, with which the paths of human life are beset. He only, who can hold his course among them with patience and equanimity, he who is prepared to bear what he must expect to happen, is wor|thy the name of a man.
If we preserved ourselves composed but for a moment, we should perceive the insignificancy of most of those
provocations which we magnify so highl••▪ When a few suns more have rolled over our heads▪ 〈◊〉〈◊〉 storm will, of itself, have subsided; the cause of our present impatience and disturbance will be utterly forgotten. Can we not then, anticipate this hour of calmness to ourselves; and begin to enjoy the peace which it will certainly bring? If others have behaved improperly, let us leave them to their own folly, without becoming the victim of their ca|price, and punishing ourselves on their account—Pa|tience, in this exercise of it, cannot be too much studied by all who wish their life to flow in a smooth stream. It is the reason of a man, in opposition to the passion of a child. It is the enjoyment of peace, in opposition to uproar and confusion.
BLAIR.THE active mind of man seldom or never rests satis|fied with is present condition, how prosperous soever. Originally formed for a wider range of objects, for a higher sphere of enjoyments, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune, straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency in its state, it is ever sending forth the fond desire, the aspiring wish, after something beyond what is enjoyed at present. Hence, that restlessness which prevails so generally among mankind. Hence, that disgust of pleasures which they have tried; that passion for novelty; that ambition of rising to some degree of eminence or felicity, of which they have formed to themselves an indistinct idea. All which
may be considered as indications of a certain native, original greatness in the human soul, swelling beyond the limits of its present condition; and pointing at the higher objects for which it was made. Happy, if these latent remains of our primitive state, served to di|rect our wishes towards their proper destination, and to lead us into the path of true bliss!
But in this dark and bewildered state, the aspiring ten|dency of our nature unfortunately takes an opposite di|rection, and feeds a very misplaced ambition. The flat|tering appearances which here present themselves to sense; the distinctions which fortune confers; the advantages and pleasures which we imagine the world to be capable of bestowing, fill up the ultimate wish of most men. These are the objects which engross their solitary mus|ings, and stimulate their active labours; which warm the breasts of the young, animate the industry of the mid|dle aged, and often keep alive the passions of the old, un|til the very close of life.
Assuredly, there is nothing unlawful in our wishing to be freed from whatever is disagreeable, and to ob|tain a fuller enjoyment of the comforts of life. But when these wishes are not tempered by reason, they are in dan|ger of precipitating us into much extravagance and folly. Desires and wishes are the first springs of action. When they become exorbitant, the whole character is likely to be tainted. If we suffer our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideal happiness, we shall discompose the peace and order of our minds, and foment many hurtful pas|sions. Here, then, let moderation begin its reign: by bringing within reasonable bounds the wishes that we
form. As soon as they become extravagant, let us check them, by proper reflections on the fallacious nature of those objects, which the world hangs out to allure desire.
You have strayed, my friends, from the road which conducts to felicity, you have dishonoured the native dignity of your souls, in allowing your wishes to termi|nate on nothing higher than worldly ideas of greatness or happiness. Your imagination roves in a land of sha|dows. Unreal forms deceive you. It is no more than a phantom, an illusion of happiness, which attracts your fond admiration; nay, an illusion of happiness, which often conceals much real misery.
Do you imagine, that all are happy, who have attained to those summits of distinction, towards which your wish|es aspire? Alas! how frequently has experience shown, that where roses were supposed to bloom, nothing but briers and thorns grew? Reputation, beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royalty itself, would, many a time, have been gladly exchanged by the possessors, for that more quiet and humble station, with which you are now dissa|tisfied. With all that is splendid and shining in the world, it is decreed that there should mix many deep shades of woe. On the elevated situations of fortune, the great calamities of life chiefly fall. There, the storm spends its violence, and there, the thunder breaks; while, safe and unhurt, the inhabitant of the vale remains be|low.—Retreat, then, from those vain and pernicious ex|cursions of extravagant desire. Satisfy yourselves with what is rational and attainable. Train your minds to moderate views of human life, and human happiness. Re|member, and admire, the wisdom of Agur's petition: "Remove far from me vanity and lies. Give me neither
poverty nor riches. Feed me with food convenient for me: Lest I be full, and deny thee; and say, who is the Lord? or lest I be poor, and steal; and take the name of my God in vain."
BLAIR.I WAS yesterday, about sun-set, walking in the open fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colours, which appeared in the western parts of heaven. In pro|portion as they faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared one after another, till the whole fir|mament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was ex|ceedingly heightened and enlivened, by the season of the year, and the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full-moon rose, at length, in that clouded majesty, which Mi••ton takes no|tice of; and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had before discovered to us.
As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright|ness, and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought arose in me, which I b••eve very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection: "When I consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon
and the stars which thou hast ordained; what is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou regardest him!" In the same manner, when I consider|ed that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophi|cally, of sins, which were then shining upon me; with those innumerable sets of planets or worlds, which were moving round their respective suns; when I still enlarg|ed the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds, rising still above this which we discovered; and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of lumina|ries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former, as the stars do to us; in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure, which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works.
Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the crea|tion, with all the host of planetary worlds that move a|bout him, utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed, more than a grain of sand upon the sea|shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, it would scarcely make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye, that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. By the help of glassess, we see many stars, which we do not discover with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars, whose light has not yet travelled down to us, since their first creation.
There is no question that the universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the work of infinite Power, prompted by infinite Goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it?
To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature; and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which, in all probability, swarm through all these immeasureable regi|ons of matter.
In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow con|ceptions, which we are apt to entertain of the Divine nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in ourselves is an imper|fection that cleaves, in some degree, to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every cre|ated being is confined to a certain measure of space; and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand; is of a wider circumference to one crea|ture, than another, according a•• we rise one above another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine nature, we are so used and accus|tomed
to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot forbear, in some measure, ascribing it to HIM, in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us, that his attributes are infinite; but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little pre|judices, which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man.
We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melan|choly thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker in the multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of those ob|jects among which he seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent: and in the second, that he is omniscient.
If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made, that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to move out of one place into another; or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space which he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosophers, he is a be|ing whose centre is every where, and his circumference no where.
In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omni|present. His omniscience indeed necessarily and natural|ly
flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be con|scious of every motion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it, for millions of years, continue its progress through infinite space, with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encom|passed by the immensity of the Godhead.
In this consideration of the Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion: for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards, with an eye of mercy, those who endea|vour to recommend themselves to his notice; and, in un|feigned humility of hea••t, think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them.
ADDISON.ALL men pursue good, and would be happy, if they knew how: not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours; but happy, if possible, through every part of their existence. Either, therefore, there is a good of this steady, durable kind, or there is not. If not, then all good must be transient and uncertain; and if so, an ob|ject of the lowest value, which can little deserve our at|tention or inquiry. But if there be a better good, such a good as we are seeking; like every other thing, it must be derived from some cause; and that cause must either be external, internal, or mixed; in as much as, except these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause; since all derived from externals must fluctuate as they fluctuate. By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture of the two; because the part which is external will propor|tionably destroy its essence. What then remains but the cause internal? the very cause which we have supposed, when we place the sovereign good in mind —in rectitude of conduct.
HARRIS.I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense unknown expansion.—Where am I? What sort of place do I inhabit? Is it exactly ac|commodated in every instance to my convenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own, or a dif|ferent kind? Is every thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? No—nothing like it—the far|thest from it possible. The world appears not, then, ori|ginally made for the private convenience of me alone?— It does not. But is it not possible so to accommodate it, by my own particular industry? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What consequence then follows; or can there be any other than this—If I seek an interest of my own detached from that of others, I seek an in|terest which is chimerical, and which can never have ex|istence.
How then must I determine? Have I no interest at all? If I have not, I am stationed here to no purpose. But why no interest? Can I be contented with none but one separate and detached! Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are sufficient to convince me, that the thing is somewhere at least possible. How, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of man? Admit it; and what follows! If so, then honour and justice are my interest; then the
whole train of moral virtues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.
But, farther still—I stop not here—I pursue this social interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed through|out the earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mu|tual aids of commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and letters, by that common nature which we all partici|pate!
Again—I must have food and cloathing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not re|lated, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the dis|tant sun, from whose beams I derive vigour? to that stu|pendous course and order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this com|mon general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety! Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its great Governour our com|mon Parent.
A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit is not only incon|sistent with all social virtue and happiness, but it is also,
unreasonable and unjust. In order to form sound opini|ons concerning characters and actions, two things are especially requisite, information and impartiality. But such as are most forward to decide unfavourably, are com|monly destitute of both. Instead of possessing, or even requiring, full information, the grounds on which they proceed are frequently the most slight and stivolous. A tale, perhaps, which the idle have invented, the inquisitive have listened to, and the credulous have propagated; or a real incident which rumour, in carrying it along, has exaggerated and disguised, supplies them with materials of confident assertion, and decisive judgment. From an action they presently look into the heart, and infer the motive. This supposed motive they conclude to be the ruling principle; and pronounce at once concerning the whole character.
Nothing can be more contrary both to equity and to sound reason, than such precipitate judgments. Any man who attends to what passes within himself, may easi|ly discern what a complicated system the human character is; and what a variety of circumstances must be taken into the account, in order to estimate it truly. No sin|gle instance of conduct whatever, is sufficient to deter|mine it. As from one worthy action, it were credulity, not charity, to conclude a person to be free from all vice; so from one which is censurable, it is perfectly unjust to infer that the author of it is without conscience, and with|out merit. If we knew all the attending circumstances, it might appear in an excusable light; nay, perhaps, un|der a commendable form. The motives of the actor may have been entirely different from those which we ascribe
to him; and where we suppose him impelled by bad de|sign, he may have been prompted by conscience and mis|taken principle. Admitting the action to have been in every view criminal, he may have been hurried into it through inadvertency and surprise. He may have sin|cerely repented; and the virtuous principle may have now regained its full vigour. Perhaps this was the cor|ner of frailty; the quarter on which he lay open to the incursions of temptation; while the other avenues of his heart were firmly guarded by conscience.
It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of temper deserves attention more, than to keep our minds pure from uncharitable prejudices, and open to candour and humanity in judging of others.—The worst consequences, both to ourselves and to society, follow from the opposite spirit.
BLAIR.WE find man placed in a world, where he has by no means the disposal of the events that happen. Calami|ties sometimes befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, but to acknowledge and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can be assigned, which the present sub|ject leads me not to discuss. But though those unavoid|able
calamities make a part, yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sorrows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset us, for the source of which we must look to another quarter.—No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the circumstances of men, gone cross to their wish, than they begin to talk of the unequal distribution of the good things of this life; they envy the condition of others; they repine at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world.
Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a bro|ken constitution. But let us ask him, whether he can, fairly and honestly, assign no cause for this but the un|known decree of Heaven? Has he duly valued the bles|sing of health, and always observed the rules of virtue and sobriety? Has he been moderate in his life, and tem|perate in all his pleasures? If now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps his forgotten, indulgences, has he any title to complain, as if he were suffering un|justly? Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with the vic|tims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the chil|dren of vitious indolence and sloth. Among the thou|sands who languish there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers to be small. We should see faded youth, premature old age, and the prospect of an untime|ly grave, to be the portion of multitudes who, in one way or other, have brought those evils on themselves; while yet these martyrs of vice and folly have the assu|rance to arraign the hard fate of man, and "to fret against the Lord."
But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind, of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which
you suffer, and the discouragements under which you labour; of the crosses and disappointments of which your life has been doomed to be full.—Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to re|flect impartially upon your past train of life. Have not sloth, or pride, or ill temper, or sinful passions, misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct? Have you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, for better|ing and advancing your state? If you have chosen to in|dulge your humour, or your taste, in the gratifications of indolence or pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference to you, have obtained those advantages which naturally belong to useful labours, and honourable pursuits? Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued you through much of your life; tainted, perhaps, your characters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you into neglect?—It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own fault. "Religion is," in general, "profitable unto all things." Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity; and where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far of|tener owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having encountered insuperable bars in it. Some, by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in pru|dence. Others, by being fickle and changeable, are dis|trusted by all.—The case commonly is, that men seek,
to ascribe their disappointments to any cause, rather than to their own misconduct; and when they can devise no other cause, they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them into vices: their vices into mis|fortunes; and in their misfortunes they "murmur against Providence." They are doubly unjust towards their Creator. In their prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, rather than to his blessing; and in their adversity, they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse of this. "Every good and perfect gift cometh from above;" and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself.
When, from the condition of individuals, we look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these are, to which this miserable world is exposed.—But are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful cities with massacres and blood? Are these miseries any other, than the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and the turbulence of the peo|ple?—Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of Providence; and let us think only of the "foolishness of man." Did man control his passions,
and form his conduct according to the dictates of wis|dom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty; and human societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of his own perverseness; but let not his "heart fret against the Lord."
BLAIR.I AM informed that certain Greek writers (philoso|phers, it seems, in the opinion of their countrymen) have advanced some very extraordinary positions relating to friendship; as, indeed, what subject is there, which these subtle geniusses have not tortured with their sophistry?
The authors to whom I refer, dissuade their disciples from entering into any strong attachments, as unavoid|ably creating supernumerary disquietudes to those who engage in them; and, as every man has more than suffi|cient to call forth his solicitude, in the course of his own affairs, it is a weakness, they contend, anxiously to in|volve himself in the concerns of others. They recom|mend it also, in all connexions of this kind, to hold the hands of union extremely loose; so as always to have it in one's power to straiten or relax them, as circumstan|ces and situ••••ions shall render most expedient. They add, as a capital article of their doctrine, that, "to live exempt from cares, is an essential ingredient to con|stitute
human happiness: but an ingredient, however, which he, who voluntarily distresses himself with cares, in which he has no necessary and personal interest, must never hope to possess."
I have been told likewise, that there is another set of pretended philosophers, of the same country, whose tenets, concerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and ungenerous cast.
The proposition they attempt to establish, is, that "friendship is an affair of self-interest entirely; and that the proper motive for engaging in it, is, not in order to gratify the kind and benevo••ent affections, but for the benefit of that assistance and support which is to be de|rived from the connexion." Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most disposed to have recourse to auxilia|ry alliances of this kind, who are least qualified by na|ture, or fortune, to depend upon their own strength and powers: the weaker sex, fo•• instance, being generally more inclined to engage in friendships, than the male part of our species; and those who are depressed by indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than the wealthy and the prosperous.
Excellent and obliging sages, these, undoubtedly! To strike out the friendly affections from the moral world, would be like extinguishing the sun in the natural: each of them being the source of the best and most grateful sa|tisfactions, that Heaven has conferred on the sons of men. But I should be glad to know, what the real value of this boasted exemption from care, which they promise their disciples, justly amounts to? an exemption flattering to self-love, I confess; but which, upon many occurrences in human life, should be rejected with the utmost disdain••
for nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a well-poised and manly spirit, than to decline engaging in any laudable action, or to be discouraged from persevering in it, by an apprehension of the trouble and solicitude, with which it may probably be attended. Virtue herself, in|deed, ought to be totally renounced, if it be right to avoid every possible means that may be productive of uneasiness: for who, that is actuated by her principles, can observe the conduct of an opposite character, without being af|fected with some degree of secret dissatisfaction? Are not the just, the brave, and the good, necessarily exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and aversion, when they respectively meet with instances of fraud, of cowar|dice, or of villainy? It is an essential property of every well-constituted mind, to be affected with pain, or plea|sure, according to the nature of those moral appearances that present themselves to observation.
If sensibility, therefore, be not incompatible with true wisdom, (and it surely is not, unless we suppose that philosophy deadens every finer feeling of our nature,) what just reason can be assigned, why the sympathetic sufferings which may result from friendship, should be a sufficient inducement for banishing that generous affec|tion from the human breast? Extinguish all emotions of the heart, and what difference will remain, I do not say between man and brute, but between man and a mere ••nanimate clod? Away then with those austere philoso|phers, who represent virtue as hardening the soul against all the softer impressions of humanity! The fact, cer|tainly, is much otherwise. A truly good man is, upon many occasions, extremely susceptible of tender senti|ments; and his heart expands with joy, or shrinks with
sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his friend. Upon the whole, then, it may fairly be concluded, that, as in the case of virtue, so in that of friendship, those pain|ful sensations, which may sometimes be produced by the one, as well as by the other, are equally insufficient grounds for excluding either of them from taking po|session of our bosoms.
They who insist that "utility is the first and prevail|ing motive, which induces mankind to enter into parti|cular friendships," appear to me to divest the association of its most amiable and engaging principle. For, to a mind rightly disposed, it is not so much the benefits re|ceived, as the affectionate zeal from which they flow, that gives them their best and most valuable recommendation. It is so far indeed from being verified by fact, that a sense of our wants is the original cause of forming these ami|cable alliances; that, on the contrary, it is observable, that none have been more distinguished in their friend|ships than those, whose power and opulence, but, above all, whose superior virtue (a much firmer support) have raised them above every necessity of having recourse to the assistance of others.
The true distinction, then, in this question is, that "although friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not the primary motive of friendship."— Those selfish sensualists, therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, presume to maintain the reverse, have surely no claim to attention; as they are neither qualified by re|flection, nor experience, to be competent judges of the subject.
Is there a man upon the face of the earth, who would deliberately accept of all the wealth, and all the affluence
this world can bestow, if offered to him upon the severe terms of his being unconnected with a single mortal whom he could love, or by whom he should be beloved? This would be to lead the wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst perpetual suspicions and alarms, passes his miserable days a stranger to every tender sentiment; and utterly precluded from the heart-felt satisfaction of friendship.
Melmoth's Translation of Cicero's Laelius.I WAS yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's woods; and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was running over, in my mind, the several arguments that establish this great point; which is the basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys, that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. I considered those several proofs drawn.
First, from the nature of the soul itself, and particu|larly its immateriality; which, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced to almost a demonstration.
Secondly, from its passions and sentiments; as, parti|cularly, from its love of existence; its horror of anni|hilation; and its hopes of immortality; with that secret satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue: and that uneasiness which follows upon the commission of vice.
Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point.
But among these, and other excellent arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others, who have written on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a very great weight with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created? Are such abi|lities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection, that he can never pass: in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. Where a human soul thus at a stand in her ac|complishments; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements; I could imagine she might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvements, and travelling on from perfection, to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries?
A man, considered only in his present state, seems sent into the world merely to propagate his kind. He pro|vides himself with a successor; and immediately quits his
post to make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and can finish their business in a short life. The silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a man cannot take in his full measure of know|ledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose? Can he delight in the production of such abor|tive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? ca|pacities that are never to be gratified? How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for the next; and without believing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of existence here, and afterwards to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where they may spread and flourish to all eternity?
There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and trium|phant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetu|al progress, which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength; to consider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions of glory, and brighten to all eternity; that she will adding virtue to virtue and knowledge to knowledge; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition, which is natural to the mind
of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautifying in his eyes; and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance.
Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superor. That cherub, which now appears as a god to a human soul, knows very well, that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is: nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, the higher nature still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being; but he knows that, how high soever the sta|tion is of which he stands possessed at present, the infe|rior nature will at length mount up to it; and shine forth in the same degree of glory.
With what astonishment and veneration, may we look into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of per|fection! We know not yet what we shall be; nor will it ever enter into the heart of man, to conceive the glo|ry that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered with its Creator, is like one of those mathe|matical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider our|selves in these perpetual approaches to HIM, who is the standard not only of perfection, but of happiness!
ADDISON.AMONG the great blessings and wonders of the crea|tion, may be classed the regularities of times and seasons. Immediately after the flood, the sacred promise was made to man, that seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, should continue to the very end of all things. Accordingly, in obedience to that promise, the rotation is constantly presenting us with some useful and agreeable alteration; and all the pleasing novelty of life arises from these natural changes; nor are we less indebted to them for many of its solid com|forts. It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and conveniences of every change; and, indeed, such discriminate observations upon natural variety, can|not be undelightful; since the blessing, which every month brings along with it, is a fresh instance of the wisdom and bounty of that Providence, which regulates the glories of the year. We glow as we contemplate; we feel a propensity to adore, whilst we enjoy. In the time of seed-sowing, it is the season of confidence: the grain which the husbandman trusts to the bosom of earth,
shall, happly, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring pre|sents us with a scene of lively expectation. That which was before sown begins now to discover signs of suc|cessful vegetation. The labourer observes the change, and anticipates the harvest: he watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence; while the man of contemplation walks forth with the evening, amidst the fragrance of flowers, and promises of plenty; nor re|turns to his cottage till darkness closes the scene upon his eye. Then cometh the harvest, when the large wish is satisfied, and the granaries of nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury of abundance. The powers of language are unequal to the description of this happy season. It is the carnival of nature: sun and shade coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and gratitude, unite to render every scene of summer de|lightful.—The division of light and darkness is one of kindest efforts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Day and night yield us contrary blessings; and, at the same time, assist each other; by giving fresh lustre to the delights of both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we sleep? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could we labour?
How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper divi|sion! The hours of light are adapted to activity; and those of darkness to rest. Ere the day is passed, exer|cise and nature prepare us for the pillow; and by the time that the morning returns, we are again able to meet it with a smile. Thus, every season has a charm pecu|liar to itself; and every moment affords some interesting innovation.
MELMOTH.THIS amazing fall of water is made by the River St. Lawrence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake On|tario. The St. Lawrence is one of the largest rivers in the world; and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place, by a fall of a hundred and fifty feet perpen|dicular. It is not easy to bring the imagination to correspond to the greatness of the scene. A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves to drain the waters of almost all North America into the Atlantic Ocean, is here pour|ed precipitately down a ledge of rocks, that rises, like a wall, across the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile broad; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hundred yards over. Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing inwards like a horse-shoe: so that the cataract, which bends to the shape of the obstacle, rounding in|wards, presents a kind of theatre the most tremendous in nature. Just in the middle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that has braved the fury of the current, presents one of its points, and divides the stream at top into two parts; but they unite again long before they reach the bottom. The noise of the fall is heard at the distance of several leagues; and the fury of the wa|ters, at the termination of their fall, is inconceivable. The dashing produces a mist that rises to the very clouds; and which forms a most beautiful rainbow, when the sun shines. It will readily be supposed, that such a cata|ract entirely destroys the navigation of the stream; and
yet some Indians in their canoes, as it is said, have ven|tured down it with safety.
GOLDSMITH.OF all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos is the most remarkable, as well for its extent, as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, about a hundred years ago, at Anti|paros, an inconsiderable island of the Archipelago. "Hav|ing been informed," says he, "by the natives of Pa••ros, that, in the little island of Antiparos, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was re|solved that we (the French Consul and himself) should pay it a visit. In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains, and sloping wood|lands, we at length came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cavern, that by its gloom at first struck us with terror, and almost repressed cu|riosity. Recovering the first surprise, however, we en|tered boldly; and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to our view. We quickly perceived, that what the igno|rant natives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than a sparry concretion, formed by the water drop|ping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees harden|ing into a figure, which their fears had formed into a
monster. Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were induced to proceed still further, in quest of new ad|ventures in this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders offered themselves; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove; some white, some green; and all receding in due per|spective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be mere productions of Nature, who, hitherto in solitude, had, in her playful moments, dressed the scene, as if for her own amusement."
"We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the place; and we were introduced only into the portico of this amazing temple. In one corner of this half illu|minated recess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contained nothing more than a reservoir of water. Upon this information, we made an experiment, by throwing down some stones, which rumbling along the sides of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Le|vantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good reward, with a flambeau in his hand, ventured into this narrow aperture. After continuing within it for about a quar|ter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand, some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. Upon being informed by him that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ven|tured in once more with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descending, by a steep and dangerous way. Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led
into a spacious amphitheatre, (if I may so call it) still deeper than any other part, we returned, and being pro|vided with a ladder, flambeau, and other things to expe|dite our descent, our whole company, man by man, ven|tured into the same opening; and descending one after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the most magnificent part of the cavern."
"OUR candles being now all lighted up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be pre|sented with a more glittering, or a more magnificent scene. The whole roof hung with solid isicles, transparent as glass, yet solid as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling; the sides were regularly formed with spars; and the whole presented the idea of a magnificient theatre, illuminated with an immense pro|fusion of lights. The floor consisted of solid marble: and, in several places, magnificent columns, thrones, al|tars, and other objects, appeared, as if nature had design|ed to mock the curiosities of art. Our voices, upon speaking or singing, were redoubled to an astonishing loudness; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and re|verberations were almost deafening. In the midst of this grand amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet high, that, in some measure, resembled an altar; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass to be celebrated there. The beautiful columns that shot up round the altar, appeared like candlesticks; and many other natural
objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite."
"Below even this spacious grotto there seemed another cavern; down which I ventured with my former mariner, and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom appeared different from that of the amphitheatre, being composed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and and in which I thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this, however, as above, numbers of the most beauti|ful crystals were formed; one of which, particularly, resembled a table. Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so obliterated by time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed to import that one Antipa|ter, in the time of Alexander, had come hither; but whether he penetrated into the depths of the cavern, he does not think fit to inform us." This account of so beautiful and striking a scene, may serve to give us some idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature▪
GOLDSMITH.ONE of the earthquakes most particularly described in history, is that which happened in the year 1693; the damages of which were chiefly felt in Sicily, but its mo|tion was perceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended to a circumference of two thousand six hun|dred leagues; chiefly affecting the sea-coasts, and great
rivers; more perceivable also upon the mountains than in the vallies. Its motions were so rapid, that persons who lay at their length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling billow. The walls were dashed from their foundations; and no fewer than fifty-four cities, with an incredible number of villages, were either destroyed or greatly damaged. The city of Catanea, in particular, was utterly overthrown. A traveller, who was on his way thither, perceived, at the distance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging over the place. The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar; Mount Aetna to send forth great spires of flame; and soon after a shock ensued, with a noise as if all the artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our traveller, being obliged to alight instantly, felt himself raised a foot from the ground; and turning his eyes to the city, he with amazement saw nothing but a thick cloud of dust in the air. The birds flew about astonished; the sun was darkened; the beasts ran howling from the hills; and although the shock did not continue above three minutes, yet near nineteen thou|sand of the inhabitants of Sicily perished in the ruins. Catanea, to which city the describer was travelling, seem|ed the principal scene of ruin; its place only was to be found; and not a footstep of its former magnificence was to be seen remaining.
GOLDSMITH.IN the progress of the Divine works and government, there arrived a period, in which this earth was to be call|ed into existence. When the signal moment, predestined from all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might: and with a word created the world.—What an illustrious moment was that, when, from non-existence, there sprang at once into being, this mighty globe, on which so many millions of creatures now dwel••—No preparatory measures were required. No long circuit of means was employed. "He spake; and it was done: He command|ed; and it stood fast. The earth was at first with|out form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep." The Almighty surveyed the dark abyss; and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. He said, "Let there be light; and there was light." Then appeared the sea, and the dry land. The mountains rose; and the rivers flowed. The sun and moon began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, were stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man was made after the image of God. He appeared, walking with countenance erect; and received his Creator's be|nediction, as the Lord of this new world. The Almighty beheld his work when it was finished; and pronounced it GOOD. Superior beings saw with wonder this new accession to existence. "The morning stars sang to|gether; and all the sons of God shouted for joy."
BLAIR.CHARITY is the same with benevolence or love; and is the term uniformly employed in the New Testa|ment, to denote all the good affections which we ought to bear towards one another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general benevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as speculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest satisfied with being free from inveterate malice, or ill-will to our fellow-creatures, without prompting us to be of service to any. True charity is an active principle. It is not properly a single virtue; but a disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain whence all the virtues of benignity, candour, forberance, ge|nerosity, compassion, and liberality, flow, as so many native streams. From general good-will to all, it ex|tends its influence particularly to those with whom we stand in nearest connexion, and who are directly within the sphere of our good offices. From the country or community to which we belong, it de|scends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, re|lations, and friends; and spreads itself over the whole circle of social and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a promiscuous undistinguishing affection, which gives every man an equal title to our love, Charity, if we should endeavour to carry it so far, would be ren|dered an impracticable virtue; and would resolve it|self into mere words, without affecting the heart. True charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the
distinction between good and bad men; nor to warm our hearts equally to those who befriend, and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our enemies it inspires forgiveness, humanity, and a solici|tude for their welfare. It breaths universal candour, and liberality of sentiment. It forms gentleness of temper, and dictates affability of manners. It prompts corresponding sympathies with them who rejoice, and them who weep. It teaches us to slight and despise no man. Charity is the comforter of the afflicted, the protector of the oppressed, the reconciler of dif|ferences, the intercessor for offenders. It is faithful|ness in the friend, public spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in the judge, moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the subject. In parents, it is a care and attention; in children, it is reverence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of social life. It is the sun that en|livens and cheers the abodes of men. It is "like the dew of Hermon," says the Psalmist, "and the dew that descendeth on the mountains of Zion, where the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for ever more."
BLAIR.None but the temperate, the regular, and the virtu|ous, know how to enjoy prosperity. They bring to its comforts the manly relish of a sound uncorrupted mind. They stop at the proper point, before enjoyment dege|nerates
into disgust, and pleasure is converted into pain. They are strangers to those complaints which flow from spleen, caprice, and all the fantastical distresses of a vitia|ted mind. While riotous indulgence enervates both the body and the mind, purity and virtue heighten all the powers of human fruition.
Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. The selfish gratifications of the bad, are both nar-now in their circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is redoubled to a good man, by his generous use of it. It is reflected back upon him from every one whom he makes happy. In the intercourse of domestic affection, in the attachment of friends, the gratitude of dependents, the esteem and good-will of all who know him, he sees blessings multiplied round him, on every side. "When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: Be|cause I delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the widow's heart to sing with joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame: I was a father to the poor; and the cause which I knew not, I searched out." —Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree planted by the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit in its season: And that fruit he brings forth, not for himself alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in some solitary desert, which scatters its blossoms to the wind, and communicates neither fruit nor shade to any living thing: but like a tree in the midst of an inhabited country, which to some fantastical affords friendly shelter, to others,
fruit; which is not only admired by all for its beauty; but blessed by the traveller for the shade, and by the hungry, for the sustenance it hath given.
BLAIR.GREATNESS confers no exemption from the cares and sorrows of life: its share of them frequently bears a me|lancholy proportion to its exultation. This the monarch of Israel experienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could not find in empire; and alleviated the disquietudes of state, with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey those comforts to others, which they afforded to himself. Composed upon particular oc|casions, yet designed for general use; delivered out as services for Israelites under the Law, yet no less adapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel; they present religion to us in the most engaging dress; communicating truths which philosophy could never in|vestigate, in a style which poetry can never equal; while history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends all its charms to paint the glories of redemption. Cal|culated alike to profit and to please, they inform the un|derstanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the ima|genation. Indited under the influence of HIM, to whom all hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit mankind in all situations; grateful as the manna which descended from above, and conformed itself to every palate.
The fairest productions of human wit, after a few perusals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and
lose their fragrancy: but these unfading plants of para|dise become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful; their bloom appears to be daily heighten|ed; fresh odours are emitted, and new sweets extract|ed from them. He who hath once tasted their e••cellen|cies, will desire to taste them again; and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best.
And now, could the Author flatter himself, that any one would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which he has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his labour. The employment detached him from the bustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vanity and vexation flew away for a season; care and disquietude came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as the morning, to his task; the silence of the night invited him to pursue it; and he can truly say, that food and rest were not preferred before it. Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last: for then he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours than those which have been spent in these meditations on the songs of Sion, he never expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly did they pass; they moved smoothly and swift|ly along: for when thus engaged, he counted no time. They are gone, but they have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind; and the remembrance of them is sweet.
HORNE.THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any nation, can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect character, which, un|der the denomination of a sage or wise man, the philoso|phers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it re|duced to practice: so happily were all his virtues temper|ed together; so justly were they blended; and so power|fully did each prevent the other from exceeding its pro|per bounds.
He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with the coolest moderation; the most obstinate perseve|rance, with the easiest flexibility; the most severe justice, with the greatest lenity; the greatest rigour in com|mand; the greatest affability of deportment; the highest capacity and inclination for science, with the most shining talents fo•• action.
Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestow|ed on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. By living in that barbarous age, he was deprived of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity; and we wish to see him delincated in more lively colours, and with more particul••r ••ro••e••, that we might at least perceive some of those small specks and
blemishes, from which, as a man, it is imposible he could be entirely exempted.
HUME.THERE are few personages in history, who have been more exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adula|tion of friends, than Queen Elizabeth; and yet there scarcely is any, whose reputation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual length of her administration, and the strong fea|tures of her character, were able to overcome all preju|dices; and obliging her detractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their pa|negyrics, have, at last, in spite of political factions, and what is more, of religious animosities, produced a uni|form judgment with regard to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her penetration, vigi|lance, and address, are allowed to merit the highest prais|es; and appear not to have surpassed by any person who ever fil••ed a throne: a conduct less rigorous, less imperi|ous, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force of her mind, she controlled all her more active and stronger qualities; and prevented them from running in|to exc••ss. Her heroism was exempted from all temerity; her frugality from avarice; her friendship from partiali|ty; ••er enterprise from turbulency and a vain ambition. She guarded not herself, with equal care, or equal suc|cess,
from less infirmities; the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger.
Her singular talents for government were founded equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over the people. Few sovereigns of England succeeded to the throne in more difficult cir|cumstances; and none ever conducted the government with such uniform success and felicity.—Though un|acquainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for manging religious factions, she preserved her people by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy had involved all the neighbouring nations: and though her enemies were the most power|ful princes of Europe, the most active, the most enter|prising, the least scrupulous, she was able, by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their state; her own great|ness meanwhile ••emaining untouched and unimpaired.
The wise ministers and brave men who flourished during her reign, share the praise of her success; but, instead of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, their ad|vancement to her choice; they were supported by her constancy; and, with all their ability, they were never able to acquire an undue ascendant over her. In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remained equal|ly mistress. The force of the tender passions was great over her, but the force of her mind was still superior: and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments.
The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the prejudices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another prejudice, which is more durable, be|cause more natural; and which, according to the differ|ent views in which we survey her, is capable either of ex|alting beyond measure, or diminishing, the lustre of her character. This prejudice is founded on the considera|tion of her sex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admiration of her qualities and extensive capacity, but we are also apt to require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. But the true method of estimating her merit, is, to lay aside all these considera|tions, and to consider her merely as a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of mankind.
HUME.THE slavery produced by vice appears in the depen|dence und••r which it brings the sinner, to circumstances of extern•••• fortune. One of the favourite characters of liberty, is the independence it bestows. He who is truly a freeman is above all servile compliances, and abject sub|jec••ion. He is able to rest upon himself; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 while he regards his superiors with proper deference, neither de|bases himself by cringing to them, nor is tempted to pur|chase their favour by dishonourable means. But the sinner has forfeited every privilege of this nature. His
passions and habits render him an absolute dependent on the world, and the world's favour; on the uncertain goods of fortune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is by these he subsists, and among these his happiness is sought; according as his passions determine him to pur|sue pleasures, riches, or preferments. Having no fund within himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only re|source is in things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the world. He partakes in all its vicissitudes; and is moved and shaken by every wind of fortune. This is to be in the strictest sense a slave to the world.
Religion and virtue, on the other hand, confer on the mind principles of noble independence. "The upright man is satisfied from himself." He despises not the ad|vantages of fortune, but he centres not his happiness in them. With a moderate share of them he can be con|tented; and contentment is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious of the esteem of good men, repo|sing firm trust in the providence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from servile dependence on other things. He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look forward, without terror, to the change of the world. Let all things shift around him as they please, he believes that, by the Divine ordination, they shall be made to work together in the issue for his good: And there|fore, having much to hope from God, and little to fear from the world, he can be easy in every state. One who possesses within himself such an establishment of mind, is truly free. But shall I call that man free, who has no|thing that is his own, no property assured; whose very heart is not his own, but rendered the appendage of ex|ternal things, and the sport of fortune? Is that man
free, let his outward condition be ever so splendid, whom his imperious passions detain at their call, whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge and toil, and to beg his only enjoyment from the casualties of the world? Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends; who must bear with this man's caprice, and that man's scorn; must profess friendship where he hates, and respect where he contemns; who is not at liberty to appear in his own colours, nor to speak his own sentiments; who dares not be honest, lest he should be poor?—Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fetters are so heavy, as those which fasten the corrupted heart to this treacherous world; no depen|dence is more contemptible than that under which the vo|luptuous, the covetous, or the ambitious man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet this is the boast|ed liberty, which vice promises, as the recompense of setting us free from the salutary restraints of virtue.
BLAIR.IT will not take much time to delineate the character of the man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily understood. He is one, who makes it his con|stant rule to follow the road of duty, according as the word of God, and the voice of his conscience, point it out to him. He is not guided merely by affections, which may sometimes give the colour of virtue to a loose
and unstable character. The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, which determines him to es|teem nothing but what is honourable; and to abhor what|ever is base and unworthy, in moral conduct. Hence we find him ever the same; at all times, the trusty friend, the affectionate relation, the conscientious man of busi|ness, the pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen. He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no mask to cover him; for he acts no studied part; but he is in|deed what he appears to be, full of truth, candour, and humanity. In all his pursuits, he knows no path but the fair and direct one; and would much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachful means. He never shows us a smiling countenance, while he meditates evil against us in his heart. He never praises us among our friends; and then joins in traducing us among our enemies. We shall never find one part of his cha|racter at variance with another. In his manners, he is simple and unaffected; in all his proceedings, open and consistent.
BLAIR.I begin with distinguishing true gentleness from pas|sive tameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others. That passive tameness, which submits, without opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and assuming, forms no part of Christian duty; but, on the contrary, is destructive of general hap|piness and order. That unlimited complaisance, which,
on every occasion, falls in with the opinions and manners of others, is so far from being a virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent of many vices. It overthrows all steadiness of principle; and produces that sinful conformi|ty with the world, which taints the whole character. In the present corrupted state of human manners, always to assent and to comply, is the very worst maxim we can adopt. It is impossible to support the purity and dignity of Christian morals, without opposing the world on va|rious occasions, even though we should stand alone. That gentleness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just right from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of gentleness can with advantage be superinduced.
It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arogance, to violence and oppression. It is, proper|ly, that part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren. Com|passion prompts us to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retaliating their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions; candour, our severe judg|ments. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners; and, by a constant train of humane atten|tions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergencies;
but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse with men. It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour.
We must not, however, confound this gentle "wis|dom which is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that studied smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often they are employed by the artful, as a snare; too often affec|ted by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the base|ness of their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the homage, which, even in such in|stances, the world is constrained to pay to virtue. In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume somewhat, that may at least carry its appear|ance. Virtue is the universal charm. Even its sha|dow is courted, when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form has been reduced into an art; and, in the commerce of life, the first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to adopt the manners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity. But that gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and let me add, no|thing except what flows from the heart, can render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assumed be|haviour can at all times hide the real character. In that unaffectd civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful, than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier.
True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to HIM who made us, and to the common nature
of which we all share. It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants; and from just views of the condition, and the duty of man. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily relents; which feels for every thing that is human; and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound. It is affable in its address, and mild in its de|meanour; ever ready to oblige, and willing to de oblig|ed by others: breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-suffering to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation; administers re|proof with tenderness; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to al|lay dissention, and to restore peace. It neither intermed|dles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries inquisitive|ly into the secrets of others. It delights above all things to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to sooth at least the grieving heart. Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeks to please, rather than to shine and dazzle; and conceals with care that superiority, either of talents, or of rank, which is oppressive to those who are beneath it. In a word, it is that spirit and that tenour of man|ners, which the gospel of Christ enjoins, when it com|mands us "to bear one onother's burdens; to rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with those who weep; to please every one his neighbour for his good; to be kind and tender-hearted; to be pitiful and cour|teous; to support the weak, and to be patient towards all men"
BLAIR.THE Earl of Strafford defended himself against the ac|cusations of the house of Commons, with all the pre|sence of mind, judgment, and sagacity, that could be expected from innocence and ability. His children were placed beside him, as he was thus defending his life, and the cause of his royal master. After he had, in a long and eloquent sqeech, delivered without pre-meditation, confuted all the accusations of his enemies, he thus drew to a conclusion. "But my Lords, I have troubled you too long: longer than I should have done, but for the sake of these dear pledges, which a saint in heaven has left me."—Upon this he paused; dropped a tear; looked upon his children; and proceeded.— "What I forfeit for myself is a triflle: that my indis|cretions should reach my posterity, wounds me to the heart. Pardon my infirmity.—Something I should have added, but I am not able; and therefore I let it pass. And now, my lords, for myself, I have long been taught, that the afflictions of this life are overpaid by that eter|nal weight of glory, which awaits the innocent. And so, my Lords, even so, with the utmost tranquility,
I submit myself to your judgment, whether that judgment be life or death: not my will, but thine, O God, be done!"
His eloquence and innocence induced those judges to pity, who were the most zealous to condemn him. The King himself went to the House of Lords, and spoke for some time in his defence; but the spirit of vengeance, which had been chained for eleven years, was now roused; and nothing but his blood could give the people satisfaction. He was condemned by both Houses of Parliament; and nothing remained but for the King to give his consent to the bill of attainder. But in the pre|sent commotions, the consent of the King would very easily be dispensed with; and imminent danger might attend his refusal. Charles, however, who loved Strafford tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant; trying every expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of signing the warrant for his execution. While he con|tinued in this agitation of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts were at last silenced by an act of great magnani|mity in the condemned Lord. He received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice to obtain reconciliation between the King and his people: adding, that he was prepared to die; and that to a willing mind there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his request. He consented to sign the fatal bill by commission; and Strafford was beheaded on Tower-Hill; behaving with all that com|posed dignity of resolution, which was expected from his character.
GOLDSMITH.ALL who have been distinguished as servants of God, or benefactors of men; all who, in perilous situations, have acted their part with such honour as to ren•• their names illustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for fortitude of mind. Of this we have one con|spicuous example in the Apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view in a remarkable occurrence of his life. After having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to encounter the utmost violence of his enemies. Just before he set sail, he call|ed together the elders of his favourite church at Ephe|sus; and, in a pathetic speech, which does great honour to his character, gave them his last farewell. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the certain dangers to which he was exposing himself, all the assembly were fill|ed with distress, and melted into tears. The cirmstan|ces were such, as might have conveyed dejection even into a resolute mind; and would have totally overwhelm|ed the feeble. "They all wept sore, and ••ell on Paul's neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all for the words which he spoke, that they should see his face no more." —What were then the sentiments, what was the lan|guage, of this great and good man? Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. "Behold, I go bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem, not knowing the things that shall befall me there; save that the Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictions
abide me. But none of these things move me; neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I might finish my course with joy, and the ministry which I have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God." There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and a virtuous man. Such a man knows not what it is to shrink from danger, when con|science points out his path. In that path he is deter|mined to walk; let the consequences be what they may.
This was the magnanimous behaviour of that great Apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in view. Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man, when the time of his last suffering approached; and re|mark the majesty, and the ease, with which he looked on death. "I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. Hence|forth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness." How many years of life does such a dying moment over-balance? Who would not choose, in this manner, to go off the stage, with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rathar than prolong his existence through a wretched old age, stained with sin and shame?
BLAIR.THE religion of Christ not only arms us with forti|tude against the approach of evil; but, supposing evils to fall upon us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the
load by many consolations to which others are strangers. While bad men trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand of an offended sovereign, Christians are taught to view them as the well-intended chastise|ments of a merciful Father. They hear amidst them, that still voice which a good conscience brings to their ear: "Fear not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God." They apply to themselves the com|fortable promises with which the gospel abounds. They discover in these the happy issue decreed to their troubles; and wait with patience till Providence shall have accom|plished its great and good designs. In the mean time, Devotion opens to them its blessed and holy sanctuary: That sanctuary in which the wounded heart is healed, and the weary mind is at rest; where the cares of the world are forgotten, where its tumults are hushed, and its miseries disappear; where greater objects open to our view than any which the world presents; where a more serene sky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light beams on the afflicted heart. In those moments of devotion, a pious man pouring out his wants and sorrows to an al|mighty Supporter, feels that he is not left solitary and forsaken in a vale of woe. God is with him; Christ and the Holy Spirit are with him; and, though he should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look up in hea|ven to a Friend that will never desert him.
BLAIR.WHEN we contemplate the close of life; the termina|tion of man's designs and hopes; the silence that now reigns among those who, a little while ago, were so busy, or so gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at once awful and tender? What heart but then warms with the glow of humanity? In whose eye does not the tear gather, on revolving the fate of passing and short-lived man?
Behold the poor man who lays down at last the bur|den of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan un|der the load of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent calls of the master, from whom he received his scanty wages. No more shall he be raised from need|ful slumber on his bed of straw, nor be hurried away from his homely meal, to undergo the repeated labours of the day. While his humble grave is preparing, and a few poor and decayed neighbours are carrying him thither, it is good for us to think, that this man too was our brother; that for him the aged and destitute wife, and the needy children, now weep; that, neglected as he was by the world, he possessed perhaps both a sound un|derstanding, and a worthy heart; and is now carried by angels to rest in Abraham's bosom.—At no great distance from him, the grave is opened to receive the rich and proud man. For, as it is said with emphasis in the para|ble, "the rich man also died, and was buried." He also died. His riches prevented not his sharing the same fate
with the po•••• man; perhaps, through luxury, they ac|celerated his doom Then, indeed, "the mourners go about the streets," ••nd while, in all the pomp and mag|nificence of woe, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, impatient to examine his will, are looking on one ano|ther with jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the division of his substance.—One day, we see carried along the coffin of the smiling infant; the flow|er just nipped as it began to blossom in the parent's view: and the next day, we behold the young man, or young woman, of bloo••ing form and promising hopes, laid in an untimely grave. While the funeral is at|tended by a numerous unconcerned company, who are discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the ordinary affairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house of mourning, and represent to them|selves what is passing there. There we should see a disconsolate family, sitting in silent grief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their little society; and, with tears in their eyes, looking to the chamber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that presents it|self of their departed friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be gradually softened, and melted down into humanity.
Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, in old age, and after a long career of life, has in full ma|turity sunk at last into rest. As we are going along to the mansion of the dead, it is natural for us to think, and to discourse, of all the changes which such a person has seen during the course of his life. He has passed, it is likely, through varieties of fortune. He has experi|enced
prosperity, and adversity. He has seen families and kindreds rise and fall. He has seen peace and war succeeding in their turns; the face of his country un|dergoing many alterations; and the very city in which he dwelt rising, in a manner, new around him. After all he has beheld, his eyes are now closed for ever. He was becoming a stranger in the midst of a new successi|on of men. A race who knew him not, had arisen to fill the earth. Thus passes the world away. Through|out all ranks and conditions, "one generation passeth, and another generation cometh;" and this great inn is by turns evacuated, and replenished, by troops of suc|ceeding pilgrims.—O vain and inconstant world! O fleeting and transient life! When will the sons of men learn to think of thee, as they ought? When will they learn humanity from the afflictions of their brethren; or moderation and wisdom, from the sense of their own fu|gitive state.
BLAIR.BESIDES the felicity which springs from perfect love, there are two circumstances which particularly enhance the blessedness of that "multitude who stand before the throne;" these are, access to the most exalted society, and renewal of the most tender connexions. The former is point|ed out in the Scriptures, by "joining the innumerable company of angels, and the general assembly and church of the first-born; by sitting down with Abraham, and
Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven;" a pro|mise which opens the sublimest prospects to the human mind. It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, separated from all the dregs of the human mass, from that mixed and polluted crowd in the midst of which they now dwell, they shall be permitted to mingle with prophets, patriarchs, and apostles, with all those great and illustrious spirits, who have shone in former ages as the servants of God, or the benefactors of men; whose deeds we are accustomed to celebrate; whose steps we now follow at a distance; and whose names we pro|nounce with veneration.
United to this high assembly, the blessed, at the same time, renew those ancient connexions with virtuous friends, which had been dissolved by death. The pros|pect of this awakens in the heart, the most pleasing and tender sentiment that perhaps can fill it, in this mortal state. For of all the sorrows which we are here doomed to endure, none is so bitter as that occasioned by the fa|tal stroke which separates us, in appearance for ever, from those to whom either nature or friendship had inti|mately joined our hearts. Memory, from time to time, renews the anguish; opens the wound which seemed once to have been closed; and, by recalling joys that are past and gone, touches every spring of painful sensi|bility. In these agonizing moments, how relieving the thought, that the separation is only temporary, not eter|nal; that there is a time to come of re-union with those with whom our happiest days were spent; whose joys and sorrow once were ours; whose piety and virtue, cheered and encouraged us; and from whom, after we shall have landed on the peaceful shore where they dwell,
no revolutions of nature shall ever be able to part us more! Such is the society of the blessed above. Of such are the multitude composed, who "stand before the throne."
BLAIR.NO human character exhibited in the records of Scrip|ture, is more remarkable or instructive than that of the patriarch Joseph. He is one whom we behold tried in all the vicissitudes of fortune; from the condition of a slave, rising to be ruler of the land of Egypt; and in every sta|tion acquiring, by his virtue and wisdom, favour with God and man. When overseer of Potiphar's house, his fidelity was proved by strong temptations, which he ho|nourably resisted. When thrown into prison by the ar|tifice of a false woman, his integrity and prudence soon rendered him conspicuous, even in that dark mansion. When called into the presence of Pharaoh, the wise and and extensive plan which he formed for saving the king|dom from the miseries of impending famine, justly raised him to a high station, wherein his abilities were eminently displayed in the public service. But in his whole history, there is no circumstance so striking and interesting, as his behaviour to his brethren who had sold him into slavery. The moment in which he made himself known to them, was the must critical one of his life, and the most deci|sive of his character. It is such as rarely occu••s in the course of human events; and is calculated to draw the
highest attention of all who are endowed with any degree of sensibility of heart.
From the whole tenour of the narration it appears, that though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt, made himself strange to them, yet from the be|ginning he intended to discover himself; and studied so to conduct the discovery, as might render the surprise of joy complete. For this end, by affected severity, he took measures for bringing down into Egypt all his father's children. They were now arrived there; and Benja|min among the rest, who was his younger brother by the same mother, and was particularly beloved by Joseph. Him he threatened to detain; and seemed willing to al|low the rest to depart. This incident renewed their dis|tress. They all knew their father's extreme anxiety about the safety of Benjamin, and with what difficulty he had yielded to his undertaking this journey. Should he be prevented from returning, they dreaded that grief would overpower the old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his life. Judah, therefore, who had particularly urged the necessity of Benjamin's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly pledged himself to their father for his safe return, craved, upon this occasion, an audience of the governour; and gave him a full account of the cir|cumstances of Jacob's family.
Nothing can be more interesting and pathetic than this discourse of Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he paints in all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the close of life; long afflicted for the loss of a favourite son, whom he supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey; labouring now under anxi|ous
concern about his youngest son, the child of his old age, who alone was left alive of his mother, and whom nothing but the calamities of severe famine could have moved a tender father to send from home, and expose to the dangers of a foreign land. "If we bring him not back with us, we shall bring down the grey hairs of thy servant, our father, with sorrow, to the grave. I pray thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead of the young man, a bondman to our lord. For how shall I go up to my father, and Benjamin not with me? lest I see the evil that shall come on my father."
Upon this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain himself. The tender ideas of his father and his father's house, of his ancient home, his country and his kindred, of the distress of his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too strongly upon his mind to bear any farther concealment. "He cried, cause every man to go out from me; and he wept aloud." The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief. They were the burst of affection. They were the effusions of a heart overflowing with all the tender sensibilites of nature. Formerly he had been moved in the same manner, when he first saw his brethren before him. "His bowels yearned upon them; he sought for a place where to weep. He went into his chamber; and then washed his face and returned to them." At that period his generous plans were not completed. But now, when there was no farther occasion for con|straining himself, he gave free vent to the strong emo|tions of his heart. The first minister to the king of Egypt was not ashamed to show, that he felt as a man, and a brother. "He wept aloud; and the Egyptians, and the house of Pharaoh heard him."
The first words which his swelling heart allowed him to pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting situation that were ever uttered; —"I am Joseph; doth my father yet live?"—What could he, what ought he, in that impassionate moment, to have said more? This is the voice of Nature herself, speaking her own language; and it penetrates the heart: No pomp of expression; no parade of kindness, but strong affection hastening to utter what it strongly felt. "His brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his presence." Their silence is as expressive of those emotions of repentance and shame, which, on this amazing discovery, filled their breasts, and stopped their utterance, as the few words which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the generous agitations which struggled for vent within him. No painter could seize a more striking moment for display|ing the characteristical features of the human heart, than what is here presented. Never was there a situation of more tender and virtuous joy, on the one hand; nor, on the other, of more overwhelming confusion and conscious guilt. In the simple narration of the sacred historian, it is set before us with the greater energy and higher effect, than if it had been wrought up with all the colouring of the most admired modern eloquence.
BLAIR.THE sad evening before the death of that noble youth, whose last hours suggested these thoughts, I was with him. No one was there, but his physician, and an in|timate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. At my coming in, he said,—"you and the physician are come too late.—I have neither life nor hope. You both aim at miracles. You would raise the dead!"
Heaven, I said, was merciful—"Or," exclaimed he,— "I could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done to bless, and to save me?—I have been too strong for omnipotence! I have plucked down ruin."—I said, the blessed Redeemer▪ —"Hold! hold! you wound me!— That is the rock on which I split—I denied his name!"
Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain would permit, till the clock struck: Then with vehemence;—"Oh! time! time! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike thy murderer to the heart!—How art thou fled forever!—A month!—Oh, for a single week! I ask not for years; though an age were too little for the much I have to do."
On my saying, we could not do too much: that hea|ven was a blessed place—
"So much the worse.—'Tis lost! 'tis lost!—Heaven is to me the severest part of hell!"
Soon after I proposed prayer. "Pray you that can. I never prayed. I cannot pray:—Nor need I. Is not
Heaven on my side already? It closes with my conscience. Its severest strokes but second my own."
His friend being much touched, even to tears at this— (who could forbear? I could not)—with a most affec|tionate look, he said, "Keep those tears for thyself. I have undone thee.—Dost weep for me? that's cruel. What can pain me more?"
Here his friend too much affected, would have left him.—"No, stay—thou still mayst hope;—therefore hear me. How madly have I talk'd! How madly hast thou listened, and believed! but look on my present state, as a full answer to thee, and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain; but my soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and spirit, is full powerful to reason; full mighty to suffer. And that, which thus tri|umphs within the jaws of immortality, is, doubtless, im|mortal—And, as for a Deity, nothing less than an Al|mighty could inflict what I feel."
I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary confessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, extorted by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passionately:—"No, no! let me speak on. I have not long to speak.—My much injured friend! my soul, as my body, lies in ruins; in scattered fragments of bro|ken thought—Remorse for the past, throws my thought on the future. Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake; and bless Heaven for the flames!—that is not an everlasting flame; that is not an unquenchable fire."
How were we struck! yet, soon after, still more.
With what an eye of distraction, what a face of despair! he cried out:—"My principles have poisoned my friend; my extravagance has beggared my boy! my unkindness has murdered my wife!—And is there another hell?— Oh! thou blasphemed, yet indulgent LORD GOD! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown!"
Soon after his understanding failed. His terrified ima|gination uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever for|gotten. And ere the sun (which, I hope, has seen, few like him) arose, the gay, young, noble, ingenious, ac|complished, and most wretched Altamont, expired!
If this is a man of pleasure, what is a man of pain? How quick, how total, is their transit! In what a dismal gloom they set for ever! How short, alas! the day of their rejoicing!—For a moment they glitter—they daz|zle. In a moment, where are they? Oblivion covers their memories. Ah! would it did! Infamy snatches them from oblivion. In the long-living annals of infa|my their triumphs are recorded. Thy sufferings still bleed in the bosom, poor Altamont! of the heart-stricken friend—for Altamont had a friend. He might have had many. His transient morning might have been the dawn of an immortal day. His name might have been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His me|mory might have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grate|ful to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding ge|neration. With what capacities was he endowed! with what advantages, for being greatly good! But with the talents of an angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme point, judging right in all else, but aggravates his folly; as it shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of being right.
DR. YOUNG.I FIND it impossible to reconcile myself to a melancholy philosophy.
And I am equally unable to approve of that vain phi|losophy, which teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in a wretched and painful light.
Thou art too much affected with the state of things; and this is a source of misery to thee.
And I think that thou art too little moved by it. Thy mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the philosopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see mankind so frail, so blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue?
I an excited to laughter, when I see so much imperti|nence and folly.
And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy ri|dicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the persons with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay even thyself.
I care very little for all the silly persons I meet with; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly.
If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wisdom nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them. But is it certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are!
I presume that I am not; since, in every point, my sen|timents are the very reverse of theirs.
There are follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable.
Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments; and to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the levities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish or irregular in their lives?
Alas! there is but too much reason to believe, they are so: and on this ground, I pity and deplore their con|dition. We agree in this point, that men do not conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principles: but I, who do not suffer myself to act as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which compel me to love them; and that love fills me with compassion for their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my brethren, persons ••orn in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and privileges? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and wounded per|sons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy mirth? And yet, the evils of the body bear no compa|rison with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling, as to laugh at, or despise a poor miserable being who had lost one of his legs: and yet thou art so destitute of hu|manity, as to ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay to its dictates.
He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the loss 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not to be imputed to himself: but he who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly.
Ah! so much the more is he to be pitied! A furious maniac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would de|serve more compassion than an ordinary blind man.
Come, let us accommodate the business. There is something to be said on each side of the question. There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weep|ing. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it: it is deplorable, and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in his own way, and according to his own tem|per. One point is unquestionable, that mankind are preposterous: to think right, and to act well, we must think and act differently from them. To submit to the authority, and follow the example of the greater part of men, would render us foolish and miserable.
All this is, indeed, true; but then thou hast no real love or feeling for thy species. The calamities of man|kind excite thy mirth: and this proves that thou hast no regard for men, nor any true respect for the virtues which they have unhappily abandoned.
AMAZING! What do I see? It is Pithias just arriv|ed.—It is indeed Pithias. I did not think it possible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend!
Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confine|ment, with no other views, than to pay to Heaven the vows I had made; to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil and satisfied.
But why dost thou return? Hast thou no fear of death? Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus vo|luntarily?
I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. Every principle of honor and goodness, forbids me to al|low my friend to die for me.
Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself?
No; I love him as myself. But I am persuaded that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend; since it was me whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that he should suffer, to deliver me from the death which was designed, not for him, but for me only.
But thou supposest, that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee, as upon thy friend.
Very true; we are both entirely innocent: and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer.
Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, instead of thee?
It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly cul|pable to let Damon suffer that death, which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only.
Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view, than to save the life of a friend, by losing thy own?
I return, in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice which is common for tyrants to inflict; and, with respect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me.
And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee: Didst thou not really fear, that Pythias would never return; and that thou wouldst be put to death on his account?
I was but too well assured, that Pythias would punctu|ally return; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heaven, that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men; and I should have the satisfaction of dying for him!
What! Does life displease thee?
Yes; it displeases me when I see and feel the power of a tyrant.
It is well! Thou shalt see him no more. I will or|der thee to be put to death immediately.
Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in my last hour.
I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power at defiance.
Thou canst not, then, endure virtue.
No; I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue which contemns life; which dreads no punishment; and which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure.
Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friend|ship.
Guards, take Pythias to execution. We shall see whether Damon will continue to despise my authority.
Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour; but I have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy pow|er, in order to save him: Be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice, and put me to death.
Hold, Dionysius! remember, it was Pythias alone who offended thee: Damon could not—
Alas! what do I see and hear! where am I? How miserable; and how worthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my power and honours are in|sufficient to produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend, in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly, unreservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation.
How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, expect to have friends? If thou hadst loved and re|spected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and re|spect. Thou hast feared mankind; and they fear thee; they detest thee.
Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives; and I will load you with riches.
We have no desire to be enriched by thee; and, in re|gard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it till thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtuous; affec|tionate, disinterested beneficent; and know how to live
in a sort of equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship.
YES, we both were philosophers; but my philosophy was the deepest. You dogmatized: I doubted.
Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philoso|phy? It may be a good beginning of it; but it is a bad end.
No:—the more profound our searches are into the na|ture of things, the more uncertainty we shall find; and the most subtle minds see objections and difficulties in every system, which are overlooked or undiscoverable by ordinary understandings.
It would be better then to be no philosopher, and to continue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that one may have the convenience of thinking that one knows something. I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things very clearly, though some are out of their reach, or discerned but dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who should offer me an eye-water, the use of which would at first so sharp|en my sight, as to ••••rry it farther than ordinary visions
but would in the end put them out? Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what I have supposed the doctor's nostrum ••o be to those of the body. It actually brought your own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighted, and rendered more so by art and a subtilty of logick peculiar to yourself—it brought, I say, your very acute understanding to see nothing clearly; and en|veloped all the great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt.
I own it did;—but your comparison is not just. I did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye-water: I only supposed I saw well; but I was in an errror, with all the rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the per|ceptions were imaginary. I cured myself first of those false imaginations, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men.
A great cure indeed! and don't you think that, in re|turn for the service you did them, they ought to erect you a statue?
Yes; it is good for human nature to know its own weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we have not, we are always in great danger of hurting ourselves, or at least of deserving ridicule and contempt by vain and idle efforts.
I agree with you, that human nature should know its own weakness; but it should also feel its strength and try to improve it. This was my employment as a philo|sopher. I endeavoured to discover the real powers of
the mind, to see what it could do, and what it could not; to restrain it from efforts beyond its ability; but to teach it how to advance as far as the faculties given to it by na|ture, with the utmost exertion and most proper culture of them, would allow it to go. In the vast ocean of phi+losophy, I had the line and the plummet always in my hands. Many of its depths I found myself unable to fathom; but, by caution in sounding, and the careful ob|servations I made in the course of my voyage, I found out some truths of so much use to mankind, that they acknowledge me to have been their benefactor.
Their ignorance makes them think so. Some other philosopher will come hereafter, and show those truths to be falsehoods. He will pretend to discover other truths of equal importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among men now barbarous and unlearned, whose saga|cious discoveries will discredit the opinions of his admired predecessor. In philosophy, as in nature, all changes its form, and one thing exists by the destruction of another.
Opinions taken up without a patient investigation, de|pending on terms not accurately defined, and principles begged without proof, like theories to explain the phaeno|mena of nature, built on suppositions instead of experi|ments, must perpetually change and destroy one another. But some opinions there are, even in matters not obvious to the common sense of mankind, which the mind has receiv|ed on such rational grounds of assent, that they are as immoveable as the pillars of heaven; or (to speak phi|losophically) as the great laws of Nature, by which, un|der God, the universe is sustained. Can you seriously
think, that, because the hypothesis of your countryman Descartes, which was nothing but an ingenious, well-ima|gined romance, has been lately exploded, the system of Newton, which is built on experiments and geometry, the two most certain methods of discovering truth, will ever fail; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divinity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the doctrines of that religion, which I, the declared enemy of all enthusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and maintained, will ever be shaken?
If you had asked Descartes, while he was in the height of his vogue, whether his system would ever be confuted by any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been by his, what answer do you suppose he would have re|turned?
Come, come, you yourself know the difference between the foundations on which the credit of those systems, and that of Newton is placed. Your scepticism is more af|fected than real. You found it a shorter way to a great reputation, (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to defend; to pull down, than, to set up. And your ta|lents were admirable for that kind of work. Then your huddling together in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, or obscene jest, and a grave argument against the Christian religion, a witty confutation of some absurd au|thor, and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly commodious to all our young smarts and smatterers in free-thinking. But what mischief have you not done to human society? You have endeavour|ed, and with some degree of success, to shake th••se foun|dations,
on which the whole moral world, and the great fabric of social happiness, entirely rest. How could you, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your conscience, even supposing you had doubts of the truth of a system, which gives to virtue its sweet|est hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to true penitence its best consolations; which restrains even the least approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allowances for the infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to it, but which its real imperfection, and the good|ness of its infinitely benevolent Creator, so evidently re|quire?
The mind is free; and it loves to exert its freedom Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a tyranny, against which it has a right to rebel.
The mind, though free, has a governor within itself, which may and ought to limit the exercise of its freedom That governor is Reason.
Yes:—but Reason, like other governors, has a poli|cy more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed laws. And if that reason, which rules my mind or yours, has happened to set up a favourite notion, it not only submits implicitly to it, but desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I hold that any man may lawfully oppose this desire in another; and that if he is wise, he will do his utmost endeavours to check it in himself.
Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to this you now are ridiculing? do we not often take a plea|sure to show our own power, and gratify our own pride, by degrading the notions set up by other men, and gene|rally respected?
I believe we do; and by this means it often happens that, if one man build and consecrate a temple to Folly, another pulls it down.
Do you think it beneficial to human society, to have all temples pulled down?
I cannot say that I do.
Yet I find not in your writings any mark of distinc|tion, to show us which you mean to save.
A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, must be of no sect.
Is there no medium between the blind zeal of a sectary, and a total indifference to all religion?
With regard to morality, I was not indifferent.
How could you then be indifferent with regard to the sanctions religion gives to morality? how could you pub|lish what tends so directly and apparently to weaken in mankind the belief of those sanctions? was not this sa|crificing the great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity?
A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, by declaring that, which, on a full discussion of the ques|tion, he sincerely thinks to be true.
An enthusiast, who advances doctrins prejudicial to so|ciety, or opposes any that are useful to it, has the strength of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagination, to plead in alleviation of his fault. But your cool head, and found judgment, can have no such excuse. I know very well there are passages in all your works, and those not sew, where you talk like a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your character was irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured parts of your writings, you sap the surest foundations of all moral duties; what avails it that in others, or in the conduct of your life, you ap|peared to respect them? How many, who have stronger passions than you had, and are desirous to get rid of the curb that restrains them, will lay hold of your sceptism, to set themselves loose from all obligations of virtue! What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of such talents! It would have been better for you and for mankind, if you had been one of the dullest Dutch the|ologians, or the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The riches of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed so perversey, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an ornament and support, to society.
You are very severe upon me.—But do you count it no merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fa|naticism, and from the terrors and follies of superstition?
Consider how much mischief these have done to the world! Even in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what convulsions of government, what confusion in society, did they produce! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much more enlightened than the former, did I not see them occasion a violent persecution in my own country? and can you blame me for striking at the root of these evils?
The root of these evils, you well know, was false re|ligion; but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not more different, than the system of faith I defended, and that which produced the horrors of which you speak. Why would you so fallaciously confound them together in some of your writings, that it requires much more judg|ment, and a more diligent attention, than ordinary read|ers have, to separate them again, and to make the proper distinctions? This, indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. They recommend themselves to warm and ingenuous minds, by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments really strong, against superstition, en|thusiasm, and priestcraft. But, at the same time, they insiduously throw the colours of these upon the fair face of true religion; and dress her out in their garb, with a malignant intention to render her odious or despicable, to those who have not penetration enough to discern the impious fraud. Some of them may have thus deceived themselves, as well as others. Yet it is certain, no book, that ever was written by the most acute of these gentle|men, is so repugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual tyranny,
to all absurd superstitions, to all that tend to disturb or in|jure society, as that gospel they so much affect to despise.
Mankind are so made, that, when they have been over-heated, they cannot be brought to a proper temper again, till they have been over-cooled. My scepticism might be necessary, to abate the fever and phrensy of false religion.
A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paralytical state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its natural and vital powers,) in order to take off a fever, which temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doc|trines, would probably cure!
I acknowledge that those medicines have a great power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mixture of some harsher drugs, or some unsafe and ridiculous nos|trums of their own.
What you now say is too true.—God has given us a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases; but bad and interested physicians, or ignorant and conceited quacks, administer it so ill to the rest of mankind, that much of the benefit of it is unhappily lost.
THE time is come, Fathers, when that which has long been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been subject to, and removing the imputations against trials, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long prevailed, not only here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, both dangerous to you, and perni|cious to the state,—, that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, however clearly convicted. There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to the con|fusion, I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous impu|tation, one whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion of all impartial persons; but who, according to his own reckoning and declared dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted; I mean Caius Verres. I demand justice of you, Fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pam|phylia, the invader of the rights and privileges of Ro|mans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, your au|thority, Fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes
of the public; but if his great riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point,—to make it appa|rent to all the world, that what was wanting in this case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and ade|quate punishment.
To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does his quaestorship, the first public employment he held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villanies? Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people violated. The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries? in which, houses, cities, and temples were robbed by him. What was his conduct in his praetorship here at home? Let the plundered temples, and public works neglected, that he might embezz••e the money intended for carrying them on, bear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge? Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. But his praetorship in Sicily crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infa|my. The mischiefs done by him in that unhappy coun|try, during the three years of his iniquitous administra|tion, are such, that many years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be sufficient to restore things to the condition in which he found them: for it is notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original laws; of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman se|nate, upon their coming under the protection of the com|monwealth; nor of the natural and unalienable rights of
men. His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. And his decisions have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard of impositions, extorted from the industri|ous poor, are not to be computed. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, for money, have been exempted from the deserved punishments; and men of the most unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished unheard. The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, have been opened to pirates and ravagers. The soldiery and sailors, be|longing to a province under the protection of the com|monwealth, have been starved to death. Whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The ancient monuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of heroes and princes have been car|ried off; and the temples stripped of the images.—Hav|ing, by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserving of the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols: so that the exclamation, "I am a citizen of Rome!" which has often, in the most distant regions, and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them; but, on the con|trary, brought a speedier and more severe punishment upon them.
I ask now, Verres, what thou hast to advance against this charge? Wilt thou pretend to deny it? Wilt thou pretend, that any thing false, that even any thing aggra|vated,
is alleged against thee? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction? What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citi|zen, Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country, against a cruel oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape? The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brought before the wicked praetor. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought; accusing him, but with|out the least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, "I am a Roman citizen: I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Pano|ramus, and will attest my innocence." The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his own de|fence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. Thus, Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourging; whilst the only words he ut|tered, amidst his cruel sufferings, were, "I am a Roman citizen!" With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy. But of so little service was this pri|vilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citi|zenship,
the order was given for his execution,—for his execution upon the cross!—
O liberty!—O sound once delightful to every Roman ear!—O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship!—once sacred!—how trampled upon!—But what then! Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance.
I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom and justice, Fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and the introduction of ge|neral anarchy and confusion.
CICERO'S ORATIONS.FATHERS!
IT is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his death bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, conjunctly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and
myself, the children of his own body, the administration of the kingdom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and people of Rome proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman commonwealth; assuring us, that your protection would prove a defence against all enemies; and would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures.
While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our deceased father—Jugurtha—the most infamous of mankind!—breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common humanity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman commonwealth, procured the murder of my un|fortunate brother; and has driven me from my throne and native country, though he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micipsa, the friend|ship and alliance of the Romans.
For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distress|ful circumstances, is calamity enough; but my misfor|tunes are heightened by the consideration—that I find myself obliged to solicit your assistance, Fathers, for the services done you by my ancestors, not for any I have been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to deserve any thing at your hands; and has forced me to be burdensome, before I could be useful to you. And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery—a once powerful prince, the de|s••endant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and re|duced to the necessity of begging foreign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom— if my unequalled distresses were all I had to plead—it
would become the greatness of the Roman common|wealth, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugurtha has driven me from the very dominions, which the senate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors; and, from which my grandfather, and my father, under your um|brage expelled Syphax and the Carthaginians. Thus, Fathers, your kindness to our family is defeated; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you.
O wretched prince! Oh cruel reverse of fortune! Oh father Micipsa! is this the consequence of thy generosity; that he, whom thy goodness raised to an equality with thy own children, should be the murderer of thy children? Must, then, the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havock and blood? While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks; our enemy near; our only powerfull ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congra|tulated ourselves on the prospect of established peace. But, instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Numidia drenched with royal blood! and the only surviving son of its late king, flying from an adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot command in his own kingdom.
Whither—Oh! whither shall I fly? If I return to the royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the murderer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, those hands which are now reeking with
my brother's? If I were to fly for refuge, or for assis|tance, to any other court, from what prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman commonwealth give me up? From my own family o•• friends I have no expectations. My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his unhappy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual sym|pathy would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in his early youth, by the very hand which should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he suspected to be in my interest. Some have been de|stroyed by the lingering torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts; and their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself.
Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from that height of power to which you are raised, on the unex|ampled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked intruder, become an outcast from all mankind. Let no•• the crafty insinuations of him who returns mur|der for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who has butchered the son and relations of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with his own sons.—I have been informed, that he la|bours by his emissaries to prevent your determining any thing against him in his absence; pretending that I mag|nify my distress, and might, for him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from above shall overtake him, he will then dissemble as I do. Then he, who now, har|••••ned in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his vio|lence
has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother.
Oh murdered, butchered brother! Oh dearest to my heart—now gone forever from my sight!—but why should I lament his death? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own life, in defence of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these comforts, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind, of the uncertainty of hu|man affairs. So far from having it in my power to pu|nish his murderer, I am not master of the means of secur|ing my own life. So far from being in a condition to de|fend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection for my own person.
Fathers! Senatars of Rome! the arbiters of nations! to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Ju|gurtha.—By your affection for your children; by your love for your country; by your own virtues; by the majesty of the Roman commonwealth; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you—deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury; and save the kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, usurpation, and cru|elty!
SALLUST.AGRIPPA said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak for thyself. Then Paul stretched forth the hand, and an|swered for himself.
I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee, concerning all the things whereof I am accused by the Jews: especially, as I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently.
My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews; who knew me from the beginning, (if they would testify,) that after the straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made by God to our fathers: to which promise, our twelve tribes, continually serving God day and night, hope to come: and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am accused by the Jews.
Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth: and this I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests, and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I of|ten punished them in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme; and being exceedingly mad against
them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. But as I went to Damascus, with authority and commission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king! I saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me, and them who journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me, and saying in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said, who art thou, Lord? And he replied, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But rise, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared to thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister, and a witness both of these things, which thou hast seen, and of those things in which I will appear to thee; delivering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, to whom I now send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God; that they may receive forgive|ness of sins, and inheritance amongst them who are sanc|tified by faith that is in me.
Whereupon, O king Agrippa! I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision: but showed first to them of Da|mascus, and at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes, the Jews caught me in the temple; and went about to kill me. Having, however, obtained help from God, I continue, to this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying no other things than those which the prophets and Moses declared should come: that Christ should suffer; that he would be the first who should rise from the dead; and he would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles.
And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a loud voice, "Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learn|ing hath made thee mad." But he replied, I am not mad, most noble Festus; but speak the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth these things, be|fore whom also I speak freely. I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him: for this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, "almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian." And Paul replied, "I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except these bonds."* 2.2
ACTS XXVI.MY LORDS,
WHEN I consider the importance of this bill to your Lordships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much of your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magnitude; it is no less than to take away from two thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privileges and immunities of which they have been long possessed. Perhaps there is no situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying, as when it is made a judge in its own cause. There is some|thing implanted in the breast of man so attached to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with justice, has ever been held the summit of all hu|man virtue. The bill now in question puts your Lord|ships in this very predicament; and I doubt not but the wisdom of your decision will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice are in opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with your Lordships.
Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom; and, indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this country, that the members of both Houses should be free in their persons, in cases of civil suits: for there may come a time when the safety and welfare
of this whole empire, may depend upon their attendance in parliament. I am far from advising any measure that would in future endanger the state: but the bill be|fore your Lordships has, I am confident, no such tenden|cy; for it expressly secures the persons of members of either House in all civil suits. This being the case, I confess, when I see many noble Lords, for whose judg|ment I have a very great respect, standing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate the reco|very of just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public princi|ples: I would not wish to insinuate, that private interest had the least weight in their determination.
The bill has been frequently proposed, and as fre|quently has miscarried: but it was always lost in the lower House. Little did I think, when it had passed the Commons, that it possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall it be said, that you, my Lords, the grand council of the nation, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects? Forbid it justice!—I am sure, were the noble Lords as well acquainted as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay they could not, oppose this bill.
I have waited with patience to hear what arguments might be urged against the bill; but I have waited in vain: the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and expediency of the bill are such as render it self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, that can neither be weakened by argument,
nor entangled with sophistry. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble Lords, on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the sitting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the very servants of mem|bers. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ances|tors; it might perhaps appear invidious: that is not ne|cessary in the present case. I shall only say, that the no|ble Lords who flatter themselves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as circumstances alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable either for masters or servants to run in debt, as it is at present. Formerly, we were not that great commercial nation we are at present; nor formerly were merchants and manufacturers members parliament, as at present. The case is now very different: both mer|chants and manufacturers are, with great propriety, elect|ed members of the Lower House. Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of the kingdom, privi|lege must be done away. We all know, that the very soul and essence of trade are regular payments; and sad experience teaches us, that there are men, who will not make their regular payments without the compulsive power of the laws. The law then ought to be equally open to all. Any exemption to particular men, or par|ticular ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial coun|try, a solecism of the grossest nature.
But I will not trouble your Lordships with arguments for that, which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only say a few words to some noble Lords, who for|see much inconveniency, from the persons of their ser|vants
being liable to be arrested. One noble lord ob|serves, That the coachman of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving his master to the House, and, that con|sequently, he will not be able to attend his duty in parli|ament. If this were actually to happen, there are so many methods by which the member might still get to the House, that I can hardly think the noble lord is serious in his ob|jection. Another noble peer said, That, by this bill, one might lose his most valuable and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradiction in terms: for he can neither be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt which he is neither able nor willing to pay, till com|pelled by the law. If my servant, by unforeseen acci|dents, has got into debt, and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the demand. But upon no principle of liberal legislation whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest tradesman may be torn from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is monstrous injustice! I flatter myself, however, the determination of this day will entirely put an end to all such partial proceedings for the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your Lordships' consideration.
I come now to speak, upon what, indeed, I would have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at, for the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble lord on my left hand, that I likewise am run|ning the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by after-ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race: to what purpose, all-trying Time can alone deter|mine. But if the noble lord means that mushroom po|pularity,
which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble Lord to point out a single action of my life, in which the popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God I have a more permanent and steady rule for my con|duct,—the dictates of my own breast. They who have foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity: I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob, for the trumpet of Fame. Experience might inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have receiv|ed their execrations the next; and many, who, by the popularity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's page, when truth has triumphed over delusion, the assas|sins of liberty. Why then the noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Be|sides, I do not know that the bill now before your Lord|ships will be popular: it depends much upon the cap••ice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts; and, in that case, the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular neither to take away any of the privileges of parliament; for I very well remember, and many of your Lordships may remem|ber, that, not long ago, the popular cry was for the exten|sion of privilege; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said, the privilege protected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of
some of the courts were tinctured with that doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine; I thought so then, I think so still; but, nevertheless, it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are call|ed the friends of liberty; how deservedly, time will show. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally administered to all; to the king and to the beg|gar. Where is the justice then, or where is the law that protects a member of parliament more than any other man, from the punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this country allow of no place, nor any employ|ment, to be a sanctuary for crimes; and where I have the honour to sit as judge, neither royal favour, nor popular applause, shall ever protect the guilty.
I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your Lordships' time; and I am sorry a bill, frought with so many good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate: but I doubt not your Lordships' determination will convince the world, that a bill, calcu|lated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with your Lordships but very little support.
I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of beginning early to give serious attention to your con|duct. As soon as you are capable of reflection, you must perceive that there is a right and a wrong, in human ac|••ions. You see, that those who are born with the same
advantages of fortune, are not all equally prosperous in the course of life. While some of them, by wise and steady conduct, attain distinction in the world, and pass their days with comfort and honour; others, of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the advan|tages of their birth; involve themselves in much misery; and end in being a disgrace to their friends, and a burden on society. Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the external condition in which you find yourselves plac|ed, but on the part which you are to act, that your wel|fare or unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now, when beginning to act that part, what can be of greater moment, than to regulate your plan of conduct with the most serious attention, before you have yet com|mitted any fatal or irretrievable errors? If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose, you deliver yourselves up, at so critical a time, to sloth and pleasure; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but humour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amusement; if you allow yourselves to float loose and careless on the tide of life, ready to receive any direction which the current of fashion may chance to give you; what can you expect to follow from such beginnings? While so many around you are undergoing the sad consequences of a like indis|cretion, for what reason shall not those consequences ex|tend to you? Shall you attain success without that prepa|ration, and escape dangers without that precaution, which is required of others? Shall happiness grow up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and the acquisition of labour and care?—Deceive not
yourselves with such arrogant hopes. Whatever be your rank, Providence will not, for your sake, rever••••ts esta|blished order. The Author of your being 〈◊〉〈◊〉 enjoin|ed you to "take heed to your ways; to ponder the paths of your feet; to remember your Creator in the days of your youth." He hath decreed, that they only "who seek after wisdom, shall find it; that fools shall be afflict|ed, because of their transgressions; and that whoever re|fuseth instruction, shall destroy his own foul." By listen|ing to these admonitions, and tempering the vivacity of youth with a proper mixture of serious thought, you may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life; but by delivering yourselves up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the foundation of lasting heaviness of heart.
When you look forward to those plans of life, which either your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have proposed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order to pursue them with advantage some previous discipline is requisite. Be assured, that whatever is to be your profession, no education is more necessary to your success, than the acquirement of virtuous dispositions and habits. This is the universal preparation for every cha|racter, and every station in life. Bad as the world is, re|spect is always paid to virtue. In the usual course of human affairs, it will be found, that a plain understanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes more to prosperity, than the brightest parts without probity or honour. Whether science or business, or public life, be your aim, virtue still enters, for a principal share, into all these great departments of society. It is connected with eminence, in every liberal art; with reputation, in every
branch of fair and useful business; with distinction, in every public station. The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which it adds to character; the generous sentiments which it breathes; the undaunted spirit which it inspires; the ardour of diligence which it quickens; the freedom which it procures from pernicious and dis|honourable avocations; are the foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful among men.
Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre•••• Feeble are the attrac|tions of the fairest form, if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. By whatever means you may at first attract the attention, you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the mind. These are the qualities whose influence will last, when the lustre of all that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away.
Let not then the season of youth be barren of improve|ments, so essential to you•• future felicity and honour. Now is the seed-time of life; and according to "what you sow, you shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine assistance, of your own forming; your fate is, in some measure, put into your own hands. Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits have not established their dominion. Prejudices have not pre-occupied your un|derstanding. The world has not had time to contract and debase your affections. All your powers are more vigo|rous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be at any
••ure period. Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and passions, the direction is likely to continue. It will form the channel in which your life is to run; nay, it may determine is everlasting issue. Consider then the employment of this important period, as the highest trust which shall ever be committed to you; as in a great measure, decisive of your happiness, in time, and in eter|nity. As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the invariable laws of Nature, affects the productions of what is next in course; so, in human life, every period of our age, according as it is well or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which is to follow. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and flourishing manhood; and such manhood passes of itself, without un|easiness, into respectable and tranquil old age. But when nature is turned out of its regular course, disorder takes place in the moral, just as in the vegetable world. If the Spring put forth no blossoms, in Summer there will be no beauty, and in Autumn, no fruit. So, if youth be trifled away without improvement, manhood will proba|bly be contemptible, and old age miserable. If the be|ginnings of life have been "vanity," its latter end can ••carcely be any other than "vexation of spirit."
I shall finish this address, with calling your attention to that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which, amidst all your endeavours after improvement, you ought continually to preserve. It is too common with the young, even when they resolve to tread the path of virtue and honour, to set out with presumptuous confidence in themselves. Trusting to their own abi|lities for carrying them successfully through life, they
are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assis|tance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy dis|cipline of religion. Alas! how little do they know the dangers which await them? Neither human wisdom, nor human virtue, unsupported by religion, is equal to the trying situations which often occur in life. By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the most vir|tuous intentions been overthrown? Under the pressure of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk? "every good, and every perfect gift, is from above." Wisdom and virtue, as well as "riches and honour, come from God." Destitute of his favour, you are in no bet|ter situation, with all your boasted abilities, than orphans left to wander in a trackless desert, without any guide to conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the ga|thering storm. Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. Expect not, that your happiness can be independent of him who made youth. By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer, seek the protection of the God of heaven. I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince delivered his dying charge to his son; words, which every young per|son ought to consider as addressed to himself, and to en|grave deeply on his heart: "Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a per|fect heart, and with a willing mind. For the Lord searches all hearts, and understandeth all the imagina|tions of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for ever."
BLAIR.AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the celebrated Father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on his journey to visit Mount Aetna, and the rest of the wonders that lie towards the south of Italy. Kircher is considered, by scholars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning.
"Having hired a boat, in company with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we launched, from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily; and arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the city of Euphaemia, in Cala|bria; where we had some business to transact; and where we designed to tarry for some time. However, Provi|dence seemed willing to cross our design; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, on account of the weather; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length, wearied with the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage; and, al|though the sea seemed more than usually agitated, we ventured forward. The gulph of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed whi••led round in such a manner, as
to form a vast hollow, verging to a point in the centre. Procceding onward, and turning my eyes to Aetna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely covered the island, and blotted out the very shores from my view. This, together with the dreadful noise, and the fulphurous stench which was strongly perceived, filled me with apprehensions, that some more dreadful calamity was impending. The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance: they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise was still increased, by the calm|ness and serenity of the weather; not a breeze, not a cloud, which might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. I therefore warned my companions, that an earthquake was approaching; and, after some time, making for the shore with all possible diligence, we landed at Tropaea, happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening dangers of the sea."
"But our triumphs at land were of short duration; for we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuits' College, in that City, when our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number of chariots, driven fiercely forward; the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued; so that the whole tract upon which we stood, seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale of a balance, that continued wavering. This motion, however, soon grew more violent; and being no longer able to keep my legs, I was thrown prostrate upon the ground. In the mean time, the universal ruin round me redoubled
my amazment. The crash of falling houses, the tot••ering of towers, and the groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my terror and despair. On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of ruin; and danger threatening wherever I should fly. I commend myself to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happiness! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as empty as the bubbles in the deep! Just standing on the threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure; and the nearer I approached, I only loved him the more. After some time, however, finding that I remained unhurt, amidst the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety; and running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, but almost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long here, till I found the boat in which I had landed; and my companions also, whose terrors were even greater than mine. Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous of telling his own happy escape: it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors."
"Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage along the coast; and the next day came to Ro|chetta, where we landed, although the earth still conti|nued in violent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were once more obliged to return to the boat; and, in about half an hour, we saw the great|er part of the town, and the inn at which we had set up, dashed to the ground, and burying the inhabitants be|neath the ruins."
"In this manner, proceeding onward in our little ves|sel, finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness
of our boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea, we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tropaea and Euphaemia, the city to which, as I said before, we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared; towns and castles levelled to the ground; Strombalo, though at sixty miles distance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with a noise which I could dis|tinctly hear. But my attention was quickly turned from more remote, to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching earthquake, which we by this time were grown acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences; it every moment seemed to grow louder, and to approach nearer. The place on which we stood now began to shake most dreadfully; so that being un|able to stand, my companions and I caught hold of what|ever shrub grew next to us, and supported ourselves in that manner."
"After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Eu|phaemia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more sur|prised us, as the weather was so very serene. We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away: then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk. Wonderful to tell! nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where it stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was become a melancholy solitude; a scene of hideous desolation. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest
of some human being that could give us a little informa|tion, we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and ap|pearing stupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning the fate of the city; but he could not be prevailed on to give us an answer. We entreated him, with every expression of tenderness and pity, to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapt up in the con|templation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight. We still persisted in our offices of kindness; but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses; and then running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Euphaemia: and as we continued our melancholy course along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, pre|sented nothing but the remains of cities; and men scat|tered, without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage, by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dan|gers both at sea and land."
GOLDSMITH.DO WE not sometimes observe a sort of people, who though they are themselves under the abject dominion of every vice, show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of others; and are most severe upon those whom they most resemble? yet, surely a lenity of dispo|sition, even in persons who have the least occasion for cle|mency
themselves, is of all virtues the most becoming. The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his, who is as ready to pardon the errors of mankind, as if he were every day guilty of some himself; and, at the same time, as cautious of committing a fault, as if he ne|ver forgave one. It is a rule then which we should, upon all occasions, both private and public, most religiously observe; "to be inexorable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness, not excepting even such as forgive none but themselves."
I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occasion to these reflections. Know then that a certain person lately—but of that when we meet—though, up|on second thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I con|demn and expose his conduct, I should act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever there|fore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence: for though there may be some use, perhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be more, however, in sparing him, for the sake of huma|nity. Farewell.
MELMOTH'S PLINY.I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow: the youngest daughter of my friend Fundamus is dead! Never surely was there a more agreeable, and more ami|able young person; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had almost said, an immortal life! She
had all the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness and virgin modesty. With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father! How kindly and respectfully receive his friends! How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective of|fices, had the care and education of her! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what patience, with what courage did she endure her last illness! She complied with all the di|rections of her physicians: she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, when all her strength of body was ex|hausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last mo|ments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the ter|rors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe! and more severe by the particu|••••r conjuncture in which it happened! She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited.—How sad a change from the highest joy, to the deepest sorrow! How shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when I heard Fundamus himself, (as grief is ever finding out circumstances to aggravate its affliction,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be em|ployed in myrrh and spices for her funeral? ••e is a man of great learning and good sense, who has applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies; but all the maxims of fortitude, which he has
received from books, or advanced himself, he now abso|lutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think pro|per to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them; but those of kind and sympathising humanity. Time will render him more open to the dictates of rea|son: for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degr••es submits to, and even requires the means of its cure; so a mind, under the first impres|sions of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments 〈◊〉〈◊〉 consolation; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell.
MELMOTH'S PLINY.I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of the wise man, and that of the fool.
There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing
some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of dis|cretion, however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for indeed talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud.
Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, de|livered by some ancient writers, That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend, in such a man|ner, that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, favours more of cunning than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who con|fided in him.
Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action; and is like an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary con|cerns of life.
There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of
them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit imper|inence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice.
Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with; and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to the society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind; endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him.
Though a man have all other perfections, and want discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world; but if he have this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life.
At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discretion points out the noblest ends to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them: cunning has only private selfish aims; and sticks at no|thing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views; and, like a well formed eye, commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance.
Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater au|thority to the person who possesses it: cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man inca|pable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discre|tion is the perfection of reason; and a guide to us in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Dis|cretion is only found in men of strong sense and good un|derstandings: cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves; and in persons who are but the fewest re|moves from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom.
The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or hap|piness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a dis|tance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers, that those plea|sures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every
action; and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with his views of an here|after. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods.
ADDISON.A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do.
As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act; by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been originally suggested, are indulged with delibera|tion and complacency. Though the mind has been pas|sive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests; but if when entered, they are made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning. If we be thus accountable to God for thoughts either voluntarily introduced, or de|liberately indulged, we are no less so, in the last place,
for those which find admittance into our hearts from su|pine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire licence, "like the eyes of the fool, towards the ends of the earth." Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and va|nity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must all be charged to our account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual measures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful, and for hastening their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves with|out consent of the will.
But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell, "how oft he hath offended?" In no article of religion or morals are men more culpably remiss, than in the unrestrained indulgence they give to fancy; and that too, for the most part, without remorse. Since the time that Reason began to exert her powers, Thought, during our waking hours, has been active in every breast, without a moments suspension or pause. The current of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant ac|tivity with the greater part of mankind? Of the innu|merable hours that have been employed in thought, how few are marked with any permanent or useful effect? How many have either passed away in idle dreams: or have been abandoned to anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and crimi|nal
desires? Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity which the hearts of too many conceal; could I draw out and read to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised, and all the passions they have indulged in secret; what a picture of men should I present to them|selves! What crimes would they appear to have perpe|trated in secrecy, which to their most intimate companions they durst not reveal!
Even when men imagine their thoughts to be inno|cently employed they too commonly suffer them to run out into extravagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they would wish to attain, or choose to be, if they could frame the course of things according to their desire. Though such employments of fancy come not under the same description with those which are plainly criminal, yet wholly unblamable they seldom are. Be|sides the waste of time which they occasion, and the mis|application which they indicate of those intellectual pow|ers that were given to us for much nobler purposes, such romantic speculations lead us always into the neighbour|hood of forbidden regions. They place us on dangerous ground. They are for the most part connected with some one bad passion; and they always nourish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought. They unfit the mind for ap|plying with vigour to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober plans of conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself to dwell, it returns to the commerce of men, unbent and relaxed, sickly and tainted, averse from discharging the duties, and sometimes disqualified even for relishing the pleasures, of ordinary life.
BLAIR.WHEN man revolted from his Maker, his passions re|belled against himself; and, from being originally the ministers of reason, have become the tyrants of the soul. Hence, in treating of this subject, two things may be assumed as principles: first, that through the present weak|ness of the understanding, our passions are often directed towards improper objects; and next, that even when their direction is just, and their objects are innocent, they perpetually tend to run into excess; they always hurry us towards their gratification, with a blind and dangerous impetuosity. On these two points then turns the whole government of our passions: first, to ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit; and next, to restrain them in that pursuit, when they would carry us beyond the bounds of reason. If there be any passion which intrudes itself unseasonably into our mind, which darkens and troubles our judgment, or habitually discomposes our temper; which unfits us for properly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for cheerfully enjoying the comforts of life, we may certainly conclude it to have gained a dangerous ascendant. The great object which we ought to propose to ourselves is, to acquire a firm and stedfast mind, which the infatuation of passion shall not seduce, nor its violence shake; which, resting on fixed principles, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, remain free, and master
of itself; able to listen calmly to the voice of conscience, and prepared to obey its dictates without hesitation.
To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is one of the highest attainments of the rational nature. Argu|ments to show its importance crowd upon us from every quarter. If there be any fertile source of mischief to hu|man life, it is, beyond doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this which poisons the enjoyment of individuals, over|turns the order of society, and strews the path of life with so many miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears. All those great scenes of public calamity, which we be|hold with astonishment and horror, have originated from the source of violent passions. These have overspread the earth with bloodshed. These have pointed the as|sassin's dagger, and filled the poisoned bowl. These, in every age, have furnished too copious materials for the orator's pathetic declamation, and for the poet's tragical song.
When from public life we descend to private conduct, though passion operates not there in such a wide and de|structive sphere, we shall find its influence to be no less baneful. I need not mention the black and fierce pas|sions, such as envy, jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously noxious, and whose agitations are immediate misery. But take any of the licentious and sensual kind. Suppose it to have unlimitted scope; trace it throughout its course: and we shall find that gradually, as it rises, it taints the soundness, and troubles the peace of his mind over whom it reigns; that, in its progress, it engages him in pursuits which are marked either with danger or with shame; that, in the end, it wastes his fortune, destroys his health, or debases his character; and aggravates all
the miseries in which it has involved him, with the con|cluding pangs of bitter remorse. Through all the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore run? What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind and headlong steps?
BLAIR.IT is evident, in the general, that if we consult either public welfare or private happiness, Christian charity ought to regulate our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this great principle admits of several diversified appearances, let us consider some of the chief forms un|der which it ought to show itself in the usual tenour of life.
What, first, presents itself to be recommended, is a peaceable temper; a disposition averse to give offence, and desirous of cultivating harmony, and amicable inter|course in society. This supposes yielding and condescend|ing manners, unwillingness to contend with others about trifles, and, in contests that are unavoidable, proper mode|ration of spirit. Such a temper is the first principle of self-enjoyment. It is the basis of all order and happiness among mankind. The positive and contentious, the rude and quarrelsome, are the bane of society. They seem destined to blast the small share of comfort which nature has here allotted to man. But they cannot disturb the peace of others, more than they break their own. The hurricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let
forth upon the world. In the tempests which they raise, they are always tost; and frequently it is their lot to perish.
A peaceable temper must be supported by a candid one, or a disposition to view the conduct of others with fairness and impartiality. This stands opposed to a jea|lous and suspicious temper, which ascribes every action to the worst motive, and throws a black shade over every character. If we would be happy in ourselves, or in our connexions with others, let us guard against this malig|nant spirit. Let us study that charity "which thinketh no evil;" that temper which, without degenerating into credulity, will dispose us to be just; and which can allow us to observe an error, without imputing it as a crime. Thus we shall be kept free from that continual irritation, which imaginary injuries raise in a suspicious breast; and shall walk among men as our brethren, not as our enemies.
But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is required of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, gene|rous, and sympathizing temper, which feels for distress, wherever it is beheld; which enters into the concerns of his friends with ardour; and to all with whom he has in|tercourse, is gentle, obliging, and humane. How amiable appears such a disposition, when contrasted with a ma|licious or envious temper, which wraps itself up in its own narrow interest, looks with an evil eye on the suc|cess of others, and with an unnatural satisfaction, feeds on their disappointments or miseries! How little does he know of the true happiness of life, who is a stranger to that intercourse of good offices and kind affections, which, by a pleasing charm, attaches men to one another, and circulates joy from heart to heart!
We are not to imagine, that a benevolent temper finds no exercise, unless when opportunities offer of perform|ing actions of high generosity, or of extensive utility. These may seldom occur. The condition of the greater part of mankind, in a good measure, precludes them. But, in the ordinary round of human affairs, many occa|sions daily present themselves of mitigating the vexations which others suffer: of soothing their minds; of aid|ing their interest; of promoting their cheerfulness, or ease. Such occasions may relate to the smaller incidents of life. But let us remember, that of small incidents the system of human life is chiefly composed. The at|tentions which respect these, when suggested by real benignity of temper, are often more material to the hap|piness of those around us, than actions which carry the appearance of greater dignity and splendour. No wise or good man ought to account any rules of behaviour as below his regard, which tend to cement the great brother|hood of mankind in comfortable union.
Particularly amidst that familiar intercourse which be|longs to domestic life, all the virtues of temper find an ample range. It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too often think themselves at liberty, to give unrestrained vent to the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the contrary, more than any where, it concerns them to attend to the government of their heart; to check what is violent in their tem|pers, and to soften what is harsh in their manners. For there the temper is formed. There, the real character displays itself. The forms of the world disguise men when abroad. But within his own family, every man is known to be what he truly is.—In all our intercourse
then with others, particularly in that which is closest and most intimate, let us cultivate a peaceable, a candid, a gentle and friendly temper. This is the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our holy religion seeks to form us. This was the temper of Christ. This is the temper of Heaven.
BLAIR.IS it bigotry to believe the sublime truth of the gospel, with full assurance of faith? I glory in such bigotry. I would not part with it for a thousand worlds. I congratu|late the man who is possessed of it: for, amidst all the vicissitudes and calamities of the present state, that man enjoys an inexhaustible fund of consolation, of which it it is not in the power of fortune to deprive him.
There is not a book on earth, so favourable to all the kind, and all the sublime affections; or so unfriendly to hatred and persecution, to tyranny, injustice, and every sort of malevolence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothing throughout, but mercy, benevolence, and peace.
Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great and good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one of the noblest effects of the heart. The Psalms are remarkable, beyond all other writings, for their power of inspiring devout emotions. But it is not in this respect only, that they are sublime. Of the Divine nature, they contain the most magnificent descriptions, that the soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and fourth
Psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of Providence, in creating and preserving the world, and the various tribes of animals in it, with such majestic brevity and beauty, as it is vain to look for in any human composition.
Such of the doctrines of the Gospel as are level to human capacity, appear to be agreeable to the purest truth, and the soundest morality. All the genius and learning of the Heathen world; all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aristotle, had never been able to produce such a system of moral duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of man, as are to be found in the New Testament. Compared, indeed, with this, all other moral and theological wisdom
Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shows.BEATTIE.
WHAT abundant reason have we to thank God, that this large and instructive discourse of our blessed Re|deemer, is so particularly recorded by the sacred historian. Let every one that "hath ears to hear" attend to it: for surely no man ever spoke as our Lord did on this oc|casion. Let us fix our minds in a posture of humble at|tention, that we may "receive the law from his mouth."
He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important blessings. But on whom are they pro|nounced?
and whom are we taught to think the happiest of mankind? The meek and the humble; the penitent and the merciful; the peaceful and the pure; those that hunger and thirst after righteousness; those that labour, but faint not, under persecution! Lord! how different are thy maxims from those of the children of this world! They call the proud happy; and admire the gay, the rich, the powerful, and the victorious. But let a vain world take its gaudy trifles, and dress up the foolish crea|tures that pursue them. May our souls share in that hap|piness which the Son of God came to recommend and to procure! May we obtain mercy of the Lord; may we be owned as his children; enjoy his presence; and inherit his kingdom! With these enjoyments, and these hopes, we will cheerfully welcome the lowest, or the most pain|ful circumstances.
Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtues, which are here recommended to us; this humility and meekness; this penitent sense of sin; this ardent desire after righteousness; this compassion and purity; this peace|fulness and fortitude of soul; and, in a word, this univer|sal goodness which becomes us, as we sustain the character of "the salt of the earth," and "the light of the world."
Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the cha|racter no better? Is there not reason to exclaim, with a good man in former times, "Blessed Lord! either these are not thy words, or we are not christians!" Oh, sea|son our hearts more effectually with thy grace! Pour forth that divine oil on our lamps! Then shall the flame brighten; then shall the ancient honours of thy religion
be revived; and multitudes be awakened and animated, by the lustre of it, "to glorify our Father in heaven."
DODDRIDGE.OMAR, the son of Hufsan, had passed seventy-five years, in honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had filled his house with gold and silver; and when|ever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaim|ed his passage.
Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail; the curls of beauty fell from his head; strength departed from his hands; and agility from his feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life, than the converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good·
The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dic|tates of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, en|tered every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent: Omar admired his wit, and loved his do|cility. "Tell me," said Caled, "thou to whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which thou hast gained power
and preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful: impart to me the secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy fortune."
"Young man," said Omar, "it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twentieth year, having considered the various con|ditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches over my head: 'Seventy years are allowed to man: I have yet fifty remaining. Ten years I will allot to the at|tainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries; I shall be learned, and therefore shall be ho|noured; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed, will store my mind with images, which I shall be busy, through the rest of my life, in combining and com|paring. I shall revel in inexhaustable accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall find new pleasures for every moment; and shall never more be weary of myself. I will not, however, deviate too far from the beaten track of life; but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide: with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can pur|chase, and fancy can invent. I will then retire to a rural dwelling; pass my days in obscurity and contemplation; and lie silently down on the bed of death. Throgh my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will never de|pend upon the smile of princes; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts; I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of
state.' Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed in|delibly upon my memory."
"The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovernable passions within. I regarded know|ledge as the highest honour, and the most engaging plea|sure; yet day stole upon day, and month gilded after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them. I now postponed my pur|pose of travelling; for why should I go abroad, while so much remain to be learned at home? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges: I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions; and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with atten|tion; I was consulted with confidence; and the love of praise fastened on my heart."
"I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rapture to the relations of travellers; and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty: but my presence was always necessary; and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine my|self by marriage."
"In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in do|mestic pleasures. But at fifty no man easily finds a wo|man beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I
inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left but retirement; and for retire|ment I never found a time, till disease forced me from public employment."
"Such was my scheme, and such has been its conse|quence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement; with a restless desire of seeing different countries, I have always resided in the same city; with the highest expectation of connubial fe|licity, I have lived unmarried; and with unalterable reso|lutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat."
DR. JOHNSON.THE good effects of true sensibility on general virtue and happiness, admit of no dispute. Let us consider its effect on the happiness of him who possesses it, and the various pleasures to which it gives him access. If he is master of riches or influence, it affords him the means of increasing his own enjoyment, by relieving the wants, or increasing the comforts of others. If he command not these advantages, yet all the comforts, which he sees in the possession of the deserving, become in some sort his, by his rejoicing in the good which they enjoy. Even the face of nature yields a satisfaction to him, which the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness which he beholds poured forth on the universe, dilates his heart with the thought, that innumerable multitudes around
him are blest and happy. When he sees the labours of men appearing to prosper, and views a country flourish|ing in wealth and industry; when he beholds the spring coming forth in its beauty; and reviving the decayed face of nature; or in autumn beholds the fields loaded with plenty, and the year crowned with all its fruits; he lifts his affections with gratitude to the great Father of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy.
It may indeed be objected, that the same sensibility lays open the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the distresses which abound in the world; exposes us to frequent suffering from the participation which it com|municates of the sorrows, as well as of the joys, of friend|ship. But let it be considered, that the tender melan|choly of sympathy, is accompanied with a sensation, which they who feel it would not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. When the heart is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret attractive charm mingles with the painful emotion; there is a joy in the midst of grief. Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensi|bility introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures which flow from the same source. Sensibility heightens in ge|neral the human powers, and is connected with acuteness in all our feelings. If it makes us more alive to some painful sensations, in return, it renders the pleasing ones more vivid and animated. The selfish man languishes in his narrow circle of pleasures. They are confined to what affects his own interest. He is obliged to repeat the same gratifications, till they become insipid. But the
man of virtuous sensibility moves in a wider sphere of felicity. His powers are much more frequently called forth into occupations of pleasing activity. Numberless occasions open to him of indulging his favourite taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often it is in his power, in one way or other, to sooth the afflicted heart; to carry some consolation into the house of woe. In the scenes of ordinary life, in the domestic and social inter|courses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and gladdens him. Every appearance, every description of innocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native expression of kindness and affection among others, is felt by him, even though he be not the object of it. Among a circle of friends, enjoying one another, he is as happy as the happiest. In a word, he lives in a different sort of world from what the selfish man inhabits. He pos|sesses a new sense that enables him to behold objects which the selfish cannot see. At the same time, his enjoyments are not of that kind which remain merely on the surface of the mind. They penetrate the heart. They enlarge and elevate, they refine and ennoble it. To all the pleas|ing emotions of affection, they add the dignified conscious|ness of virtue.—Children of men! men formed by na|ture to live and to feel as brethren! how long will ye con|tinue to estrange yourselves from one another by compe|titions and jealousies, when in cordial union ye might be so much more blest? How long will ye seek your happi|ness in selfish gratifications alone, neglecting those purer and better sources of joy, which flow from the affections and the heart?
BLAIR.THE proper honour of man arises not from some of those splendid actions and abilities, which excite high ad|miration. Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and conquests, may render the name of a man famous without rendering his character truly honourable. To many brave men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with wonder. Their exploits are recorded. Their praises are sung. They stand as on an eminence above the rest of mankind. Their eminence, neverthe|less, may not be of that sort, before which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Something more is wanted for that purpose, than the conquering arm, and the intre|pid mind. The laurels of the warrior must at all times be dyed in blood, and bedewed with the tears of the wi|dow and the orphan. But if they have been stained by rapine and inhumanity; if sordid avarice has marked his character; or low and gross sensuality has degraded his life; the great hero sinks into a little man. What at a distance, or on a superficial view, we admired, becomes mean, perhaps odious, when we examine it more closely. It is like the Colossal statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off with astonishment; but when nearly viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude.
Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the reputation derived from civil accomplishments; from the refined politics of the statesman; or the literary ef|forts
of genius and erudition. These bestow, and, within certain bounds, ought ••o bestow, eminence and distinc|tion on men. They discover talents which in themselves are shining; and which become highly valuable, when employed in advancing the good of mankind. Hence, they frequently give rise to fame. But a distinction is to be made between fame and true honour. The states|man, the orator, or the poet, may be famous; while yet the man himself is far from being honoured. We envy his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would not choose to be classed with him who possessed them. Instances of this sort are too often found in every record of ancient or modern history.
For all this it follows, that, in order to discern where man's true honour lies, we must look, not to any adven|titious circumstance of fortune; not to any single spark|ling quality but to the whole of what forms a man; what entitles him, as such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he belongs; in a word, we must look to the mind and the soul.—A mind superior to fear, to self|ish interest and corruption; a mind governed by the prin|ciples of uniform rectitude and integrity; the same in prosperity and adversity; which no bribe can seduce, nor terror overawe; neither by pleasure melted into effemi|nacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection: such is the mind which forms the distinction and eminence of man.—One, who, in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firmness and constancy; true to the God whom he wor|ships, and true to the faith in which he professes to be|lieve; full of affection to his brethren of mankind; faith|ful
to his friends, generous to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortunate; self-denying to little pri|vate interests and pleasures, but zealous for public in|terest and happiness; magnanimous, without being proud; humble, without being mean; just, without being harsh; simple in his manners, but manly in his feelings; on whose word we can entirely rely; whose countenance never deceives us; whose professions of kindness are the effusions of his heart: one, in fine, whom, independent of any views of advantage, we would chuse for a superior, could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother:— This is the man, whom in our heart, above all others, we do, we must, honour.
BLAIR.WHATEVER promotes and strengthens virtue, what|ever calms and regulates the temper, is a source of hap|piness. Devotion produces those effects in a remarkable degree. It inspires composure of spirit, mildness and be|nignity; weakens the painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotions; and, by these means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth and placid tenour.
Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, devotion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vicious are entire strangers; enjoyments the more valuable, as they peculiarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us; and to adversity, when it becomes our foe.
These are the two seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. For let him be placed in the most favourable situation which the human state admits, the world can neither al|ways amuse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will be many hours of vacuity, and many of de|jection, in his life. If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude often prove! With what oppressive weight will sickness, dis|appointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits! But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepar|ed. From the tiresome repetition of the common vani|ties of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sorrows, devotion transports him into a new region; and surrounds him there with such objects, as are the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the wounds of his heart. If the world has been empty and delusive, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher and better order of things, about to arise. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though eve|ry other friend fail, will never forsake him. Let us con|sult our experience, and we shall find, that the two great|est sources of inward joy, are, the exercise of love di|rected towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these are supplied by devotion; and therefore we have no reason to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfaction not to be expressed.
The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re|spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They are pleasures which belong to the highest powers and best affections of the soul; whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter the soul stoops below its native dignity. The for|mer, raise it above itself. The latter, leave always a comfortless, often a motifying, remembrance behind them. The former, are reviewed with applause and delight. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devo|tion resemble the equable current of a pure river, which enlivens the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure and fertility along its banks. To thee, O De|votion! we owe the highest improvement of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this tur|bulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the high; to the poor, as well as to the rich. In thy presence, wordly distinctions cease; and under thy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable; inaccessible only to the un|righteous and impure Thou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. In thee the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice.
BLAIR.TO US, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes can any where be|hold: it is also clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful decorations; whereas, to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect; looks all luminous; and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star, as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the procession of night, in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawn, is a planetary world, which, with the four others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields and seas, and skies of their own; are furnished with all accom|modations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life; all which, together with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dis|penser of Divine munificence, the sun; receive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency.
The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is in this respect fixed and immoveable: it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the
dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would mea|sure more than eight hundred thousand miles: a girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a length of millions. Were its solid contents to be estima|ted, the account would overwhelm our understanding, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy? Are we ready to cry out in a transport of surprise, "How mighty is the Being who kindled such a prodigious fire; and keeps alive, from age to age, such an enormous mass of flame!" let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more en|larged and more inflaming.
This sun with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe; every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's rings, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in ••lory; no less spacious, no less lu|minous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star, is not barely a world, but the centre of a magnificent system; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence, all which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and scarcely distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and in|conceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is, since a ball, shot from the loaded cannon, and flying
with unabated rapidity, must travel at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries.
While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject little|ness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe? It is ob|served by a very judicious writer, that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extin|guished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works. If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a kingdom or a county? What are a few lordships, or the so much admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy? When I measure them with my own little pittance, they swell into proud and bloated dimensions: but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size, how contemptible their figure! They shrink into pom|pous nothings.
ADDISON.THERE is not a common saying, which has a better turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that 'Custom is a second nature.' It is indeed able to form the man anew; and give him inclina|tions and capacities altogether different from those he was born with. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for relishing that to which he has been for some time disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take fnuff, till he is unable to pass away his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises and improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments are changed into diversions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustomed to; and is drawn with re|luctancy from those paths in which it has been used to walk.
If we attentively consider this property of human na|ture, it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would have no man discouraged with that
kind of life, or series of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, may have engaged him. It may perhaps be very disagreeable to him, at first; but use and application will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory.
In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given to his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation I have enlarged upon: "Pitch upon that course of life which is the most excel|lent, and custom will render it the most delightful." Men, whose circumstances will permit them to choose their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their judgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of any present inclination; since, by the rule above mention|ed, inclination will at length come over to reason, though we can never force reason to comply with inclination.
In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and difficulties, which are apt to discourage him from the prosecution of a virtuous life. "The Gods," said Hesi|od, "have placed labour before virtue; the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther we advance in it." The man who pro|ceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, will in a little time, find that "her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace."
To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that the practice of religion will not only be attended with
that pleasure, which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure; from the satisfaction 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••cting up to the dictates of reason; and from the prospec•• of a happy immortality.
In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation, which we have made on the mind of man, to take parti|cular care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent diversions and entertainments; since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of virtu|ous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights of a much inferior and an unprofitable nature.
The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property in human nature, of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how abso|lutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss, we call Heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus qualified for it: we must, in this world, gain a relish of truth and vir|tue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and per|fection, which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it during this its present state of probation. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect, of a religious life.
ADDISON.HAPPY that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, master of himself, his time, and fortune, spends his time in making himself wiser; and his fortune, in making others (and therefore himself) happier: who, as the will and understanding are the two ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks himself not complete, till his understanding is beautified with the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will enriched with every virtue: who has fur|nished himself with all the advantages to relish solitude and enliven conversation; who when serious, is not sul|len; and when cheerful, not indiscreetly gay; whose am|bition is, not to be admired for a false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. The greatest minister of state has not more business to do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every other man, may find, in the retired and still scenes of life. Even in his private walks, every thing that is visible convinces him there is present a Be|ing invisible. Aided by natural philosophy, he reads plain legible traces of the Divinity in every thing he meets: he sees the Deity in every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, though not in so glaring a manner: and when he sees him, he adores him with the tribute of a grateful heart.
SEED.TRUE candour is altogether different from that guard|ed, inoffensive language, and that studied openness of be|haviour, which we so frequently meet with among men of the world. Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are words, of those who inwardly are the most ready to think evil of others. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but in fairness of heart. It may want the blandishment of external courtesy, but supplies its place with humane and generous liberality of sentiment. Its manners are unaffected, and its professions cordial. Exempt, on one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious mind, it is no less removed, on the other, from that easy credulity which is imposed on by every specious pretence. It is perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge of the world, and with due atten|tion to our own safety. In that various intercourse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of every differ|ent character, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a necessa|ry guard. It is only when it exceeds the bounds of pru|dent caution, that it degenerates into vice. There is a proper mean between undistinguishing credulity, and uni|versal jealousy, which a sound understanding discerns, and which the man of candour studies to preserve.
He makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good, which is to be found in every human character. He ex|pects none to be faultless: and he is unwilling to believe
that there is any without some commendable quality. In the midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Un|der the influence of personal resentment, he can be just to the merit of an enemy. He never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and dark suggestions, which, among the tribes of the censorious, circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with such ready acceptance. He is not hasty to judge, and he requires full evidence before he will condemn. As long as an action can be ascribed to different motives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to impute it always to the worst. Where there is just ground for doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided; and, during the period of suspense, leans to the most charitable construction which an action can bear. When he must condemn, he condemns with regret; and without those aggravations which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the apology of the offender, and readily admits every extenuating circumstance, which equity can suggest. How much soever he may blame the principles of any sect or party, he never confounds, un|der one general censure, all who belong to that party or sect. He charges them not with such consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the subversion of all sound principles; nor from one bad action, conclude that all re|gard to conscience is overthrown. When he "beholds the mote in his brother's eye," he remembers "the beam in his own." He commiserates human frailty; and judges of others according to the principles, by which he would think it reasonable that they should judge of him. In a word, he views men and actions in the clear
sunshine of charity and good-nature; and not in that dark and sullen shade which jealousy and party-spirit throw over all characters.
BLAIR.THE vanity of human pleasures is a topic which might be embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall studiously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold vanity in human life, which every impar|tial observer cannot but admit; disappointment in pur|suit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment, uncertainty in posses|sion.
First, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around us on the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, intent on the prosecution of various designs, which their wants or desires have suggested. We be|hold them employing every method which ingenuity can devise; some the patience of industry, some the boldness of enterprize, others the dexterity of stratagem, in order to compass their ends. Of this incessant stir and activity, what is the fruit? In comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small is the number of the successful? Or rather where is the man who will declare, that in every point he has completed his plan, and attained his utmost wish? No extent of human abilities has been able to discover a path which, in any line of life, leads un|erringly to success. "The race is not always to the
swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to men of understanding." We may form our plans with the most profound sagacity, and with the most vigilant caution may guard against dangers on every side. But some unfore|seen occurrence comes across, which baffles our wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust.
Were such disappointments confined to those who as|pire at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune would be less. The humiliation of the migh|ty, and the fall of ambition from its towering height, lit|tle concern the bulk of mankind. These are objects on which, as on distant meteors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal instruction from events so much above them. But, alas! when we descend into the re|gions of private life, we find disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of our pretens••ons, can en|sure success. But "time and chace happen to all." A|gainst the stream of events, both the worthy and the un|deserving are obliged to struggle; and both are frequent|ly overborn alike by the current.
Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment is a farther vanity, to which the human state is subject. This is the severest of all mortifications, af|ter having been successful in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoyment itself. Yet this is found to be an evil still more general than the former. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what they have pursued; but none are ren|dered completely happy by what they have attained. Disappointed hope is misery; and yet successful hope is only imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of
mankind. Examine the condition of those who appear most prosperous; and you will find that they are never just what they desire to be. If retired, they languish for action; if busy, they complain of fatigue. If in middle life, they are impatient for distinction; if in high stations, they sigh after freedom and ease. Something is still wanting to that plenitude of satisfaction, which they expected to acquire. Together with every wish that is gratified, a new demand arises. One void opens in the heart, as another is filled. On wishes, wishes grow; and to the end, it is rather the expectation of what they have not, than the enjoyment of what they have, which occupies and interests the most successful.
This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, springs partly from the nature of our enjoyments them|selves, and partly from circumstances which corrupt them. No worldly enjoyments are adequate to the high desires and powers of an immortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a distance with splendid colours; but possession unveils the fallacy. The eagerness of passion bestows upon them, at first a brisk and lively relish. But it is their fate always to pall by familiarity, and sometimes to pass from satiety into disgust. Happy would the poor man think himself, if he could enter on all the treasures of the rich; and happy for a short time he might be: but before he had long contemplated and admired his state, his possessions would seem to lessen, and his cares would grow.
Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the attending circumstances which never fail to corrupt them. For, such as they are, they are at no time possessed un|mixed. To human lips it is not given to taste the cup
of pure joy. When external circumstances show fairest to the world, the envied man groans in private under his own burden. Some vexation disquiets, some passion corrodes him; some distress, either felt or feared, gnaws, like a worm, the root of his felicity. When there is no|thing from without to disturb the prosperous, a secret poison operates within. For worldly happiness ever tends to destroy itself, by corrupting the heart. It fosters the loose and the violent passions. It engenders noxious habits; and taints the mind with false delicacy, which makes it feel a thousand unreal evils.
But put the case in the most favourable light. Lay aside from human pleasures both disappointment in pur|suit, and deceitfulness in enjoyment; suppose them to be fully attainable, and completely satisfactory; still there remains to be considered the vanity of uncertain possessi|on and short duration. Were there i•• worldly things any fixed point of security which we could gain, the mind would then have some basis on which to rest. But our condition is such, that every thing wavers and tot|ters around us. "Boast not thyself of to-morrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." It is much if, during its course, thou hearest not of somewhat to disquiet or alarm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uniform train. It is continually varied by unex|pected events. The seeds of alteration are every where sown; and the sunshine of prosperity commonly acce|lerates their growth. If our enjoyments be numerous, we lie more open on different sides to be wounded. If we have possessed them long, we have greater cause to dread an approach••ng change. By slow degrees pro|sperity
rises; but rapid is the progress of evil. It re|quires no preparation to bring it forward. The edifice which it cost much time and labour to erect, one inaus|picious event, one sudden blow, can level with the dust. Even supposing the accidents of life to leave us untouch|ed, human bliss must still be transitory; for man changes of himself. No course of enjoyment can delight us long. What amused our youth, loses its charm in ma|turer age. As years advance, our powers are blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline. The silent lapse of time is ever carrying somewhat from us, till at length the period comes, when all must be swept away. The prospect of this termination of our labours and pursuits, is sufficient to mark our state with vanity. "Our days are a hand-breadth, and our age is a nothing." With|in that little space is all our enterp••ise bounded. We crowd it with toils and cares, with contention and strife. We project great designs, entertain high hopes, and then leave our plans unfinished, and sink into obli|vion.
This much let it suffice to have said concerning the vanity of the world. That too much has not been said, must appear to every one who considers how generally mankind lean to the opposite side; and how often, by undue attachment to the present state, they both feed the most sinful passions, and "pierce themselves through with many sorrows."
BLAIR.IT must be admitted, that unmixed and complete hap|piness is unknown on earth. No regulation of conduct can altogether prevent passions from disturbing our peace, and misfortunes from wounding our heart. But after this concession is made, will it follow, that there is no ob|ject on earth which deserves our pursuit, or that all en|joyment becomes contemptible which is not perfect? Let us survey our state with an impartial eye, and be just to the various gifts of Heaven. How vain soever this life, considered in itself, may be, the comforts and hopes of re|ligion are sufficient to give solidity to the enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of good affections, and the testimony of an approving conscience; in the sense of peace and reconciliation with God, through the great Redeemer of mankind; in the firm confidence of being conducted through all the trials of life, by infinite wis|dom and goodness; and in the joyful prospect of arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity, they possess a happiness which, descending from a purer and more perfect region than this world, partakes not of its vanity.
Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other pleasures of our present state, which, though of an inferior order, must not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. It is necessary to call attention to these, in order to check that repining and unthankful spirit to
which man is always too prone. Some degree of impor|tance must be allowed to the comforts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to the entertainment afforded us by all the beautiful scenes of nature; some to the pursuits and harmless amusements of social life; and more to the internal enjoyments of thought and reflection, and to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in too low estimation, merely because they are ordinary and com|mon; although that is the circumstance which ought, in reason, to enhance their value. They lie open, in some degree, to all; extend through every rank of life, and fill up agreeably many of those spaces in our present ex|istence, which are not occupied with higher objects, or with serious cares.
From this representation it appears that, notwithstand|ing the vanity of the world, a considerable degree of comfort is attainable in the present state. Let the recol|lection of this serve to reconcile us to our condition, and to repress the arrogance of complaints and murmurs.— What art thou, O son of man! who, having sprung but yesterday out of the dust, darest to lift up thy voice against thy Maker, and to arraign his providence, because all things are not ordered according to thy wish? What title hast thou to find fault with the order of the universe, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or mer••t gave thee ground to claim? Is it nothing to thee to have been introduced into this magnificent world; to have been admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and works; and to have had access to all the comforts which na|ture, with a bountiful hand, has poured forth around thee?
Are all the hours forgotten which thou hast past in ease, in complacency, or joy? Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine Mercy has been stretched forth to aid thee, and, if thou reject not its proffered assistance, is ready to conduct thee into a happier state of existence? When thou comparest thy condition with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thankfulness the bles|sings which are allowed thee. Revere that government which at present refuses thee more. Rest in this conclu|sion, that though there are evils in the world, its Creator is wise and good, and has been bountiful to thee.
BLAIR.THOUGH there is a great deal of pleasure in contem|plating the material world; by which I mean, that system of bodies, into which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with the several relations that those bodies bear to one another; there is still, methinks, something more wonderful and surprising, in contempla|tions on the world of life; by which I understand, all those animals with which every part of the universe is furnished. The material world is only the shell of the universe: the world of life are its inhabitants.
If we consider those parts of the material world, which lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our ob|servations
and inquiries, it is amazing to consider the in|finity of animals with which it is stocked. Every part of matter is peopled; every green leaf swarms with in|habitants. There is scarcely a single humour in the body of a man, or of any other animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. We find, even in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, innume|rable cells and cavities, which are crowded with such imperceptible inhabitants, as are too little for the naked eye to discover. On the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts of nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming with numberless kinds of living creatures. We find every mountain and marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked with birds and beasts; and every part of matter affording proper necessaries and conveniencies, for the livelihood of multitudes which inhabit it.
The author of "the Plurality of Worlds," draws a very good argument from this consideration, for the peo|pling of every planet; as indeed it seems very probable, from the analogy of reason, that if no part of matter, with which we are acquainted, lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which are at such a distance from us, are not desert and unpeopled; but rather, that they are fur|nished with beings adapted to their respective situations.
Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are endowed with perception; and is in a manner thrown away upon dead matter, any farther than as it is subser|vient to beings which are conscious of their existence. Accordingly we find, from the bodies which lie under our observation, that matter is only made as the basis and
support of animals; and that there is no more of the one than what is necessary for the existence of the other.
Infinite Goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of perceptive being. As this is a speculation, which I have often pursued with great pleasure to my|self, I shall enlarge farther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of beings, which comes within our knowledge.
There are some living creatures, which are raised but just above dead matter. To mention only that species of shell-fish, which is formed in the fashion of a cone; that grows to the surface ef several rocks; and imme|diately dies, on being severed from the place where it grew. There are many other creatures but one remove from these, which have no other sense than that of feeling ••nd taste. Others have still an additional one of hearing; others, of smell; and others, of sight. It is wonderful to observe, by what a gradual progress the world of life advances, through a prodigious variety of species, before a creature is formed, that is complete in all its senses: and even among these, there is such a different degree of perfection, in the sense which one animal enjoys beyond what appears in another, that though the sense in different animals is distinguished by the same common denomina|tion, it seems almost of a different nature. If, after this, we look into the several inward perfections, of cunning and sagacity, or what we generally call instinct, we find them rising, after the same manner, imperceptibly one above another; and receiving additional improvements, according to the species in which they are implanted.
This progress in nature is so very gradual, that the most perfect of an inferior species, comes very near to the most imperfect of that which is immediately above it.
The exuberant and overflowing goodness of the Su|preme Being, whose mercy extends to all his works, is plainly seen, as I have before hinted, in his having made so very little matter, at least what falls within our know|ledge, that does not swarm with life. Nor is his good|ness less seen in the diversity, than in the multitude of living creatures. Had he made but one species of ani|mals, none of the rest would have enjoyed the happiness of existence: he has therefore, specified, in his creation, every degree of life, every capacity of being. The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is filled up with diverse kinds of creatures, rising one after another, by such a gentle and easy ascent, that the little transitions and deviations from one species to another, are almost insen|sible. This intermediate space is so well husbanded and managed, that there is scarcely a degree of perception, which does not appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the goodness, or the wisdom of the Divine Being, more manifested in this his proceeding?
There is a consequence, besides those I have already mentioned, which seems very naturally deducible from the foregoing considerations. If the scale of being rises by such a regular progress, so high as man, we may, by parity of reason, suppose, that it still proceeds gradually through those beings which are of a superior nature to him; since there is infinitely great|er space and room for different degree•• of perfection;
between the Supreme Being and man, than between man and the most despicable insect.
In this great system of being, there is no creature so wonderful in its nature, and which so much deserves our particular attention, as man; who fills up the middle space between the animal and the intellectual nature, the visible and the invisible world; and who is that link in the chain of beings, which forms the connexion between both. So that he who, in one respect, is associated with angels and arch-angels, and may look upon a being of infinite per|fection as his father, and the highest order of spirits as his brethren, may, in another respect, say, to "corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister."
ADDISON.MAN, considered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest calamities and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all sides; and may become unhappy by num|berless casualties, which he could not foresee, nor have have prevented had he foreseen them.
It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many accidents, that we are under the care of ONE who directs contingencies, and has in his hands the management of every thing that is capable of annoying or offending us;
who knows the assistance we stand in need of, and is al|ways ready to bestow it on those who ask it of him.
The natural homage, which such a creature bears to so infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance on him for the blessings and conveniences of life; and an habitual trust in him, for deliverance out of all such dan|gers and difficulties as may befall us.
The man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has not the same dark and melancholy views of human nature, as he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to the Supreme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon his own weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself with the contemplation of those divine attributes, which are employed for his safety, and his wel|fare. He finds his want of foresight made up, by the omniscience of him who is his support. He is not sensi|ble of his own want of strength, when he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, the person who has a firm trust on the Supreme Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by his happiness. He reaps the benefit of every divine attribute; and loses his own insufficiency in the fulness of infinite perfection.
To make our lives more easy to us, we are command|ed to put our trust in him, who is thus able to relieve and succour us; the Divine goodness having made such a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should have been miserable, had it been forbidden us.
Among several motives, which might be made use of to recommend this duty to us, I shall only take notice of those that follow.
The first and strongest is, that we are promised, He will not fail those who put their trust in him.
But without considering the supernatural blessing, which accompanies this duty, we may observe, that it has a na|tural tendency to its own reward; or, in other words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great Disposer of all things, contributes very much to the getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing of it manfully. A per|son who believes he has his succour at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts himself beyond his abilities; and does wonders, that are not to be match|ed by one who is not animated with such a confidence of success. Trust in the assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally produces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of mind, which alleviate those calamities that we are not able to remove.
The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction; but most of all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the last moments of its separation: when it is just entering on another state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that are alto|gether new; what can support her under such tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety, such apprehensions, but the casting of all her cares upon HIM, who first gave her being; who has conducted her through one stage of it; and who will be always present, to guide and com|fort her in her progress through eternity?
ADDISON.PIETY, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high degree, to enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kind|ness of another gladdens the heart, warms it with recipro|cal affection, and gives to any possession which is agree|able in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours conferred by men, I acknowledge, may prove burdensome. For human virtue is never perfect; and sometimes unreasonable expectations on the one side, sometimes a mortifying sense of dependence on the other, corrode in secret the pleasure of benefits, and convert the obligations of friendship into grounds of jealousy. But nothing of this kind can affect the intercourse of grati|tude with Heaven. Its favours are wholly disinterested; and with a gratitude the most cordial and unsuspicious, a good man looks up to that Almighty Benefactor, who aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires no return f••om them, but a devout and thankful heart. While others can trace their prosperity to no higher source than a concurrence of worldly causes; and, often, of mean or trifling incidents, which occasion|ally favoured their designs; with what superior satisfac|tion does the servant of God remark the hand of that Gracious Power which hath raised him up; which hath happily conducted him through the various steps of life,
and crowned him with the most favourable distinction be|yond his equals?
Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the the past, but a cheering sense of Divine favour at the pre|sent, enters into the pious emotion. They are only the virtuous, who in their prosperous days hear this voice ad|dressed to them, "Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a cheerful heart; for God now accepteth thy works." He who is the Author of their prosperity, gives them a title to enjoy, with complacency, his own gift. While bad men snatch the pleasures of the world as by stealth, without countenance from the Great Proprietor of the world▪ the righteous sit openly down to the feast of life, under the smile of approving Heaven. No guilty fears damp their joys. The blessing of God rests upon all that they possess; his protection surrounds them; and hence, "in the habitations of the righteous, is found the voice of rejoicing and salvation." A lustre unknown to others, invests, in their sight, the whole face of nature. Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the prosperity of the world; unites in one point of view, the smiling aspect, both of the powers above, and of the objects below. Not only have they as full a relish as others, of the innocent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold communion with their Divine Benefactor. In all that is good or fair, they trace his hand. From the beauties of nature, from the im|provements of art, from the enjoyments of social life, they raise their affection to the source of all the happiness which surrounds them; and thus widen the sphere of their plea|sures, by adding intellectual, and spiritual, to earthly j••ys.
For illustration of what I have said on this head, re|mark that cheerful enjoyment of a prosperous state, which King David had when he wrote the twenty-third psalm; and compare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, with the happy and satisfied spirit which breathes through|out that psalm.—In th•• midst of the splendour of royal|ty, with what amiable simplicity of gratitude does he look up to the Lord as "his Shepherd;" happier in ascribing all his success to Divine favour, than to the policy of his councils, or to the force of his arms? How many instan|ces of Divine goodness arose before him in pleasing re|membrance, when with such relish he speaks of the "green pastures and still waters, beside which God had led him; of his cup which he had made to overflow; and of the table which he had prepared for him in the presence of his enemies!" With what perfect tranquility does he look forward to the time of his passing through "the valley of the shadow of death;" unappalled by that spectre, whose most distant appearance blasts the prosperity of sinners! He fears no evil, as long as "the rod and the staff" of his Divine Shepherd are with him; and, through all the unknown periods of this and of future existence, commits himself to his guidance with secure and triumphant hope: "Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever."—What a purified, senti|mental enjoyment of prosperity is here exhibited! How different from that gross relish of worldly pleasures, which belongs to those who behold only the terrestrial side of things; who raise their views to no higher objects than the succession of human contingences, and the weak ef|forts
of human ability; who have no protector or patron in the heavens, to enliven their prosperity, or to warm their hearts with gratitude and trust!
BLAIR.THE city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he ordered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom the Sidonians should think most worthy of that honor. Hephestion being at that time resident with two young men of distinction, offered them the kingdom; but they refused, it telling him that it was contrary to the laws of their country, to admit any one to that honor, who was not of the royal family. He then, having expressed his admiration of their disinterested spirit, desired them to name one of the royal race, who might remember that he received the crown through their hands. Overlook|ing many, who would have been ambitious of this high honor, they made choice of Abdolonymus, whose singu|lar merit had rendered him conspicuous, even in the vale of obscurity. Though remotely related to the royal fa|mily, a series of misfortunes had reduced him to the ne|cessity of cultivating a garden, for a small stipend, in the suburbs of the city.
While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weed|ing his garden, the two friends of Hephestion, bear|ing
in their hands the ensigns of royalty, approached him, and saluted him king. They informed him that Alexander had appointed him to that office; and re|quired him immediately to exchange his rustic garb, and utensils of husbandry, for the regal robe and sceptre. At the same time, they admonished him, when he should be seated on the throne, and have a nation in his power, not to forget the humble condition from which he had been raised.
All this, at the first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illusion of the fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He requested them not to trouble him farther with their impertinent jests; and to find some other way of amus|ing themselves, which might leave him in the peaceable enjoyment of his obscure habitation.—At length, how|ever, they convinced him, that they were serious in their proposal; and prevailed upon him to accept the regal office, and accompany them to the palace.
No sooner was he in possession of the government, than pride and envy created him enemies; who whis|pered their murmers in every place, till at last they reached the ear of Alexander. He commanded the new-elected prince to be sent for; and required of him, with what temper of mind he had borne his poverty. "Would to heaven," replied Abdolonymus, "that I may be able to bear my crown with equal moderation: for when I possessed little, I wanted nothing: these hands supplied me with whatever I desired." From this answer, Alexander formed so high an idea of his wisdom, that he confirmed the choice which had been made; and annexed a neighbouring province to the go|vernment of Sidon.
QUINTUS CURTIUS.WITH regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been justly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but mean appearance, and a little spot of ground; from which, by my own labour, I draw my support. But if, by any means, thou hast been persuaded to think that this poverty renders me of less consequence in my own country, or in any degree unhappy, thou art greatly de|ceived. I have no reason to complain of fortune; she supplies me with all that nature requires; and if I am without superfluities, I am also free from the desire of them. With these, I confess I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only advantage for which the wealthy are to be envied; but small as my possessions are, I can still contribute something to the support of the state, and the assistance of my friends. With respect to hon|ours, my country places me, poor as I am, upon a level with the richest; for Rome knows no qualifications for great employments, but virtue and ability. She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of religion; she intrusts me with the command of her armies; she con|fides to my care the most important negociations. My poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of my my counsels in the senate. The Roman people honour me for that very poverty which King Pyrrhus considers
as a disgrace. They know the many opportunities I have had to enrich myself, without censure; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for their prosperity: and if I have any thing to complain of, in the return they make me, it is only the excess of their applause. What value, then, can I put on thy gold and silver? What king can add any thing to my fortune? Always attentive to discharge the duties incumbent upon me, I have a mind free from self-reproach; and I have an honest fame.
No Prince, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, was ever so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny and flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions which began in his time, being still continued, have made his character be as much disputed to this day, as is commonly that of princes who are our contempo|raries. Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was possessed of; but not one of them pure, or free from the contagion of the neighbouring vices. His generosity bordered on profusion, his learning on pedantry, his pa|cific disposition on pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunning, his friendship on light fancy and boyish fondness. While he imagined that he was only maintaining his own au|thority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his ac|tions, and still more of his pretensions, to have encroach|ed on the liberties of his people. While he endeavoured,
by an exact neutrality, to acquire the good-will of all his neighbours, he was able to preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was considerable, but fit|ter to discourse on general maxims, than to conduct any intricate business.
His intentions were just, but more adapted to the con|duct of private life, than to the government of kingdoms. Aukward in his person, and ungainly in his manners, he was ill qualified to command respect: partial and undis|cerning in his affections, he was little fitted to acquire general love. Of a feeble temper, more than of a fru|gal judgment; exposed to our ridicule from his vanity, but exempt from our hatred by his freedom from pride and arrogance. And, upon the whole, it may be pro|nounced of his character, that all his qualities were sul|lied with weakness, and embellished by humanity. Po|litical courage he was certainly devoid of; and from thence chiefly is derived the strong prejudice, which pre|vails against his personal bravery: an inference, how|ever, which must be owned, from general experience, to be extremely fallacious.
HUME.THIS great Emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in possession of all the honours which can flatter the heart of man, took the extraordinary resolution, to re|sign
his kingdoms; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the affairs of this world, in order that he might spend the remainder of his days in retire|ment and solitude. Though it requires neither deep re|flection, nor extraordinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and disap|pointments; though most of those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that envied pre-eminence; yet, to descend voluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, and to relinquish the possession of power in or|der to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems to be an effort too great for the human mind. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs who have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in retirement. But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken; or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested their sceptre, and compelled them to descend with reluctance into a private station. Dioclesian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of holding the reins of government, who ever resigned them from deliberate choice; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquility of retirement, without fetching one peni|tent sigh, or casting back one look of desire, towards the power or dignity which he had abandoned.
No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill all Europe with astonishment; and give rise, both among his contemporaries, and among the historians of that period, to various conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling
passion had been uniformly the love of power, at the age of fifty-six, when objects of ambition operate with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ar|dour, to take a resolution so singular and unexpected.
The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brus|sels, seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Nether|lands, with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain and the princes of the empire standing behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and au|thority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he re|quired them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir; and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they ha•• manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government.
Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the au|dience; and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, since the commence|ment of his administration. He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all
his thoughts and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea; that while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal in any degree, to the arduous office of governing such extensive dominions, he had never shunned labour, nor repined un|der fatigue; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incurable dis|temper, his growing infirmities admonished him to re|tire; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy; that in|stead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accus|tomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth all the attention and sagacity of maturer years▪ that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his sub|jects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fideli|ty and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweet|est consolation, as well as the best reward for all his ser|vices;
and, in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare.
Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, "If," says he, "I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most ac|ceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my pa|ternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and, if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquility of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you."
As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of such an extraordinary effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some from admiration of his magnanimity; others softened by the expressions
of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distinguished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment.
A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Nether|lands, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, resigned to the son the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the old and in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself, but an an|nual pension of an hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity.
Nothing now remained to detain him from that retreat for which he languished. Every thing having been pre|pared some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburg in Zealand, where the fleet had orders to rendezvous. ••n his way thither, he passed through Ghent; and after stopping there a few days, to indulge that tender and pleasant melancholy, which arises in the mind of every than in the decline of life, on visiting the place o•• his na|tivity, and viewing the scenes and objects fa••iliar to him in ••s early youth, he pursued his journey, accompa|nie•• by his son Philip, his daughter the Arch-duchess, his sisters the Dowager Queens of France and Hungary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous retinue of
the Flemish nobility. Before he went on board, he dis|missed them, with marks of his attention or regard; and taking leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who embraced his son for the last time, he set sail under convoy of a large fleet of Spanish, Flemish, and English ships.
His voyage was prosperous and agreeable; and he ar|rived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand. As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground and considering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, and said, "Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou common mother of mankind." From Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid. There he took a last and ten|der leave of his two sisters; whom he would not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they entreated it with tears; not only that they might have the consola|tion of contributing, by their attendance and care, to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, but that they might reap instruction and benefit, by joining with him in those pi|ous exercises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his days.
From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazen|cia in Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great many years before; and having been struck at that time with the delightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belonging to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure. The im|pression had remained so strong on his mind, that he pitch|ed
upon it as the place of his retreat. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with lofty trees: from the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and de|licious situation in Spain. Some months before his re|signation, he had sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation; but he gave strict orders, that the style of the building should be such as suited his present station, rather than his for|mer dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth and furnished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which he pro|posed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of the monas|tery, in which he was to perform his devotions. Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles en|ter, with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in so|litude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe; filling every kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power.
In this retirement Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition of a pri|vate
person of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain; his domestics few; his intercourse with them fa|miliar; all the cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his person were entirely abolished, as de|structive of that social ease and tranquility, which he courted, in order to sooth the remainder of his days. As the mildness of the climate, together with his deliverance from the burdens and cares of government, procured him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with which he had been long tormented, he enjoyed, per|haps, more complete satisfaction in this humble solitude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. The am|bitious thoughts and projects, which had so long engross|ed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far from taking any part in the political transactions of the princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any inquiry concerning them; and he seemed to view the busy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and indifference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing re|flection of having disentangled himself from its cares.
DR. ROBERTSON.
In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited sentences in a great variety of construction, and in all the diversity of Punctua|tion. If well practised upon, he presumes they will fully pre|pare the young reader for the various pauses, inflections, and modulations of voice, which the succeeding pieces require. The Author's "English Exercises," under the head of Punctuation, will afford the learner additional scope for improving himself in r••ading sentences and paragraphs variously constructed.NOTE.
Democritus and Heraclitus were two ancient philosophers, the former of whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the errors and follies of mankind.
How happy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous circumstances! Though under bonds and oppression, his mind was free, and raised above every fear of man. With what dignity and composure does he defend himself, and the noble cause he had espoused; whilst he displays the most compassionate and gene|rous feelings, for those who were strangers to the sublime religion by which he was animated!
In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a consider+able variety of poetical construction, for the young reader's preparatory exercise.NOTE.
By solitude here is meant, a temporary seclusion from the world,
Sensual pleasure.