/ 
 
 
J LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ,1 
 I . # 
 
 ! t&ttr I 
 
 | UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. J 
 
THE 
 
 HfttiU ; 
 
 A SERIES OF 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 ESSAYS. 
 
 ADDWYN I DDRAGON 
 DDAWN Y DERWYDDON, 
 
 GLASGOW: 
 
 PRINTED BY ROBERT CHAPMAN 
 1812. 
 
.f\ 2.8+7! 7 
 
 ■:. :. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 No. I. The Seer of Glen-Myvyr, a tale, illustrative of 
 ancient lore, and diversified by the incidents 
 of a narrative. ~~~~~~~,~~~~v~»~~~%~3 
 17. On the transitory nature of wealth and gran- 
 deur, exemplified by the fate of Don Em- 
 manuel de Souza.~+™.~~.~*~+~~^^„15 
 
 III. On early rising, containing stanzas descriptive 
 
 of the morning, w^^^w**,**^ — ~~~20 
 
 IV. The Heir ofStrath-Gartney, a metrical tale. 25 
 
 V. Evaline ; or, the "pernicious effects of too much 
 
 indulgence to children. .*~*~~~~~~~~,^4'1 
 
 VI. Biographical sketch of the life and character of 
 
 Hamlet prince of Denmark. ~v~v~~~~~~49 
 
 VII. Account of some noxious witids — the Simoom, 
 
 Kamsiti,Harmattan,Samiel, andSirrocco. 56 
 
 VIII. Versification of the XXXIV. and XXXV 
 Chapters of Isaiah, with preliminary obser- 
 vations, ^^.^v^^^^ w^^~-^»^~~~~*~».>~6 6 
 
 IX. Delineation of Humour, illustrated by a tale. 74< 
 Y. Definition of Courage, which, with patience, 
 
 forbearance, and constancy or resolution, 
 forms that generous virtue denominated For- 
 titude or Magnanimity. ^ W v~»~~~«..~~~81 
 XI. Eugene and Caroline ; or, the evil consequences 
 of dissimulation and insincerity.* 91 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 No. XII. On the rites of Buddha, the Ceylonese Mes- 
 siah, with notices of the priests who admin- 
 ister in the religion of that country. ~«^103 
 
 XIII. A topographic description of Palmyra, a 
 biographical account of Odenatus, and a 
 narrative of the life and actions ofZenobia, 
 Queen of the East ; with a sketch of the tri- 
 umph of Aurelian, her conquer or. ww «l 1 1 
 
 XIV. On governing the Passio?is, illustrated by the 
 
 story of Alexander and Clitus. v^^.^^.^132 
 
 XV. Description of the Altgrande, a mountain tor- 
 
 rent which falls into Cromarty Bay. ,^.141 
 
 XVI. On the Tulipomania ; or, the rugefor varie- 
 
 ties oftidips. ~~~~~~~~~~*^.~~,~~vl47 
 
 XVII. On the future abode of the blessed, including 
 descriptions of the Classic Elysium, of the 
 Valhalla of the Scandinavians, and of the 
 Flath-Innis or Noble Isle of the Celtic na- 
 tions.~~„*„ — ~~~~~^.~,~~ w ,~wwvl 6 1 
 
 XVIII Letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, to Queen 
 Elizabeth, written in November 1582, trans- 
 lated from the original French. ~~,~ M .,^177 
 
 XIX. On the advantages of literary knowledge in 
 
 every department of society. ~~~~,~~«~J 97 
 
 XX. On the moral effect of contemplating the works 
 
 of the Creator, particularly the stars and 
 other heavenly bodies.~~~~~~~~~~~2l0 
 
 XXI. On the depravity and mischievoiis tendency of 
 Fortune- Telling. „„ ^^^ ~~~v*~230 
 
THE DEUID. 
 
 No, I. 
 
 n With sudden horror rock'd the trembling ground, 
 And disttfnt thunder shook the vast profound, 
 When from a cave a venerable form 
 Stalk'd forth, announced by the preluding storm. 
 About his limbs a snowy garment roll'd, 
 Floats to the wind in many an ample fold ; 
 His brow serene a rich tiara bound, 
 And loose his silver tresses stream'd around. 
 In his right hand a golden harp declared 
 The sacred function of the Druid Bard." 
 
 Pye's Alfred, P. III. v. 143—152. 
 
 W HEN the stranger is solicitous to obtain a fa- 
 vourable reception from that part of society among 
 whom he aspires to be conversant, it is necessary that 
 his first appearance be divested of the character of in- 
 trusion by the recommendations of friendship, or by an 
 ingenuous account of himself, accompanied by a cand- 
 id avowal of his intentions. Mankind, indeed, are 
 generally impressed with a desire of knowing something 
 of those who present themselves to their notice, and 
 propriety has rendered it necessary that an attempt 
 
 VOL. I. A 
 
2 INTRODUCTION. NO. 
 
 should be made to gratify so laudable a curiosity. On 
 the present occasion, therefore, a prefatory address will 
 be expected. 
 
 The Druid observes, with regret, that oblivion 
 has nearly obliterated every memorial of his Order, 
 even in the land consecrated, of yore, by the celebra- 
 tion of their ancient rites. He also feels that he is un- 
 known among the progeny of a people, who reverenced 
 his forefathers as the faithful instructors that incul- 
 cated those sublime lessons which elucidate the ori- 
 gin of being, the economy and organization of objects, 
 the duties of society, and the rules and institutions af- 
 fecting the interests and independency of Man. He 
 honestly avows, however, that he is most desirous of ac- 
 quiring the attention of his compatriots to the subjects 
 of his diversified studies, while he pledges himself that 
 his utmost efforts shall be exerted to win their appro- 
 bation, support, and esteem. But he will leave the 
 tendency of his simple doctrines to unfold the motives 
 which have induced him to renounce the obscurity of 
 a peaceful seclusion, and to develope the views by wliich 
 he has been prompted to assume a character that will 
 lead him to encourage and applaud the actions of the 
 virtuous, and to point out, to disapprobation and infamy, 
 the conduct of the worthless and the bad. To accom- 
 plish this purpose, he will endeavour to maintain an 
 appropriate character, and this will include that of a 
 moralist, a monitor, and a minstrel. He will, there- 
 fore, offer to the attention of the public, as the subject 
 of the present theme, 
 
THE RESPONSE 
 
 SEER OF GLEN-MYVYR. 
 
 Gwvthon was the son of Doeth, presider in the 
 circle of Bel * In Glen-My vyr, within the bosom of 
 the Caledonian hills, was raised the mystic temple of 
 the Divinity, and the abode of the sage stood in an ad- 
 jacent dale. On a green sloping eminence, a circle of 
 gray stones marked out the consecrated ground. It 
 was surrounded with lofty oaks, the thick foliage of 
 which threw around it a solemn shade. Not distant 
 were heard the murmurs of a mountain stream. The 
 spot was wild and sequestered ; but it was lovely, in- 
 teresting, and serene. It solemnized the soul, and fos- 
 tered contemplation. Youth delighted to ramble amid 
 its shadowy glens, and age to meditate upon the knot- 
 ted roots of its moss-grown trees, or in the peaceful 
 retreats of its secluded caves. 
 
 In this solitary haunt of peace and innocence, 
 the childhood of Gwython passed away. His youth 
 was a gently-flowing stream of happiness and tranquil- 
 lity. It was the season of lore and of glee. The 
 initiatory rites of Barthrin -J-, at length, gave to his 
 
 * Bel. — Many of the primitive nations directed their adorations to 
 the Supreme Being, under the name Bel, Beli, or Baal, in honour of 
 whom they observed the first of May as a high festival. 
 
 f Barthrin denominates the mysteries of Bardism, or the grada- 
 tions of tuition preparative to the confirmation of a novice in the char- 
 acter of an approved Bard. 
 
 A 2 
 
4 THE SEER OF NO. 
 
 eager hands the harp of melodious song. Upon 
 its strings soon trilled the warblings of joy, while 
 his swelling voice arose in praise of the chiefs of Al- 
 ban. The minstrelsy of valour, of patriotism, and 
 of truth were the delight of his rising years ; and it 
 became the charm and the solace of his ripening age. 
 With the burst of day would his matin hymns melt a- 
 mong the mountain echoes; and, as the dew, his grate- 
 ful strains steal symphonious to those of the nightin- 
 gale, lone harbinger of eve, and the mellow harmonist 
 of the star-bright hour. 
 
 It was even. The sun was sinking in the west ; 
 and his ruddy beams were flitting on the darkening 
 hills. The breeze was playful and cool, and scented by 
 the fragrance of flowers. Genial was the air, and sweet, 
 exhilarating the spirits, while health sported on the 
 wings of the gale. Upon the rustling boughs were 
 perched the songsters of the wood ; and echo, in melo- 
 dious responses, replied to their warbles of love. The 
 fields were loaded with the bounty of Nature, and 
 richly variegated by the golden tints of autumn. The 
 scene was all-grateful and charming, when the son of 
 Doeth was entering the Vale of Myvyr. Slowly he 
 penetrated into the thicket of a silvan dell, and traced 
 the secret windings of his dusky path. Pensive and 
 serene, he strode along, in silence, ruminating on the 
 changes of things and of man. When he pondered the 
 past he admired, and when he reviewed the scenes of 
 departed times, he was delighted, as with the delusive 
 pictures of a morning dream. 
 
1, GLEWMYVYR. 5 
 
 On the margin of a murmuring brook he beheld a 
 stone, gray with age. It was the Stone of Celvan, the 
 secret dweller, renowned afar for his wisdom in the 
 days of a distant age. He brushed the dew from its 
 hoary sides. He sat down. Being soon lulled into 
 solemn musing by the melody of the grove and the 
 tinkling of the crystal rill, he sunk into contemplation, 
 forgetful of all around him. He reflected on the brevi- 
 ty and vicissitudes of human life. A cloud of dubious 
 sadness played upon his brow. His breast heaved with 
 emotion. He sighed. Raising an eye of devotion, with 
 a mien of reverence, he exclaimed, " Father of Nature ! 
 give me the power of judging aright,— grant me the 
 knowledge of things !"" 
 
 The sound of his voice had not died among the 
 rocks, when a beam of light burst through the trees of 
 the wood ; and a form stood before him. It was the 
 form of an adorer of Deon *, in the days of old. His 
 countenance was calm and gentle, but majestic. In 
 his left hand was the white rod of power : in his right, 
 the branch of health, and the harp of Barthgan -f\ A 
 pure robe, the emblem of truth, covered his venerable 
 head ; and, pending from his shoulders, fell in flowing 
 
 * Deon. — The ancient Celtic philosophers often applied this epithet 
 to the Deity. The term signifies, the distributer, the giver, he that 
 sets aright, with an allusion to the sovereign wisdom and power. 
 
 ■j- Barthgan, the science of bardism, bardic song, poetry. — The 
 Arch-Druid, besides his other insignia, was distinguished by a long 
 white rod, or wand, which he carried in his hand, as an emblem of hit 
 office. — The branch of peace was the mistleto, or all-heal, a parasitic 
 plant, described by the Botanins under the came ¥i$c%. 
 
6 THE SEER OF NO. 
 
 folds nearly to the ground. His mien was grand and 
 awful, but it was courteous and amiable. With a 
 voice, sweet and solemn, he thus addressed the son of 
 the chief of Glen-Myvyr : " Son of the race of Alban ! 
 thy desire is the desire of virtue, and thy prayer will 
 be heard. Years have revolved, and generations past 
 away, since the heads of the people first hearkened to 
 my voice : but their abode is no longer with the sons 
 of men. They are now become gliders on the blue 
 clouds, and their dwellings are in the land of souls. 
 Like thee I have been young, and have panted for 
 knowledge, and the words of the wise were sweet in 
 mine ears. Instruction is now offered thee. Adore the 
 Supreme. And, while attending to the voice of age* 
 let the experience of departed times teach thee wisdom. 
 Listen and admire, while I unfold to thy imitation the 
 precepts of Derwythoni*, the faith of the men of Alban, 
 before the race of Rhuvain had disturbed the peace of 
 the sea-surrounded Isle. 
 
 " Pants the soul of Gwython for the hunter's fame, 
 and the warrior's renown ; or sighs it for the sweets of 
 peace, the secrets of knowledge, and the lore of wis- 
 dom ? Let him be attentive to the maxims of the sage 
 who have past away— of the good who have instructed 
 the men of primeval times. They will teach the heart 
 to know the intricacies of itself, and to adore the good- 
 ness and greatness of Deon, the Life of every Being, 
 and the Source of every Thing. Know thyself, son of 
 
 * Derwythoni, the primeval theology, Druidism. — Rhuvain was 
 the name given to Rome by the aboriginal Britons. 
 
I. GLEN-MYVYR. 7 
 
 Doeth, and thou shalt approach nearer to the know- 
 ledge of the mysterious One. 
 
 " Is thy desire for the meed of song, the generous 
 boon of Beli, splendid giver of worth and renown ? 
 Let, then, thy ardent wish arise for the celestial Awen *, 
 that its genial inspiration may pervade thy aspiring 
 soul. Accustom thine eye to scan the exhibitions of 
 Nature, expand thy heart to feel her influence, and 
 cherish the magnanimity which can boldly dare to in- 
 culcate the maxims that Nature approves. For this 
 purpose let thy thoughts be graceful, appropriate, and 
 luxuriantly diversified, ennobled by vigour, fancy, and 
 knowledge, and supported by learning, memory, and 
 mental endowment. By complacency, ingenuity, and 
 originality, cultivate social acquaintance : and, by ami- 
 able conduct, skill in science, and pure morals, be thy 
 aim to ensure praise. Let thy song be the faithful 
 record of heroical achievements to prompt the people to 
 illustrious feats of fame, a lay of ethical instruction 
 painting the paths of virtue, and a harmonious for- 
 mulary of the adorations of the tribes, when they ac- 
 knowledge the beneficence of the Supreme, when they 
 implore his gracious favour, and when they deprecate 
 his wrath from offending men. Be it thy intention 
 and thy duty, to commend philanthropy, to benefit 
 mankind, and to do the will of Deon, the best and 
 
 * Awen simply means, that endowment of the mental faculry 
 which directs it to a particular object, but it is generally used by the 
 ancient bards as signifying the Muse, the gift of poetry, consisting of 
 genius, fancy, and taste. 
 
8 THE SEER OF NOv 
 
 most benevolent of beings, whose ways are the delight 
 of the wise, and whose goodness is the guardian of the 
 upright and the valiant. Be thy practice the picture 
 of thy doctrines, that they may win attention, imita- 
 tion, and applause ; and thus shall thine be a didactic 
 strain to the roamers among Alban's hills of green. 
 
 " While a parent's love watches over the opening 
 of thy youthful mind, let its precepts excite within thy 
 breast a desire for virtue. As the bosom of the tender 
 flower expands to imbibe the morning dew, so the 
 heart uncloses itself to receive instruction from the lips 
 of those it loves. Truth is the fairest ornament of the 
 young, and a beauteous crown on the head of silver 
 hairs. Therefore scorn falsehood ; it is baneful and 
 vile, and the vice of little souls. Fortitude is the no- 
 blest bias of the mind ; let it, therefore, be cherished 
 with vehement desire, and endeared to the breast of 
 pride. It will guide thee, my son, through the storms 
 of danger, and the mazes of difficulty. It will foster 
 patriotism, the glory and the guardian of the land of 
 thy progenitors. Be rectitude the director of thy paths, 
 and integrity the delight of thy bosom. Let not the 
 stranger declare his name within thy dwelling, and be 
 thy abode a place of repose to the wanderer of the de- 
 sert. Respect the chiefs of the people, honour the 
 men of years, and let the Ones * in white inspire thee 
 with reverence. Let thy adorations arise on the rays 
 of the morning sun, and thy homage ascend amid the 
 
 * The Ones in white mean, those that presided in religion, the 
 Druids, who wore white robes, emblematic of purity, virtue, and truth. 
 
J. GLEN-MYVYR. V 
 
 beams of the west. So shall peace attend thy steps, 
 and happiness be the solace of thy years, while a so- 
 journer amid the dusky woodlands of thy native hills. 
 Placid also shall be thy course to the land of bliss : no 
 storm shall darken around thy departure, and the fair 
 ones of delight shall hail thy approach towards the 
 high halls of the brave and virtuous, the ever-green 
 bowers of the beauteous Ocean-Isle *." 
 
 The Bard now attuned his harp to the tones of his 
 sonorous voice, and the loves of Aldrud and Vinvena, 
 arose symphonious to the melody of its trembling strings. 
 And thus it burst on the raptured ear of Gwython, 
 while he gazed in admiration on the form of the Seer. 
 
 Aldrud, the son of Selwyn, was chief of Arthrin, 
 land of the breezy hills. A hundred groves gave shade 
 and beauty to his spacious valleys, all fair and fruitful, 
 and washed by the waters of innumerous streams. A- 
 mong the dales of his mountains browzed a thousand 
 deer, and the caves of his rocks were the impervious 
 retreats of the tusky boar. A hundred youthful chief- 
 tains followed his steps in the chase, or raised their 
 steely lances beside the aged warrior in the deathful 
 toils of the field. In his hall hung the shields of a 
 countless race, amid the spoils of a thousand years. 
 Strong was the arm of Selwyn, and his generous heart 
 firm as the adamantine base of rocky Lumnion. But 
 
 * Ocean- Isle — The ancient Celtic theologues placed their paradise 
 in an Island surrounded by tempests, and far removed into the West- 
 ■ern Ocean. It was described as abounding with every object of desire 
 and happiness, and named Flath-Innis, the Isle of the Noble Ones. 
 
10 THE SEER OF* NO. 
 
 his soul, though stern in danger, would melt at the 
 tale of woe, and his feet were swift to the relief of the 
 unhappy, to the help of the feeble ones. 
 
 As a young oak on the brow of a silvan height, so 
 grew the son of the mighty Selwyn. His sire foresaw 
 his renown, and exulted in the fame of his race. Fleet 
 were the feet of Aldrud on the rocks of roes, and dar- 
 ing his arm in the chase of the mountain boar. Proud 
 beat his heart and high heaved his breast of desire, 
 when his left hand received the shield of Cadvan, and 
 his right the ruddy lance of Rhuon. He sighed for 
 the sound of war, and panted for glory on the crimson- 
 ed plain. At the shrine of Beli his vows were heard ; 
 and the first of his battles raised his name above those 
 of little men. Beneath the warrior's sword sunk the 
 mighty, and it was stained with the blood of the proud. 
 Its flash was fleet and resistless as the lightning of 
 heaven : before it fled the foes of the Land of Hills, 
 when the rage of the chief was terrible. From the 
 fields of the slain he returned in triumph, while the 
 sounding of his buckler was responded by the fierce 
 eagles of the sky. In the hall pf peace he listened to 
 the lays of renown, and the mighty deeds of his arm 
 arose in the song of bards. 
 
 But the soul of Aldrud heeded not the voice of 
 praise : it was on other hills, in the streamy land of 
 his love. The hero had seen Vinvena in all her charms, 
 and he loved the daughter of Hoen, the courteous lord 
 of Bm-Londra's towery halls. His portly form and 
 magnanimous soul assailed the heart of the gentle maid., 
 and he became " the dweller of her secret sigh." 
 
I. GLEN-MYVYR. 1 1 
 
 In the pride of youth, and flushed with exultant 
 hope, the princely chief of Arthrin was hastening to 
 the bowers of his bride. Around him were the youth 
 of his race, and he rejoiced in the strength of his land. 
 Stately was his step along the side of the woody moun- 
 tains, and majestic his mien as he strode through the 
 lone valleys, by the margins of their floody streams, 
 Upon his head gleamed a burnished helm, in his hand 
 shone a deathful lance of steel, and upon his arm was 
 braced the bossy shield of his sire. As a vigorous hart 
 brushes through the brakes of the wood, or adown the 
 sloping sides of the heathy hills, to meet the bounding 
 roe, the mate of his joyous youth, so the valiant AI- 
 drud, hale and hopeful, hasted to the haunts of his 
 love. He hasted to the arms of Vinvena, to receive 
 the fair of Din-Londra from her parent's hand. 
 
 To the hall of his love the hero came ; but silence 
 reigned around it. The towers were blackened by 
 fire and defaced with ruin. No voice was heard with- 
 in them, save that of the hollow wind murmuring in 
 dismal moanings through their chinky walls. The 
 courts were forlorn and dreary, for its chief had fallen 
 by the foemaifs guile, and his people were slain by the 
 hand of the perfidious. Sad grew the heart of Aldrud ; 
 but it heaved with resentment. His cheek of love be- 
 came red with rage, and his blue eye beamed with the 
 blaze of ire. He struck his moony shield to arouse 
 some dweller in secret, that his afflictive tale might 
 direct his course to the treacherous foe, and brace his 
 brawny arm for vengeance. Forth from the ruined 
 
 b 2 
 
12 THE SEER OF NO. 
 
 pile came slowly a hoary man, bent with a load of 
 years, and tottering over the staff of age. His silver 
 tresses whistled in the gale of spring, and he sighed as 
 he heavily moved along. Upon the youth he bent the 
 glistening eye of tears, while his faltering tongue de- 
 tailed the ills of his lord, and the death of his people. 
 
 " From Lochlyifs * land the cruel rovers came. To 
 the sea of storms they gave their black-bosomed ships, 
 and their broad sails rattled amid the tempests of the 
 foaming ocean. Bescreened in the darkness of night, and 
 urged by the lust of blood, the ruthless prowlers sought 
 Din-Londra 1 s peaceful dwelling. As the eagle of heaven, 
 fierce and remorseless, darts on his wareless prey, so 
 rushed the myrmidons to the deaths of thousands. Their 
 savage yells resounded, drear and horrible, through the 
 towers of our chief, and destruction stalked, trium- 
 phant, over the havoc of his lordly race. They con- 
 sumed with fire the halls of heroes, and the blaze of a 
 thousand trophies illumed the murky bosom of the mid- 
 night sky. Long ere the dawn arose, their blood-stained 
 vessels bounded on the face of the surgy deep, and their 
 careering prows swept through the sea-green billows to 
 the slaughter of the sons of other lands. 11 — ■ 
 
 " It is thine, O Father Deon I 11 exclaimed the im- 
 passioned Aldrud, " to judge the right. Give thy in- 
 spiration to this breast, and invigorate this arm to 
 avenge the wrong— the wrong of innocence and the in- 
 sult of love !" He said ; and with hasty steps retraced 
 the lonely paths of the wild. 
 
 ! * Lochlyn — >a name given to the regions on the shores of the Baltic. 
 
I. GLEN-MYVYR. 13 
 
 To the place of his fathers came the youth of the 
 saddened soul, where he struck his responsive boss, and 
 upraised the clang of war. His people knew the terri- 
 ble alarm, and rushed from afar at the call of the val- 
 iant. In a hundred ships they dash through the reeling- 
 waves, nor heed the hissing of the tumultuous main. 
 They seek Lochlyn of tempests, and their prows are 
 towards the land of the ruthless ones. Stern and mus~ 
 ive, Aldrud stands ; he stands in silence amid the sons 
 of the ocean. His thoughts are on the loves of Vinve- 
 na, while he sighs over the untimely fall of the maid. 
 
 Through the wavy billows of a sounding bay the 
 ships of heroes glide to the gulfy shore. The leader of 
 the throng bounds upon the foamy beach, beneath the 
 lowering brow of a stupendous rock, and his warriors 
 rank around him. Boldly he scales the cliffy sides of 
 the threatening steep, and with stedfast ken surveys 
 from afar the woody vales of the stranger's land. The 
 sons of his strength await below ; they see the daring 
 of their lord, and glory in the fame of Arthrm's gallant 
 chief. He gains the topmost peak of the hill of crags, 
 and reposes from his toil on the side of a huge and 
 hoary stone. Anon, bursts upon his ear the hum of a 
 distant crowd. It was a train of Lochlyn's sons, the 
 votaries of bloody Odin *, conducting a victim, the lorn 
 
 * Odin was the fierce war-god of the Northmen, who immolated 
 human victims upon his altars, and adored him under many appella- 
 tions characteristic of his sanguinary nature. — Among the Scandina- 
 vians,, every family had its Rock of Execution, whence the aged, the 
 diseased, the women, and the slaves, were hurled headlong, as victim* 
 devoted to Hela, the hateful president of the infernal regions. 
 
14 THE SEER OP NO. 
 
 captive of war, to the Rock of Death. Serene and 
 dreadless, on its fateful summit sat the youthful darer, 
 and beheld the approach of the cruel. In front of the 
 dreadful band was led a daughter of distress, and a hun- 
 dred voices raised the song of blood. But firm was the 
 step of the devoted, and proud her lofty mien. Upon 
 the cold gale of the north danced her golden ringlets 
 as, dauntless, she strode in the march of woe. She was 
 doomed to atone for the sins of a hated race, to be pre- 
 cipitated to the dreary regions of Hela's dark domain. 
 
 The hideous sight rppalled the lonely chief as he 
 bent his watchful eyes on the ruthless train. Firmer 
 lie seized his quivering lance, and his sword of steel 
 shook in his wrathful grasp. The band of blood draw 
 near. — As the lightning of the sky sweeps along the 
 blue welkin and strews the forest in ruin, so rushed 
 Aldrud on the direful crowd. He beheld the thongs of 
 the ignoble on the lily hands of Din-Londra's fair. As 
 the boar of the mountain shakes the oak in autumn and 
 its spoils fall around, so sunk the bloody ones beneath 
 the warrior's hand. His people hear the din of the 
 conflict, and they haste to the harvest of fame. The 
 ground is drenched with the gore of thousands, and the 
 shouts of the triumphant arise. Before the brave of 
 Arthrin flee the children of unholy Odin, and their 
 carnage bestains the execrable precincts of his grove. 
 Through its darksome shades crackles the vengeful fire> 
 and consumes his fane of skulls. — 
 
 Proud in his gliding ship the generous Aldrud gives 
 Din-Londra's daughter to the embrace of her sire. A 
 
I. GLEN-MYVYR. 15 
 
 song to the praise of Deon, the defender of the good, 
 melts on the rustling air. With the voice of joy they 
 hail the hills where their fathers dwelt. They rejoice 
 in the fame of their chief, and the harps of a hundred 
 bards celebrate his heroism at the feast. — The tear of 
 joy was in the eye of Vinvena when she sunk into the 
 warrior's arms. Their name is high in Arthrin, and 
 DinLondra's sons exult in the glory of the lovely. 
 
 No. II. 
 
 " Should e'er Ambition's towering hopes injlame, 
 
 Let judging reason draw the vail aside ; 
 Or, fir 'd with envy at some empty name, 
 
 Read o'er the monument that tells — He died." 
 
 Ogilvie's Ode to Melancholy, St. 17. 
 
 TO fix the mind upon objects within the power 
 of fortune is both weak and improvident. It is possi- 
 ble that what has been acquired may be lost, and even 
 enjoyment may be lessened by care or embittered by 
 sorrow. The pleasure, likewise, arising from fruition 
 seldom compensates the toil and solicitude by which it 
 has been obtained. An eager pursuit after a particular 
 object, by engrossing its faculties, also, dissipates and 
 embarrasses the mind, and at the same time endangers 
 our tranquillity and happiness. It is, therefore, vain, 
 and ignoble, and unwise, to allow the attention to be 
 
16 THE FATE OP NO. 
 
 diverted from acquirements that are momentous and 
 permanent, by others that are by nature uncertain and 
 transitory. Intellectual attainments can only be made 
 our own. For this reason, and because they smooth 
 the path of duty and point out the road to immortal 
 felicity, they alone are to be deemed worthy of the ex- 
 ertions of a rational mind. 
 
 Ambition-, when it exists as the desire "of applause 
 bestowed upon the execution of something great, or ex- 
 cellent, or beneficial, is, doubtless, one of the noblest 
 passions of the human heart. It then prompts to laud- 
 able enterprise, it excites to deeds of benevolence, it 
 stimulates to the practice of virtue, and it calls forth 
 the achievements of magnanimity and patriotism. But 
 however honourable may be its intentions, and however 
 amiable its designs, they are not exempted from change 
 and disappointment. Vicissitude is the lot of humanity, 
 and the state assigned to terrestrial things. The career 
 of youth may be commenced with prosperity, and a se- 
 ries of fortunate events may promise a happy consum- 
 mation ; but, at the very time when the soul is congra- 
 tulating itself upon the prospects of felicity, the dark- 
 ling clouds of misfortune begin to gather around it. 
 The lowering gloom of adversity darkens, deepens, and 
 expands ; till, amid the burst of its storm, happiness, 
 and even existence, is overwhelmed in the gulf of mis- 
 ery. Of this melancholy observation, the truth is 
 strongly depicted in the scenes of life, and of its wide 
 and general application the following affecting narra- 
 tive exhibits a lively and interesting picture. 
 
tU BE SOUZA. 17 
 
 Don Emmanuel de Souza* was, from 1588 to 
 1590, governor of Diu, a Portuguese settlement in In- 
 dia, where he amassed immense wealth. On his return 
 to his native country 5 the ship, in which were his lady, 
 the beautiful Leonora de Sa, all his riches, and five hun- 
 dred men, his sailors and domestics, was dashed to piec- 
 es on the rocks which form the Cape of Good Hope* 
 Don Emmanuel, his lady, and three children, with four 
 hundred of the crew, only escaped, and with difficulty 
 saved a few arms and a scanty stock of provisions. 
 
 As they marched through the rude uncultivated de- 
 sarts of Southern Africa, some of these forlorn and un- 
 happy beings died of famine, of thirst, and of fatigue ; 
 others, who wandered from their companions in wretch- 
 edness, in search of water, were murdered by the san- 
 guinary barbarians, or destroyed by the wild beasts of 
 the woods. The horror of this miserable situation was 
 most dreadfully aggravated to the tender Leonora. 
 Added to her own privations and personal sufferings, 
 which must have been anguishing and exquisite, she 
 was doomed to be a daily witness of the wants and the 
 woes of her delicate babes, without being able to miti- 
 gate or relieve them. But the distress of her breaking 
 heart was rendered intolerable by the knowledge of the 
 agonizing situation of her doating husband, who now 
 began to betray the perturbation of his mind by dis- 
 covering fits of insanity. They arrived, at last, at a 
 lone hamlet inhabited by a horde of predatory Ethio- 
 
 * This shipwreck and deplorable catastrophe is the subject of an 
 affecting poem, by Jerome de Cortereal, a Portugueze poet. 
 VOL. I. C 
 
[,§ THE FATE OF NO. 
 
 pians, exhausted with want, wretchedness, and fatigue. 
 At first, they met with a hospitable and courteous 
 reception, under which was masked an ungenerous and 
 malignant design. De Souza, partly stupified with grief 
 and thrown off his guard by their perfidious favour, at 
 the desire of the barbarians, yielded up to them the 
 arms of his company. No sooner was this done than 
 the savages stripped naked the whole of the miserable 
 sufferers, left them destitute of subsistence, and expos- 
 ed to the mercy of the prowlers of the desart. The 
 misery of the delicate and exposed Leonora was increas- 
 ed by the brutal insults of the base and unfeeling ne- 
 groes. Her husband, unable to prevent or lessen her 
 calamities, could only behold and commiserate them. 
 After having travelled nearly three hundred leagues, 
 her limbs swelled, and her wounded feet bled at every 
 step. Her strength being at last exhausted, she sunk 
 down, amid the parched and pathless wild, and with the 
 sand covered herself to the neck, to conceal her uncloth- 
 ed and emaciated body. In this dreadful situation she 
 beheld two of her children expire. Death, soon after, 
 relieved her from such unparallelled distress. Her hus- 
 band, who had long been enamoured of her beauty, re- 
 ceived her last breath in a distracted embrace. Imme- 
 diately after, he snatched his third child into his arms, 
 and, uttering the most lamentable cries, rushed into 
 the closest thicket of a neighbouring wood. The wild 
 beasts were soon heard to growl over their prey. — 
 
 Or the whole four hundred who escaped the waves, 
 only twenty-six arrived at another Ethiopian village, 
 the inhabitants of which, in consequence of their inter- 
 
II. DE SOUZA. 19 
 
 course with other nations and commerce with the mer- 
 chants of the Red Sea, were more humane and civilized. 
 From this place, they found a passage to Europe, and 
 brought the tidings of the calamitous fate of their com- 
 panions. 
 
 This most impressive episode has attracted the 
 splendid genius of Luis de Camoens, the epic poet of 
 Portugal, who has made it the subject of a pathetic and 
 sublime description. With inimitable effect he has put 
 it into the mouth of the Spirit of the Cape of Tempests*, 
 in a terrific address to the daring Gama, on his voyage 
 to the discovery of India. 
 
 " The howling blast, ye slumbering storms prepare, 
 A youthful Lover and his beauteous Fair, 
 Triumphant sail from India's ravaged land ; 
 His evil angel leads him to my strand. 
 Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall roar, 
 The shatter^ wrecks shall blacken all my shore. 
 Themselves escaped, despoifd by savage hands, 
 Shall naked wander o'er the burning sands. 
 Spared by the waves far deeper woes to bear, 
 Woes even by me acknowledged with a tear. 
 Their infant race, the promised heirs of joy, 
 Shall now no more a hundred hands employ .; 
 By cruel want, beneath the parents' 1 eye, 
 In these wide wastes their infant race shall die. 
 Through dreary wilds where pilgrim never trod, 
 Where caverns yawn and rocky fragments nod, 
 
 * The Cape of Good Hope was so named by the first discoverers. 
 
20 THE PATE OF DE SOUZA. NO. 
 
 The hapless Lover and his Bride shall stray, 
 By night unsheltered, and forlorn by day. 
 In vain the Lover o^er the trackless plain 
 Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain, 
 Her tender limbs and breast of mountain snow, 
 Where ne^r before intruding blast might blow, 
 Parch'd by the sun, and shriveFd by the cold 
 Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. 
 Thus wandering wide, a thousand ills o^rpast, 
 In fond embraces they shall sink at last ; 
 While pitying tears their dying eyes oVrflow, 
 And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. — 
 
 Mickle's Camoens' Lusiad, B. V. v. 487— 415. w, 
 
 No. III. 
 
 " Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; 
 And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy 
 The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour. 
 To meditation due, and sacred song ?" 
 
 Thomson's Summer, v. 66 — 69. 
 
 SWEET is the breath of Morn, says the sublime- 
 ly descriptive Milton, her rising sweet, with charm of 
 earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, when first on this de- 
 lightful land he spreads his orient beams, on herb, tree, 
 fruit, and flower, glistering with dew. — Such, among 
 many others, are the incitements exhibited by the face 
 of Nature to prompt mankind to Early Rising. 
 
 It is generally allowed, that this patriarchal habit 
 is most abundant in advantages conducive both to health 
 
HI. ON EARLY RISING, 21 
 
 and happiness. To recommend it is, therefore, a popu- 
 lar subject, and has been a theme of genius applauding 
 the practice of the wise in every age. The following 
 observations on the pleasure and usefulness attending 
 it, solicit the regard of those who have become enam- 
 oured of indolence, and are ignorant of the gratification 
 they forego, by indulging sloth and inaction. 
 
 Tjie exercise of Early Rising confirms a sound con- 
 stitution, and is a certain indication of industry. It ap- 
 plies to every situation in life. What advantages does 
 the mechanic, or man of business, derive from it ? It in- 
 vigorates the body and animates the mind ; and strength 
 contemplates labour and exertion with joy. Each be- 
 gins his assigned work betimes, and it advances beneath 
 his hand. His task is completed at an early hour, and 
 he enjoys repose from his toil, amid the society of his 
 friends in the evening, with an exquisite relish, which 
 receives a zest from the approbation of a virtuous mind. 
 
 But there are some whose business is pleasure, and 
 whose sole concern is self-gratification. Now, these 
 of all men are frequently the most unfortunate in their 
 choice of the means whereby to accomplish so desirable 
 an end. What can be supposed to be more pregnant 
 with solace and variety than the face of Nature beau- 
 tified by all the blushing charms of the dawn ? It is 
 exuberant in objects clothed with loveliness, and de- 
 corated with every diversity that contributes to beguile 
 solicitude and enliven delight. Let such, then, whose 
 only labour is to Evjoy Life, hasten from the couch of 
 indolence and inactivity, and pursue betimes the course 
 of energy and enterprize. If no domestic arrangement 
 
22 ON EARLY RISING, NO. 
 
 require their attention, let them seek the fields and trace 
 the beauties of the spring. They will see in the daisy's 
 blush an emblem of modesty, and a picture of elegance 
 and delicacy in the lily's tender bloom. They will hear 
 the effusions of gratitude in the wild-bird's song, and 
 receive a lesson of industry from the ceaseless applica- 
 tion of the provident bee. 
 
 Yegeto was young, gay, and handsome. His mind 
 was enlightened by education , and his manners polished 
 by intercourse with refined society. His heart bounded 
 with health, and his eye sparkled with animation and 
 hilarity. He was amiable, vigorous, and accomplished, 
 but his modes of life had prevented him from becoming 
 acquainted with the advantages of Early Rising. Ac- 
 cident had made him acquainted with Amanda, who 
 was lively, beautiful, and good. The occurrence gave 
 birth to a new sensation in his mind. He became rest- 
 less and unaccountably volatile ; and, among his other 
 eccentricities, he was seized with a fit of loving a walk 
 in the morning. During one of his early rambles he 
 strayed into a solitary valley, the sides of which were 
 covered with woods, and its bosom laved by a limpid 
 rill. On its banks he met the fair Amanda, whose pic- 
 ture might have represented the Goddess of Morning, 
 tor sweetness and beauty. The interview must have 
 been more than agreeable, for it confirmed the new- 
 born exertions of the youth ; and, either the loveliness 
 of the scene, the charms of his companion who after- 
 wards became his wife, or the vivacity of the heart pro- 
 duced by air and exercise, drew from him, on his re- 
 turn, the following lines descriptive of 
 
ON EARLY RISING. 
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 How bright beams the sun from behind the high mountain, 
 
 O'er slumbering Nature diffusing the day ! 
 Ail crystal and clear gleams the fall of the fountain,, 
 
 In the red mellow rays on its waters that play. 
 
 Delightful and mild are the breezes of morning, 
 Soft fanning the bosom of each blooming rose, 
 
 And fragrant the wild flowers the green mead adorning, 
 Where the lone bourn in secret meandering, flows. 
 
 Now gay are the groves, and the fresh buds are shining, 
 With dew-drops bespangling the shrub and the thorn, 
 
 And blithely the birds, on the green boughs intwining, 
 In notes of sweet melody welcome the morn. 
 
 The song of the lark through the white cloud ascending, 
 
 Is soothing amid the light mists of the air. 
 O'er Nature contentment and peace are extending, « 
 
 And Hope plants a smile on the brow of Despair. 
 
 Turn to the man of genius, and consider the enjoy- 
 ments he derives from Early Rising. If he sit down to 
 study, he rejoices in the exhilaration of his mind which 
 is vigorous and happy. He proceeds with success and 
 vivacity. His ideas are clear, his conclusions just, and 
 his diction perspicuous. Pie is not tormented with 
 drowsy languor, or the feeble imbecility of sloth. By 
 his own mind his exertions are approved, and this gives 
 a brilliancy to the playful wit and conviviality which 
 conclude his joyous day. 
 
24 OX EARLY RISING. NO* 
 
 But let us follow the good man, or the philosopher^ 
 in his morning walk. What are his thoughts and ob- 
 servations on the objects among which he wanders ? He 
 sees the dewy plants and flowers opening their glisten- 
 ing leaves, and reviving in the beams of the sun. The 
 hum of the diligent bee is heard by him ; he beholds it 
 flitting from flower to flower, and delighting in its 
 luscious toil. He receives a lesson of activity and in- 
 dustry, and he resolves to copy the perseverance of the 
 bee. The song of the lark, and the carols of birds 
 perched on the springing branches sweetly melt on his 
 ear. He catches a glow of gratitude from the little har- 
 monists, his tributary aspirations ascend to the Sove- 
 reign of Nature, his soul expands in devotion, and his 
 heart becomes rapt with feelings of ecstacy and joy. 
 Turning his contemplative eye to the nobler works of 
 creation, he admires their order and beauty, and beholds, 
 in their construction and economy, the obvious exer- 
 cise of almighty wisdom and power. Meditation be* 
 guiles his thoughts from the scenes of time. They sweep 
 from the terrestrial to more exalted spheres — they bound 
 to the Creator's throne. To the author of his being he 
 commends his cares, he unfolds his weaknesses, and dis- 
 closes his wants. Hope exhilarates his breast, joy light- 
 ens his countenance, and serenity and confidence become 
 the pledge of future felicity. — So exquisite are the en- 
 joyments of a mind, tutored by Science and attuned to 
 Virtue, and at the same time impressed with a sense of 
 rectitude and religion. 
 
IV. THE HEIR OF STRATH-GARTNEY. 25 
 
 No. IV. 
 
 <c And wilt thou then, generous maid, 
 
 Such matchless favour shorn, 
 To share with me, a banish 'd wight, 
 
 My peril, pain, or woe ? 
 
 " Now heaven, I trust, hath joys in store 
 
 To crown thy constant breast ; 
 For, know, fond hope assures my heart 
 
 That we shall soon be blest." 
 Hermit of Waukworth, Fit ii. St. 7 and S. 
 
 THE blackbird fills the grove with his loud melo- 
 dy, while the sweet warblings of the linnet steal, with 
 a charming sweetness, between the breaks of his song. 
 It is thus with the votaries of the Muse. Their strains 
 are as diversified as those of the songsters of the wood. 
 The general object of all is to please. They excel, who 
 delight and instruct — who gain attention, and by power- 
 fully influencing the passions, improve the mind. There 
 are, who contemplate with rapture the high branching 
 arms of the majestic oak, while at their side may be 
 those, who admire the blush of the daisy and dwell with 
 delight on the hawthorn's bloom. The superior de- 
 partments of poetry, in like manner, possess their at- 
 tractions and are received with applause, while the 
 humble strain plays around the heart and commands 
 the tribute of simplicity receiving pleasure from truth. 
 vol. i. © 
 
26 THE HEIR OP NO. 
 
 This arises from the susceptibility of taste to receive 
 congenial impressions. The Epic owes its influence to 
 imitation and embellishment: the Pastoral, while it lisps 
 the language of Nature, points the finger of feeling 
 and the eye of observation to the pictures it describes. 
 
 The different classes of poetry are as various as the 
 subjects it inculcates, or the affections upon which it 
 is intended to operate. There are, the epic or heroical, 
 the didactic or moral, the satirical, the bucolic or pas- 
 toral, the elegiac, the amorous or what consists of love 
 verses, the hymnic, and, besides some other kinds, 
 what may be denominated the narrative, consisting of 
 the ballad and the tale. This latter species of versifica- 
 tion is of ancient vise. The Athenians used it with 
 much success, and Solon, their great legislator, propa- 
 gated his institutions among the lower orders by cloth- 
 ing them in popular verse. In our own country, this 
 kind of composition has long been a favourite branch 
 in the poetical department. The people delight in the 
 song, the ballad, and the metrical tale. If some of 
 these are deficient in elegance, many abound with a 
 nobler grace. They are strong incentives to prowess 
 and military valour, they foster a manly love of freedom 
 and independency, they draw forth a desire for honour- 
 able renown, and they cultivate humanity, delicacy, 
 and feeling, by acting upon the tender passions and 
 rousing the energies of the unvitiated mind. 
 
 These observations point to the following Piece, 
 the production of a female pen. The simplicity of its 
 structure, in language and arrangement, it is hoped s 
 will please ; and the sentiments it breathes cannot fail 
 
IV. STRATH-GARTNEY. 27 
 
 to interest. It is submitted as a picture, exhibiting a 
 contrast of manners, and delineating the progress of 
 the tender passion in a delicate and generous mind. It 
 will not mislead the affections; and, as it may innocent- 
 ly amuse, it will not be disregarded by such as imitate 
 Nature, and respect those feelings which Nature excites. 
 
 THE HEIR OF 
 
 STRATH-GARTNEY. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Ah ! why, poor youth, thy ruin'd frame, 
 
 Thy raiment why so torn, 
 Thy limbs deep wounded, bare, and lame. 
 
 Thy aspect all forlorn ? 
 
 " Thy mien would better birth bespeak, 
 
 Has fortune proved unkind ? 
 The roses wither'd on thy cheek 
 
 Betray a troubled mind. 
 
 " And, why thy eye so sunk and wild 
 
 Do swelling tears now fill ?" — 
 The youth replied, " I'm sorrow's child ; 
 
 They call me crazy Will. 
 
 "But Will has seen a better time, 
 
 Though destined now to rove : 
 His hands are stain'd with ne'er a crime ; 
 
 His heart but dared to love. 
 
 d 2 
 
2S THE HEIR OP 
 
 " As blackbird chanting on the spray. 
 With voice so sweet and shrill, 
 
 I once was happy, blithe, and gay, 
 Though now I'm crazy Will. 
 
 ' f When set to dine, I drank the wine, 
 
 The sack, and hydromel ; 
 Now water clear is fitter cheer, 
 
 And better suits poor Will. 
 
 " My food the berry from the thorn, 
 
 And with the birds of air, 
 I'd treat the human race with scorn, 
 
 Except for Anna fair." — ■ 
 
 " Where's Anna," now the stranger cries, 
 
 " Is she another's bride ?" — 
 The fire flash'd fierce in William's eyes, 
 
 His cheeks the crimson dyed.— - 
 
 " No, no — but, hark ! the thunder's roll— > 
 
 I see a yawning vast ; — 
 The howling tempest tears my soul, — 
 
 My brain whirls in the blast."— 
 
 " Poor Youth ! I've touch'd a tender part, 
 
 But, trust me, I would fain 
 Restore to peace thy wounded heart, 
 
 And sooth thy every pain." — 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 29 
 
 With doubting look he answer'd, " sure 
 
 'T would baffle all your skill ; 
 For none on earth can ever cure 
 
 The love-cross'd, crazy Will. 
 
 " But now I fear too long we stand ; 
 
 The sun has pass'd his noon." — 
 The stranger kindly press'd his hand — > 
 
 " We must not part so soon. 
 
 " Dear Youth ! your name I fain would know. 
 
 And place where you abide ; 
 And if I cannot cure your woe, 
 
 I'll better fare provide." — 
 
 The youth replied, " your words so kind 
 
 Would tempt me to impart 
 The secrets of a troubled mind, 
 
 And open all my heart.— 
 
 " My father was a man of wealth, 
 
 And true to Stewart's line, 
 Which caused him leave his home by stealth, 
 
 And e'en his name resign. 
 
 " Nine seasons o'er my youthful head 
 
 Had scarce their changes run, 
 When with my parent thus I fled :— 
 
 I was his only son. 
 
30 THE HEIR OP 
 
 " No vassals tend us as we stray'd, 
 
 Nor pages wait our call ; 
 Our garments changed to homely plaid, 
 
 To me seem'd wonder all. 
 
 « And far we wander'd many a day, 
 
 O'er waste and dreary wild : 
 My father cheer'd me by the way, 
 
 And all my cares beguiled. 
 
 " Where Greenwood's scenes unite to charm, 
 
 We reach'd a lovely spot ; 
 And here we hired a little farm, 
 
 And rear'd an humble cot. 
 
 " The ivy weaves around its sides 
 
 A robe of glossy green ; 
 And wheresoe'er a root divides., 
 
 A rose is placed between. 
 
 « The woodbine mantles round the door. 
 With shade so sweet and cool ; 
 
 And neatly pave the cottage floor 
 Pure pebbles from the pool. — 
 
 " My father now a shepherd see, 
 
 Conceal'd from all his foes, 
 Enjoy the fruits of industry, 
 
 Contentment and repose. 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 31 
 
 " Each morn he'd tend his fleecy care, 
 
 And, when the day was done, 
 Would to his peaceful home repair, 
 
 And there instruct his son. 
 
 " All day through flowery dells I ranged^ 
 
 And garlands gay would twine, 
 Unmindful of my fortune changed, 
 
 No future care was mine. 
 
 " Till Anna fair I chanced to meet, 
 
 Alone by Greenwood-Hall ; 
 No opening flower was half so sweet ; 
 
 She far excelFd them all. 
 
 "Her form, her features, all divine, 
 
 With wonder filfd my breast, 
 Nor did she seem displeased with mine 
 
 Nor shumfd when I caress'd. 
 
 " She lookM so pleased, so sweetly smiled. 
 
 Her tale so artless told ; 
 For Anna, then, was but a child, 
 
 Scarce turnM of seven years old. 
 
 " Now hand in hand we daily roam 
 
 In search of fragrant flowers, 
 Reluctant aye we think of home, 
 
 And leave the silvan bowers. 
 
32 THE HEIR OP 
 
 " And oft I felt a pang to part 
 I ne'er before had known : 
 
 I long'd to fold her to my heart, 
 And call her all my own. 
 
 " Our hearts, as if for one design'dj 
 Like woodbine on its tree, 
 
 The older grown, the closer twin'd— 
 'Twould break to set them free. 
 
 " How unperceived the seasons flew ! 
 
 Nine rapid years fast sped : 
 At length the Squire suspicious grew ; 
 
 And all our pleasures fled. 
 
 a At wonted hour I sought the plain; 
 
 My bosom fill'd with care ; 
 I watch'd for Anna's steps in vain ; 
 
 No Anna wander'd there. 
 
 " Next day she came with heavy heart 
 
 And told me all her woe, 
 That we must now forever part : 
 
 Her father will'd it so. 
 
 « Within a woodland's mossy cave 
 
 We sought a lone retreat, 
 Where to our grief full vent we gave* 
 
 And plighted vows repeat. 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 
 
 " Unseen, we thought, by every eye, 
 
 And no intrusion fear'd : 
 But ah ! the subtile Squire was nigh, 
 
 And ail our converse heard. 
 
 " Red, red with rage his visage grew ; 
 
 In words of wrathful scorn, 
 He vow'd to make us dearly rue 
 
 That e'er we had been born. 
 
 " I little cared his threats to me, 
 
 But for my Anna's sake ; 
 For, O ! I fearM his cruelty 
 
 Her gentle heart would break. 
 
 " Now home I went, my soul was sad ; 
 
 No more the vale I ranged ; 
 No songsters there could make me glad 
 
 E'en nature's face was changed. 
 
 " My sire me to a distance sent, 
 
 Reluctant all to go, 
 Though well I knew his kind intent, 
 
 Was to divert my woe. 
 
 " My path was waylaid by a band 
 
 Of ruffians hired to kill : 
 They seiz'd and tied me foot and hand, 
 
 Though me they owed no ill. 
 >L. i, e 
 
 33 
 
34 THE HEIR OF 3 
 
 " They gagg'd my mouth, and on the ground, 
 
 All gasping to get breath, 
 Thus savage-like they left me bound 
 
 To meet a lingering death. 
 
 " A dreary night and day I passM; 
 
 All hope was far removed ; 
 I thought each hour would prove my last ;«— 
 
 Yet Anna still I loved. 
 
 a A shepherd found me in this plight, 
 Whose flock had distant stray'd, 
 
 And, moved with pity at the sight, 
 He hasten'd to my aid : 
 
 " And to his lowly cot me bare, 
 
 All helpless and unknown, 
 And tended me with kindly care 
 
 As I had been his own. 
 
 "My limbs benumbM, and s weird, and sore, 
 
 Required a time to rest : — 
 But time nor rest can e'er restore 
 
 The quiet of my breast. — 
 
 " Now to our home again I haste, 
 
 To lean my weary head : — 
 The flocks were gone, — the cottage waste,— 
 
 And, ah ! my father fled. 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 35 
 
 (' 'Twas then that reason dropp'd the rein; 
 
 My blood ran cold and chill ; 
 A burning fever seiz'd my brain. 
 
 And left me crazy Will."— 
 
 The stranger heard in mute surprise, 
 
 Till when the youth was done ; 
 Then clasps him to his breast and cries, 
 
 " Art thou Strath-Gartney's son ? 
 
 " That manly form full well I know 
 
 So like my long-loved friend : — 
 IVe tidings glad to cure thy woe, 
 
 And make thy sorrows end, 
 
 " Your father sought you o'er the plain, 
 
 Unwearied, night and day, 
 And when his labour proved in vain, 
 
 To grief became a- prey. 
 
 << He knew his en'mies 1 baleful hate, 
 
 Which caused him first to roam ; 
 But now, regardless of his fate, 
 
 He boldly ventured home. 
 
 -■" Soon was he seized by watchful foe, 
 
 Whose wrath no time could cure, 
 But sought, in death or overthrow, 
 
 To make his ruin sure. 
 
36 THE HEIR OF NO, 
 
 " His well-known worth the king beheld. 
 
 And seal'd his pardon free ; 
 His title only he withheld, 
 
 And that conferr'd on thee. 
 
 " Thy father's friend, as such I'm sent, 
 
 My sovereign's servant too ; 
 By both on the same errand bent, 
 
 And that 's in search of you. 
 
 si O that I could restore thy rest, 
 
 And cause thy sorrows cease ; — 
 How will it wound thy parent's breast, 
 
 To see thy broken peace !"— - 
 
 In thoughtful silence William stood, 
 
 His bosom heaved a sigh, 
 When, in a solemn pensive mood, 
 
 He utter'd this reply. 
 
 • e < There grows a flower in Greenwood bower, 
 
 Far sweeter than a rose, 
 Had I the power to gain that flower, 
 'Twould all my mind compose."-— 
 
 To Greenwood-Hall the stranger hies, 
 
 So stately and so fair ; 
 Its turrets rise to meet the skies ;- 
 
 And guide his footsteps there. 
 
JV. STRATH-GARTNEY. 37 
 
 His courtly mien, and grand attire 
 
 A welcome kind insure, 
 Where gaudy shew can more inspire 
 
 Than humble worth when poor. 
 
 He Greenwood's haughty squire addressM 5 
 
 In words of graceful ease ; 
 Though little favoured in his breast, 
 
 'Twas policy to please. 
 
 ( f I have a friend, a baron bold, 
 
 Who has one son and heir, 
 He profers all his lands and gold 
 
 With him to Anna fair." 
 
 The squire was glad, and answer'd kind ; 
 
 It filPd his heart with joy, 
 For much he fearM, with constant mind, 
 
 She loved a shepherd boy. — 
 
 He guides the stranger to a bower, 
 
 Beneath a skirting wood, 
 Where Anna often spent an hour, 
 
 In pensive solitude. 
 
 Her face, her form, her modest mien, 
 
 The stranger well approved : 
 Her like before he ne'er had seen, 
 
 Nor wonder'd William loved. 
 
38 THE HEIR OP 
 
 He now, with words of courtesy, 
 
 Address'd the blushing fair ; 
 " A noble youth makes suit to thee, 
 
 A baron's only heir. 
 
 " If virtue pure, and manly grace, 
 
 With form surpassing fair, 
 May in your bosom win a place, 
 
 Then, Lady, place him there. 
 
 fi He knows your worth, he saw you fair, 
 
 His heart of you approves ; 
 Your answer kind will ease his care ; 
 
 For you he dearly loves."— 
 
 Like sunny beam through April shower, 
 
 So shone fair Anna's eye ; 
 She struggled hard to summon power, 
 
 And then made this reply : 
 
 " In pity to my hapless fate, 
 
 I pray your suit remove, 
 The object of a father's hate 
 
 His daughter 's doom'd to love. 
 
 " I love him much, I've loved him long, 
 
 And love him ever will, 
 I know for me he suffer'd wrong, 
 
 And fear he suffers still 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 
 
 « Each spot wherever he appear'd, 
 Remembrance still endears ; 
 
 Each flower that by his hand was rear'd 
 I water with my tears. 
 
 " To sooth his care, O happy lot ! 
 
 A shepherd though he be, 
 With William I'd prefer a cot 
 
 To lord of high degree. 
 
 " By mutual vow he holds my heart, 
 
 So faithful and so true, 
 No power on earth our loves can part, 
 
 No fortune make me rue." — 
 
 " O lady sweet, yet condescend, — 
 
 I beg it on my knee — 
 That you for once admit my friend, 
 
 Then seal your own decree. 
 
 " Your constancy I much admire, 
 
 So must Sir William too, 
 His visit may appease thy sire, 
 
 And service prove to you." — 
 
 Fair Anna paused and heaved a sigh, 
 Then bow'd a meek consent. 
 
 The stranger thank'd her courteously, 
 And fast from Greenwood went. 
 
40 THE HEIR OF 
 
 The squire still watching Anna's eye, 
 
 Six anxious days had passM, 
 When from the tower he chanced to spy 
 
 The stranger come at last. 
 
 Who now return'd, and by his side, 
 
 A youth of lordly mien ; 
 They both on stately coursers ride, 
 
 Their pages dressM in green. 
 
 Their steeds were harness'd rich in gold, 
 
 So splendid their attire, 
 That all with wondVing eyes behold, 
 
 Nor least surprized the squire. 
 
 Straight to the hall their course they bend, 
 
 Where lovely Anna stood,— 
 " Here, Lady, I have brought my friend, 
 
 And hold my promise good. 
 
 " O kindly listen to his suit, 
 
 And let him comfort prove ; 
 He seems so thoughtful and so mute, 
 
 I fear he 's sick of love. 
 
 " For I have warn'd him of the fate, 
 Which may his hopes destroy, 
 
 That you, to all his wealth and state. 
 Prefer a shepherd boy."-— 
 
STRATH-GARTNEY. 41 
 
 From Annans cheek the roses flew. 
 
 She stood like lily-flower, 
 Bent with the weight of morning dew, 
 
 Or eve's refreshing shower. 
 
 Till William clasp'd her in his arms 
 
 And said, " O love him still, 
 Sir William doating on thy charms, 
 
 Is just thy shepherd Will." 
 
 No. V. 
 
 " O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns ! 
 Needful austerities his will restrain ; 
 As thorns fence in the tender plant from harm. 
 As yet, his reason cannot go alone ; 
 But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on. 
 His little heart is often terrified ; 
 The blush of morning, in his cheek, turns pale ; 
 lis pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye; 
 His harmless eye ! and drowns an angel there." 
 
 Young's Complaint, Night VIII. v. 249 — 257. 
 
 THE pernicious effects of too much indulgence to 
 children are, in general, obvious to all but the over- 
 fond parent. The neglect of a little salutary discipline, 
 during the period of youth, proves indeed, very fre- 
 
42 EVALINE. NO. * 
 
 quently tlie bane of happiness throughout every after- 
 stage of life. It is, however, an evil which proceeds 
 not from corrupt dispositions, but is rather what might 
 almost be called an amiable weakness. Yet it ought to 
 be carefully guarded against, even for the sake of the 
 objects so dearly beloved. 
 
 We seldom fail to find a child losing the regard of 
 every one else, just in proportion as he receives im- 
 proper indulgence from his parents. He, of course, 
 becomes untoward, haughty, and petulant ; and is in 
 danger of growing up, like Esau, with a hand raised 
 against every one, and every one's hand upraised against 
 him. Accustomed to the gratification of all his desires, 
 he can ill brook control or disappointment, and is apt 
 to become impetuous upon every occassion of restraint 
 and provocation, either real or imaginary. 
 
 The lasting influence of these intemperate early 
 habits too often mars the happiness of social connexions. 
 From them proceed the turbulent and overbearing hus- 
 band, and the self-willed, undutiful wife. It is, there- 
 fore, the duty of the guardians of youth, as they love 
 them and prize their future prosperity, to guard a- 
 gainst this fatal error. They ought, also, to watch over, 
 and study, the different dispositions of their minds, 
 and to endeavour, accordingly, to arrange their mode 
 of individual treatment. — 
 
 Evaline was the only daughter of respectable par- 
 ents. Engagements in an extensive business kept her 
 father much from home, and her mother was of a 
 weakly and delicate^constitution. Evaline was their all, 
 
and their affection for her knew no bounds. She 
 was, therefore, brought up with every indulgence which 
 this excess of fondness could draw forth. She early con- 
 tracted an intimate friendship with Agnes, the daugh- 
 ter of a widow lady who had been left with a numerous 
 family, and lived in the immediate neighbourhood. 
 Agnes was educated with ideas very different from those 
 of her young friend, having been, of necessity and from 
 principle, taught the profitable lesson of industry and 
 frugal economy, and to consider health and intellectual 
 powers as given for higher purposes than the amuse- 
 ment of the possessor. The mispending of time and 
 the misapplication of these precious endowments, was 
 impressed upon her mind as being a source of never- 
 failing unhappiness and calamity to the infatuated a- 
 busers of such inestimable blessings. As she had learn- 
 ed, from experience, that useful employment constitutes 
 pleasure and is pregnant with advantage, it prevented 
 time from appearing tedious; and ennui was only known 
 to her by name. 
 
 The two friends were nearly of an age, and hap- 
 pened to be married much about the same time. Agnes 
 was united to a deserving man, whose dispositions 
 exactly coincided with her own. They had not wealth, 
 but enjoyed a competency, and were contented and 
 happy. E valine became the wife of a worthy man, 
 possessed of an ample fortune. Ke was enamoured of 
 her beauty, which, in a great measure, blinded him 
 to her foibles, although these were but too obvious to 
 others. Her conduct after marriage, however, proved 
 
 f 2 
 
44 EVALINE. NO. 
 
 so glaring, that his eyes, though reluctantly, were at 
 last opened. Dress, equipage, and visiting, engrossed all 
 her thoughts and attention. Her disappointed husband 
 fondly cherished the expectation, that time and reflec- 
 tion might bring round a reform ; but in this he found 
 himself greatly mistaken. In due time she brought 
 him a son. He now hoped that the career of folly 
 would be at an end, and flattered himself that her at- 
 tention would naturally be turned to an object so inter- 
 esting. But no change in the lady's conduct took place. 
 She soon informed him that a nurse must be provid- 
 ed for the child, because she would undergo neither 
 the fatigue nor the confinement which the discharge of 
 that duty required. He ventured to expostulate, but was 
 upbraided with an unfeeling disregard of her happiness. 
 She next became the parent of a lovely daughter, 
 without being diverted from her injurious propensities 
 by a concern for her tender charge. Matters were 
 daily growing worse; and, although she saw her husband 
 unhappy, she did not wish to consider herself the 
 cause. As she could not endure the want of company, 
 she became less select in her choice and more extrava- 
 gant in her follies, until the tongue of censure, at length, 
 began to exaggerate them into enormous crimes. Her 
 husband could no longer remain silent ; and, as she did 
 not choose to be admonished, a very unpleasant alterca- 
 tion took place. In the course of this, she branded 
 him with want of affection, and questioned his ever 
 having entertained for her the regard which he profess-, 
 ed. She supposed his motives from the beginning were 
 
V. E VALINE. 45 
 
 mercenary ; and that now, having obtained her fortune, 
 lie began to discover his dislike of her person. She 
 had, however, been always accustomed to gratify and 
 follow her own inclinations, and had never, even when 
 a child, met with either check or remonstrance from 
 those who had a much better title to apply them, 
 had they thought such interference necessary. She 
 concluded with adding, that he might spare himself 
 the pain and trouble of expressing them, as she was 
 not disposed either to listen to his dictates, or attend 
 to his admonitions. To the last part of her speech he 
 made no reply, but throughout the remainder of the 
 day appeared thoughtful and reserved ; and, when he 
 addressed her, it was with a studied civility which she 
 could not help feeling. Next morning he ordered his 
 horse ; and, having put a paper into her hand and told 
 her that he would not return until the following day, he 
 mounted, and rode off. She hastily broke the seal and 
 read the following 
 
 LETTER. 
 
 My Dear Evaline, for such you still are in de- 
 spite of your errors and my sufferings, I do not yet 
 consider you wicked, although I much fear you are on 
 the highway to ruin and infamy. As I, therefore, feel 
 myself unequal to the task of combating the evil effects 
 of your early habits, I have now resolved to restore you 
 to the charge of those under whose auspices they were 
 formed. I shall give you these three reasons by which 
 
46 EVALINE. NO. 
 
 I have been influenced in forming this resolution. The 
 first is, that your ruin may not be accomplished while 
 under my protection ; the second, a dread of the evil 
 consequences your giddy example may have upon our 
 little ones ; and the third, a desire of mutual peace. — 
 Alas ! how soon have my high-formed hopes of conju- 
 gal felicity passed away like a morning cloud, and left 
 me forlorn and wretched ! My house is become a scene 
 of riot, and the beloved of my bosom cannot spare an 
 hour's attention to a fond husband and his helpless chil- 
 dren. 
 
 I shall, however, satisfy you that my motives in 
 forming the connexion have been every thing but mer- 
 cenary. You shall carry back the full sum I received 
 as your dowry ; and, as you set a much higher value 
 upon it than I do, to this shall be added another not 
 unworthy of your acceptance. Although your improv- 
 idence and profusion might soon have put it out of my 
 power, I have still enough for my own wants, and 
 wherewith to educate niy children in the way I ap- 
 prove. With these wrecks of my blasted prospects, I 
 shall retire to some peaceful seclusion ; where, by de- 
 voting my whole attention to the formation of their 
 youthful minds, I will endeavour to guard them against 
 those habits, by the effects of which I am now over- 
 whelmed with distress. The plan of your departure I 
 expect will be arranged before my return ; and may 
 you ever be happier than is your sorrowful but affec- 
 tionate 
 
 Husband, 
 
V. EVALINE. 47 
 
 E valine was thunder-struck. She had no idea of 
 matters being brought to such a crisis. While she 
 could not repress a sensation of conscious shame, she, 
 at the same time, knew not how to act, as it would be 
 so humiliating to make the matter known to any of her 
 fashionable acquaintance. She now thought of Agnes, 
 who, since her marriage, had been by her forgotten and 
 neglected. She instantly set out to call upon her early 
 friend, and found her busily engaged in the manage- 
 ment of her family, with a lovely child in her arms and 
 another standing at her knee. Agnes received her 
 with unaffected kindness ; and, after repeated efforts, 
 learned from her the object of her visit, and was per- 
 mitted to read the letter. This being done, she re- 
 mained silent until her friend, having urged her to speak 
 her mind freely, begged her counsel and advice. " My 
 dear Evaline," said Agnes hesitatingly, " then I must 
 say, I think you are to be blamed — very much to be 
 blamed. 1 " — " Well then," replied E valine, in faultering 
 accents, " allowing that to be the case, what would 
 you advise me to do ?" — " Just," answered Agnes, " the 
 only thing you now can do to re-establish yourself in 
 the regard of your husband and in the esteem of the 
 world, and to secure your own happiness and honour. 
 You ought to receive your husband on his return, with 
 every mark of penitence and submission. You ought 
 to make a thousand concessions, though he do not re- 
 quire them. But you must first resolve firmly with- 
 in yourself, that your future life shall be devote _t to 
 make atonement to him for the errors of the past."— 
 " But do you think," replied Evaline, with the tears- 
 
48 EVALINE. NO. 
 
 streaming from her eyes, « that he can receive me with 
 forgiveness, or love me as formerly ?" — " Yes," said 
 Agnes, " I think he will. His affection seems to be 
 still within your reach ; but one step farther might put 
 it for ever out of your power. Do but read that letter 
 dispassionately, and see what an affectionate husband 
 you have rendered unhappy." — 
 
 Evaline was silent, and appeared much humbled. 
 She took an affectionate leave of Agnes ; and, return- 
 ing home, secluded herself to ponder over the past, and 
 to prepare her mind for future conduct. Upon a se- 
 rious retrospection, she felt extremely dissatisfied. The 
 longer she considered her own imprudences, an in- 
 creasing respect for her husband gradually arose in her 
 mind, and she now anxiously longed for an opportun- 
 ity of making those concessions, to which she at first 
 felt so much reluctance. Her husband returned, and, 
 before the repentant Evaline had completed an acknow- 
 ledgment of her errors, she was inclosed in an embrace of 
 forgiveness and love. She has now become as remarkable 
 for conjugal affection, maternal solicitude, and every 
 social virtue, as she had formerly been for levity and ex- 
 travagance. Agnes is her confident and counsellor. She 
 is a tender mother, and a dutiful wife. " Her husband 
 is known in the gates, her children arise up and call 
 her blessed ; her husband, also, and he praiseth her.'" 
 —And, in the words of the elegant Thomson, 
 " They flourish now in mutual bliss, and rear 
 A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves, 
 And good, the grace of all the country round." 
 
 M. 
 
49 
 
 No. VI. 
 
 
 " if the fav' ring gods 
 Direct this arm, if their high will permit 
 I pour a prosperous vengeance on the foe, 
 I ask for life no longer, than to crown 
 The valiant task. Steel then, ye powers of heaven, 
 Steel my firm soul with your own fortitude, 
 Free from alloy of passion. Give me courage, 
 That knows not rage ; revenge, that knows not malice : 
 Let me not thirst for carnage but for conquest : 
 And conquest gaind, sleep vengeance in my breast, 
 Ere iii its sheath my sword." 
 
 Mason's CaractacuSj Arviragus loq. 
 
 THE great and the good alone merit everlasting 
 renown. Events may combine, however, to throw a 
 lustre over names which would otherwise have remain- 
 ed unremembered and unknown. To this Fortuitous 
 circumstance is to be ascribed the celebrity which ac- 
 companies the character of Hamlet, prince of Denmark. 
 An occurrence of his life has been seized by the match- 
 less Shakespear ; and, upon that, his magic pen has 
 raised a structure which might have immortalized a 
 less exalted theme. Without this, the illustrious aven- 
 ger might still have remained a popular hero in the 
 traditionary tales of Scandinavia ; and his actions, ob- 
 scured by splendid fables, have slumbered for ages in 
 
50 HAMLET. NO. 
 
 the secluded pages of Saxo *, the sprightly historian of 
 the achievements of the Northmen. 
 
 The character of Hamlet, when stripped of the 
 fairy robe of the bardic loom, and divested of the less 
 airy mantle wherein it has been enshrouded by the fa- 
 bler's hand, possesses much interest and displays a fine 
 combination of wisdom, magnanimity, and virtue, that 
 ensures admiration and commands esteem. In this view, 
 a biographical sketch of the generous Dane may be ac- 
 ceptable to such as are unacquainted with the scenes of 
 his checkered and eventful life. 
 
 Hamlet, or according to Saxo, Amleth, was the 
 son of Horwendil governor of Jutland, and Gertrude 
 daughter of Ruric, who reigned over Denmark, in an 
 age long antecedent to the introduction of Christian- 
 ity into that country. Horwendil, having succeeded 
 his royal father-in-law, fell by the ambitious hands 
 of his brother Fengo, who married the queen and 
 ascended the polluted throne. The prince, to avoid 
 
 * Saxo, from his extensive erudition, surnamed Grammaticus, 
 was born of an illustrious Danish family, about the middle of the 
 twelfth century. He was provost of the cathedral church of Roskild, 
 and warmly patronized by the learned and warlike Absalon, the cele- 
 brated archbishop of Lunden, at whose instigation he wrote the His- 
 tory of Denmark. This work, consisting of sixteen books, begins 
 from the earliest accounts of the Danish Annals, and concludes with 
 the year 1156. It is written in Latin; and, considering the barbarous 
 age in which he lived, is in general extremely elegant, but rather too 
 poetical for history. It was printed at Soroe, in 1644, by Stephens, 
 in two volumes, folio, the last of which is occupied by annotations of 
 the editor. Saxo died sometime between the years 1156 and 1160. 
 See Stephens' Prolegomena to the Notes on Saxo, p. 8 — 24 ; Holberg, vol. 
 I. p. 269; and Mallet's North. Antiq. Vol, I. p. 4. 
 
the fatal consequences of the usurper's jealousy, affec- 
 ted imbecility, and counterfeited the most extravagant 
 exhibitions of folly. He is, however, represented as 
 entertaining a strong abhorrence of falsehood ; and, 
 while constantly framing the most absurd and evasive 
 answers, he artfully contrived never to deviate from 
 the truth. The parricide, notwithstanding, suspected 
 the reality of his madness, and endeavoured by various 
 methods to discover the real state of his mind. With 
 this view, he ordered his companions to leave him in a 
 retired spot, where a young woman had been placed in 
 his way, with a design to extort from him a confession 
 that his folly was affected. Hamlet would have fallen 
 into the snare, if a friend had not secretly given him 
 intelligence, of this treachery. Having carried the wo- 
 man to a more secret place, he acknowledged to her the 
 deception, and required her promise not to betray him. 
 To this she readily assented, and faithfully observed the 
 obligation. His answers to the questions put to him upon 
 his return, while they consisted of the most artful sub- 
 terfuges, seemed evidently to mark a disordered under- 
 standing. Upon another occasion, Fengo, concluding 
 that Hamlet would not conceal his sentiments from 
 his mother, concerted a meeting between him and the 
 queen. Having ordered one of his minions to conceal 
 himself, and, unknown to both, listen to their con- 
 versation, he departed from Elsinore, at that time the 
 Danish capital. The courtier, at the proper time, re- 
 paired to the queen's apartment, and hid himself under 
 a heap of straw which, in the earlier ages, was spread 
 
52 HAMLET. NO. 
 
 over the floors of the great, as an article of refined lux- 
 ury. Upon entering the cabinet, Hamlet, suspecting 
 the presence of some spy, began, after his usual affec- 
 tation of folly, to imitate the crowing of a cock, and 
 to shake his arms like wings. While jumping about in 
 this ridiculous manner he discovered the traitor under 
 the straw ; and, having instantly dispatched him, threw 
 out his body to the hogs. 
 
 The prince now avowed to the queen that he only 
 personated a fool, and then entered into a spirited ex- 
 postulation against her unnatural and flagitious conduct 
 and connexion. Interrupting his mother, who had be- 
 gun to bewail the folly of her son, " Why,"" he says, 
 " do you endeavour to conceal an atrocious crime, by 
 an insincere condolence of my insanity; deplore, rather, 
 your own errors and infamy, and be concerned to la- 
 ment the depravity of your own mind. — On what has 
 now past, be silent." — The queen remained mute, but 
 was recalled to virtue by his stern admonitions. 
 
 Fengo, after his return to Elsinore, sent Hamlet 
 into England under the care of two officers, and re- 
 quested the king by a letter to destroy him. The prince 
 discovered and altered the perfidious epistle, and the 
 two false attendants were, immediately on their arrival, 
 put to death by the English king. Hamlet, while in 
 England, gave many astonishing proofs of a most trans- 
 cendent understanding, and received a promise of ob- 
 taining the princess in marriage from her father. At 
 the end of the year, he returned to Denmark, and as 
 a report of his death had been spread and preparations 
 
VI. HAMLET. 53 
 
 were making for his funeral, the court was greatly a- 
 laraied by his unexpected appearance. Some time 
 afterwards, he invited the principal nobles to an enter- 
 tainment, and having made them intoxicated, slew 
 the whole and burnt the palace to the ground. Dur- 
 ing this transaction, he repaired to Fengo's apartment, 
 and upbraided him with the murder of his father, whose 
 death he now came to avenge. The guilty usurper in- 
 stantly started up and seized a sword, but soon fell by 
 the vengeful hand of the injured prince. 
 
 When the populace had assembled, on the next 
 morning, to view the ruins of the palace, Hamlet 
 summoned the remaining nobles, and in a long, ener- 
 getic address, explained the motives of his conduct, and 
 proved his uncle to have been the assassin of his father. 
 He concluded in the following emphatic words; " Tread 
 upon the ashes of the monster, who, polluting jlhe wife 
 of his murdered brother, joined incest to parricide ; 
 and ruled over you with a most oppressive tyranny. 
 Heceive me as the minister of a just revenge— as one 
 who felt for the sufferings of his father, and of his 
 people. . Regard me as the person who has purged the 
 disgrace of his country, extinguished the infamy of 
 his mother, and freed you from the despotism of a wretch 
 whose crimes, if he had lived, would have daily in- 
 creased and terminated in your destruction. Acknow- 
 ledge my services ; and, if I have merited it, present 
 me with the crown. Behold in me these advantages — 
 no degenerate person — no parricide, but the rightful 
 successor to the throne, and the pious avenger of £ 
 
54 HAMLET. NO, 
 
 father's murder. I have rescued you from slavery — 
 restored you to liberty— re-established your glory. I 
 have destroyed a tyrant, and triumphed over an assas- 
 sin. My recompense is in your hands. You can es- 
 timate the value of my services ; and, in your virtue, 
 I rest my hopes of reward." — This speech had the de- 
 sired effect. The assembly melted into tears of joy ; 
 and, with applausive acclamations, unanimously pro- 
 claimed him king. 
 
 Soon after his elevation, Hamlet sailed into Eng- 
 land, and ordered a shield to be made on which were 
 represented the principal actions of his life. The king 
 received him with feigned demonstrations of joy ; and, 
 having falsely assured him that his daughter was dead, 
 recommended him to repair to Scotland, and make his 
 adresses to Hermetruda the dowager-queen, who was 
 remarkable for her cruelty and chastity, and had such 
 an aversion to marriage, that not one of her suiters had 
 ever escaped falling a sacrifice to her vengeance. This 
 insidious advice was given that he might fall in the at- 
 tempt. In spite of every difficulty, however, and by 
 the assistance of his shield, which inspired the lady 
 with a favourable opinion of his wisdom and valour, he 
 obtained her in marriage, and returned with his bride 
 into England. Being informed by the English princess 
 to whom he had formerly been betrothed, that her 
 father meditated his assassination, he avoided his fate 
 by wearing armour under his robe ; and, having slain 
 the king in battle, sailed into Denmark, where he soon 
 after fell in combat by the hand of Vigleth, the son of 
 
VL HAMLET. 55 
 
 Ruric, who had seized the government in his absence.-— 
 Hamlet, adds the historian Saxo, was a prince, who, 
 if his fortune had been equal to his deserts would have 
 rivaled the Gods in splendor, and in his actions would 
 have exceeded the labours of Hercules. Vide Saxonis 
 Grammatici Historic Danicce, Libri XVI. Cur a Steph. 
 JoJi. Stephanii i Sores 1644, Tom. I. p. 49—59. 
 
 Adjoining to a royal palace, which stands about 
 half a mile from Cronberg in Elsinore, is a garden, 
 named Hamlet's Garden, and said, by tradition, to be 
 the very spot where the murder of his father was per- 
 petrated. The house is of modern date, and situated 
 at the foot of a sandy ridge near the sea ; the garden 
 occupies the side of the hill, and is laid out in terraces 
 rising one above another. See Coxe's Travels in Poland, 
 Russia, Sweden, and Denmark, Vol. V. p. 89. 
 
 Many curious observations might be made upon 
 the ingenuity and creative imagination of the immortal 
 Shakespear, in a review of the foregoing sketch. The 
 young woman who was placed to betray the prince, must 
 have been the original of Ophelia, and the faithful friend, 
 would suggest the good Horatio. The traitor among 
 the straw is discovered in Polonius, and the poet's beau- 
 tiful closet-scene, is rivaled only by the equally fine 
 description of the historian. The ghost of old Hamlet 
 is the offspring of the bard's magic powers. Shakes- 
 pear seems to have taken the hint of his splendid tra- 
 gedy from a translation of Belleforest, a French author's 
 History of Hamlet, a work altered from Sazo, and 
 embellished by fancy. 
 
 Y. 
 
56 THE SIMOOM. 
 
 No. VII. 
 
 " Sylphs ! your bold myriads on the withering heath 
 
 Stay the fell Syroc's suffocative breath ; 
 
 Arrest Simoom in his realms of sand, 
 
 The poison' d javelin balanced in his hand ; — 
 
 Fierce on blue streams he rides the tainted air, 
 
 Points his keen eye, and waves his whistling hair ; 
 
 While as he turns, the undulating soil 
 
 Rolls in red waves, and billowy desarts boil." 
 
 Darwin's Botanic Garden, P. I. C. IV. v. 63 — 70, 
 
 WIND, which is a sensible stream of air, is as var- 
 ious in its qualities and effects as any other of the phe- 
 nomena of nature. According to the gradual increase 
 of its force, it has been distinguished by different epi- 
 thets. These are, a breeze, a gale, a gust, a storm, a 
 tempest, a whirlwind, and a tornado or hurricane. 
 The breeze proceeds with a pleasant glide, and is mo- 
 derate and gentle in its course : the gale is a breeze of 
 increased velocity and power. By a gust is meant a 
 blast of moving air of sudden and violent action : the 
 storm displays a vehement airy commotion^ forceful 
 and boisterous ; and the tempest exceeds the storm by 
 an augmented assemblage of impetuosity and destruction. 
 The whirlwind sweeps with the tempest's force, and 
 rages with a peculiar strength in its irresistible eddies. 
 The hurricane includes the storm, the tempest, and 
 
THE SIMOOM. 
 
 the whirlwind, accompanied by every attribute of ter- 
 ror and devastation, which aerial perturbation is ca- 
 pable of producing. 
 
 Such distinctive appellations, however, have only 
 been applied to discriminate the various gradations of 
 power exhibited by the profluent air *. There are 
 others, of which the intention is, to denominate the 
 range and action of particular winds,- but more fre- 
 quently to point out their pestilential and baneful in- 
 fluence. As those of a hurtful description are less 
 known and familiar to the inhabitants of this genial 
 region, the present inquiry will be directed towards 
 giving, in brief sketches, an account of the causes, 
 phenomena, and effects of those singular and dread- 
 ful exhibitions of Nature. 
 
 The noxious winds are chiefly confined to the ster- 
 ile climes of the East, and have been described by 
 travelers under various names. The Simoom is a 
 hot-wind which, periodically, blows in the desarts of 
 Africa, and other extensive arid regions. It proceeds 
 in a track of about twenty yards in breadth, and its 
 elevation seldom exceeds twelve feet. A terrific red- 
 ness of the air precedes its approach, which may be 
 
 * Air — Common atmospherical air is a compound fluid complete- 
 ly inclosing the terraqueous globe. Its physical properties, are iuvisi- 
 bility, fluidity, want of taste and smell, gravity, and elasticity; its 
 chemical, the power of promoting combustion, and of maintaining 
 the life of animals that respire it. One hundred parts of it are com- 
 posed of 22. 57 of oxygen or the gas that supports vitality, and 77. 43 
 of azote, nitrogen, or that gas which suppresses combustion and ex- 
 tinguishes life. 
 
58 THE SIMOOM. NO. 
 
 occasioned by the eruption of flame from a distant vol- 
 cano, in these vast and impenetrable wastes of sand. 
 It appears to be a stream of electricity attended with 
 noxious air, and conducted across the parched wilds 
 by the attraction of some humid rocks, and always 
 leaving behind it a sulphurous and suffocating sensation. 
 Its effects on vegetative and animal life are instant and 
 dreadful. By the preluding appearances of the sky, 
 however, those who are accustomed to traverse these 
 dreary solitudes, can readily distinguish its fatal ad- 
 vance ; when the only hope of escape is in falling down 
 with the face flat upon the ground, and continuing as 
 long as possible without drawing in the breath. Should 
 the affrighted wanderer inhale the noxious vapour in 
 a considerable quantity, instantaneous suffocation en- 
 sues ; and the least inspiration of it contaminates the 
 lungs, and leaves the sufferer oppressed with asthma, 
 and saddened by dejection and melancholy. 
 
 Bruce of Kinnaird, the celebrated traveler, who 
 experienced the pernicious effects of the Simoom, in 
 his journey through the Desart, gives of it the follow- 
 ing picturesque description. " At eleven o'clock, while 
 we contemplated with great pleasure the rugged top of 
 Chiggre, to which we were fast approaching, and where 
 we were to solace ourselves with plenty of good water, 
 Idris our guide cried out with a loud voice, ' Fall up- 
 on your faces, for here is the Simoom V I saw from 
 the south-east a haze come, in colour like the purple 
 part of the rainbow, but not so compresssed or thick. 
 It did not occupy twenty yards in breadth ; and was 
 
VII. THE KAMSIN. 59 
 
 about twelve feet high from the ground. It was a kind 
 of blush upon the air, and it moved very rapidly ; for 
 I scarce could turn to fall upon the ground with my 
 head to the northward, when I plainly felt the heat of 
 its current upon my face. We all lay flat upon the 
 ground as if dead, till Idris told us that it was blown 
 over. The meteor, or purple haze which I saw was 
 indeed passed, but the light air that still blew was of 
 a heat to threaten suffocation. For my part I found 
 distinctly in my breast, that I had imbibed a part of 
 It, nor was I free of an asthmatic sensation till I had 
 been some months in Italy, at the Baths of Poretta, 
 nearly two years afterwards *." Such" is the terrible 
 influence of the Simoom ; and, although the severity 
 of the blast seem to have passed over them instanta- 
 neously, yet it continued to blow so as to exhaust the 
 solitary travelers, till twenty minutes before five 
 o'clock in the afternoon. Its duration, therefore, 
 through all its stages, continued nearly six hours, and 
 left them in a state of the utmost lassitude and des- 
 pondency. 
 
 The Kamsin, or hot-wind of the desart, is a taint- 
 ed stream of air, probably, of the same volcanic origin, 
 It is common in Egypt, where observation has discov- 
 ered that it prevails most frequently in the fifty days 
 preceding, and subsequent to, the equinox. Hence it 
 has been distinguished by the general name of the 
 Wind of Fifty Days. Travelers, particulary Volney, 
 
 * Bruce's Travels in Abyssinia, Edinburgh Edition, 1304, Svo. 
 Vol. VI. p, 462. 
 
 H 
 
 g 
 
60 THE KAMSIN. NO, 
 
 have described it, as being singularly inimical to vege- 
 tation and animal life. The heat of the Kamsin is so 
 excessive and intolerable, that it has been compared to 
 that of an oven at the moment of drawing out the bread. 
 When it begins to blow, the atmosphere assumes an 
 alarming and tremendous aspect. The sky, at other 
 times so clear in that sunny region, becomes dark, 
 lowering, and oppressive ; the sun loses its splendour, 
 and becomes of a violet colour ; and the air, although 
 cloudless, is thick and gray, and loaded with an ex- 
 tremely subtile and insinuating dust. This wind, al- 
 ways light and rapid,' is not at first remarkably hot, 
 but gradually becomes so while it continues. All an- 
 imated bodies soon discover it by the changes it pro- 
 duces in them ; and the lungs, which a too rarified air 
 no longer expands, contract, and experience much un- 
 easiness and pain. Respiration is frequent and difficult ; 
 the skin, parched and dry, and the body consumed by 
 an internal heat. In vain is recourse had to large 
 draughts of water ; nothing can restore respiration. 
 In vain is coolness sought for ; all bodies in which it 
 is usual to find it, deceive the hand that touches them. 
 Marble, iron, water, notwithstanding the sun no long- 
 er appears, are hot and painfully ardent. 
 
 When the Kamsin blows, the inhabitants of the 
 towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses ; 
 the streets are then deserted, and there reigns every- 
 where a dreary gloom and the dead silence of night. 
 The inhabitants of the desarts retire to their tents, and 
 to pits dug in the earth, where they remain till the 
 
Vir. THE KAMSIN. 61 
 
 termination of the destructive heat. Sad is the fate 
 of the lonely traveler whom the Kamsin surprises re- 
 mote from shelter: he must suffer all its horrible effects, 
 and these sometimes are mortal. The danger is most 
 imminent when it blows in sudden gusts, the rapidity 
 of the wind then increasing the heat to such a degree 
 as to cause speedy death, which is a real suffocation. 
 The lungs, being empty, become convulsed ; the cir- 
 culation is destroyed, and the blood driven, in a full 
 current, towards the head and breast, produces a he- 
 morrhagy at the nose and mouth after death. 
 
 The Kamsin is most fatal to those of a full habit, 
 and to such as have the tone of their muscles destroyed 
 by fatigue. To avoid its deadly consequences, it is 
 found to be useful to stop up the nose and mouth with 
 cloth ; but the most successful preventative is that prac- 
 tised by the camels when out in the desart during the 
 existence of this wind. These sagacious animals burv 
 their noses in the sand, and there retain them till the 
 blast be passed. He is wise who imitates their example. 
 
 When death ensues in consequence of inhaling this 
 unwholesome vapour, the corpse remains a long time 
 warm, swells, turns livid, and soon becomes putrid. 
 Plants and shrubs, also, by its extreme aridity, are with- 
 ered and stripped of their leaves and foilage, while wa- 
 ter sprinkled upon a floor, or on the ground, in a few 
 minutes evaporates. The emanations from animal bo, 
 dies, that have died in consequence of it, when inhaled, 
 crisp the skin, close the pores, and excite that feverish 
 heat which is the constant effect of suppressed perspir- 
 
62 THE HARMATTAX. NO. 
 
 ation. Such are the mortal effects of the Kamsin, the 
 scourge of the Lybian desarts *. 
 
 The Harmattan is a remarkable periodical wind 
 which blows from the interior of Africa towards the 
 Atlantic Ocean. From the subsidence of a white pow- 
 der its origin has been ascribed to volcanic eruptions 
 from some remote inland mountains. It comes on, 
 indiscriminately, at any hour of the day, at any time of 
 the tide, or at any period of the moon. It sometimes 
 continues only during one day, generally five or six ; 
 but has been known to last sixteen, and usually returns 
 three or four times every season. It blows with a mo- 
 derate force, and is always attended by a fog or haze, 
 so dense as to render not very distant objects invisible. 
 The sun appears through the gloom only at noon, and 
 then is of a pale red, exciting no painful sensation in 
 the eye. At the same time, a copious subsidence of 
 minute particles from the misty air, makes the grass 
 and skins of the negroes assume a white appearance. 
 
 The Harmattan is accompanied by an extreme dry- 
 ness, which injures or destroys vegetables of every 
 kind. The grass withers, and becomes like hay ; and 
 the most vigorous evergreens feel its pernicious influ- 
 ence. The branches of the lemon, orange, and lime 
 trees droop, their leaves becomes flaccid, decay, and 
 are scorched so as to be easily reduced to powder. Its 
 parching effects are likewise evident on the external 
 parts of the human body. The eyes, nose, lips, and 
 
 * See Volney's Travels in Syria and Egypt, Vol. I. Chap. 4. 
 
yri. THE HARMATTAN. 63 
 
 palate, are rendered dry and uneasy ; and drink is 
 frequently required, not so much to satisfy thirst as 
 to remove a painful aridity at the root of the tongue. 
 The nose and lips become sore and even chapped; and, 
 though the air be cool, yet there is a troublesome sen- 
 sation of a prickling heat on the skin. If the wind 
 continue a few days, the cuticle peels off, first from 
 the hands and face, and afterwards from the whole 
 body. 
 
 By Mr Norris *, a gentleman who had frequent 
 opportunities of observing its singular properties and 
 effects, the Harmattan is said to be salubrious and 
 highly conducive to health. Those labouring under 
 fluxes, fevers, and similar diseases, or weakened by 
 evacuations for the cure of them, often recover during 
 its prevalence, when the progress of epidemics and infec- 
 tion is generally intercepted. It also heals ulcers and 
 cutaneous eruptions, which is probably effected by its 
 yielding no moisture to the mouths of the external ab- 
 sorbing vessels, by which the action of the other 
 branches of the absorbent system is increased to supply 
 the deficiency. 
 
 After much preceding wet weather, however, and 
 when its track is over an extensive region containing 
 much fenny land, the Harmattan becomes loaded with 
 corrupt and infectious exhalations from putrid marsh- 
 
 * See his paper upon the subject, in The Philosophical Transac- 
 tions, Vol. LXXI. Article, An Account of the Ha-r-mattar.. 
 
64 THE SAMIEL. NO. 
 
 es, and then it is malignant and fatal to the health 
 of mankind. 
 
 The Samiel * is another extraordinary hot-wind of 
 powerful and pernicious action. It is peculiar to the 
 Desart of Arabia, and usually blows from the north- 
 west, during the months of July and August. It is 
 said to continue with all its violence, to the very gates 
 of Bagdat, but never to affect any person within the 
 walls. In some years it does not appear ; in others it 
 blows six, eight, or ten times, seldom continuing more 
 than a few minutes at once, and passing with the ap- 
 parent velocity of lightning. Its approach is preceded 
 by a thick haze, which appears like a cloud of dust 
 rising out of the north-western horizon, while the rest 
 of the air is clear and divested of clouds. The Arabian 
 and Persian travelers, immediately upon observing 
 this prelusive appearance, throw themselves with their 
 faces to the ground, and continue in that position till 
 the wind has passed, when it leaves behind it a strong 
 sulphureous smell. Its career is so rapid, that if they 
 be not careful to take this precaution, and thus receive 
 the complete action of the destructive air, the conse- 
 quence is instant death. 
 
 When the Samiel has blown over, the most alert 
 of the w r anderers of the desart get up, and look around 
 them for their companions. If they see any lying mo- 
 
 * See Ives' Voyage from England to India, in 1754; Dr Lind's 
 Essay on the Diseases incidental to Europeans in Hot Climates, Part 
 II. Chap. I. page 135-6 ; and Analytical Review for February, 1790. 
 
VII. THE SIROCCO. 65 
 
 tionless, they take hold of a limb and forcibly jerk it, 
 and if it separate from the body, it is a sure proof that 
 the wind has had its full force. If, on the contrary, 
 it do not come away, it is an equally certain sign that 
 life remains, although by every appearance the person 
 seem to be dead. In that case, they immediately cov- 
 er him with clothes, and administer some warm dilut- 
 ing liquor to cause a perspiration, which is certainly 
 but slowly induced, and counteracts the qualities of 
 the poisonous wind. The Samiel is so well known in 
 the vicinity of Badgat and Bassora, that the very chil- 
 dren speak of it with apprehension and dread. It is, per- 
 haps, the same as that described by M. de Beauchamp 
 under the name of Seravansum, or, Hot-Wind of the 
 Wilderness, which burns the face, impedes respiration, 
 strips the trees of their leaves, advances rapidly in a 
 straight line, and frequently kills people in six hours. 
 The Sirocco * is a periodical hot-wind, blowing 
 from the south-east, during the spring months, in Dal- 
 matia, Italy, and the Island of Sicily. It is probably 
 the remains of the Kamsin or some other of the Af- 
 rican poison-winds, but greatly deprived of its aridity 
 and malignant influence by its passage over inland 
 waters and the intervening sea. The usual period of 
 its continuance, which is without rain, is twenty days, 
 and it generally ceases at sunset. It is prejudicial to 
 vegetation, by parching the buds and destroying the 
 
 * Fords' Travels in Dalrnatia, p. 277 ; and Brydone's Tour in 
 Sicily and Malta, Vol. I. Letter XXIX. p. 104, 190-7. 
 VOL. I. I 
 
6& ON ISAIAH, NO. 
 
 foliage ; but, to its influence are ascribed, a plentiful 
 fishing and a luxuriant harvest on the mountains. It 
 usually sets in with a whirlwind ; and the air is then 
 thick and oppressive, occasioning a violent perspira* 
 tion, an unpleasant languor, and a general depression 
 of spirits. To shun its effects, people shut up them- 
 selves in their houses, and by an incessant sprinkling 
 of water, endeavour to maintain a cool temperature of 
 the air. By observing this precaution, its baneful in- 
 fluence is easily avoided. D. 
 
 No. VIII. 
 
 ' ' Howe, Pagan dreams ! Too oft poetic youth. 
 
 In Grecian robe hath stalk' d on British plains ; 
 With hackney d fiction deck'd the song of truth, 
 
 And pranced with freedoms air in classic chains." 
 
 Gisborne's Poems, Elegy on Mr Mason, p. 141. 
 
 CHRISTIANITY, above every other system of 
 faith, is calculated to promote the interests and happi- 
 ness of man. There is nothing great, or good, or 
 beneficial, or admirable, or sublime, or heavenly, with 
 which it does not make him acquainted. In the Scrip- 
 tures, the sacred depository of its doctrines, are un- 
 folded, to his veneration, the character and goodness 
 of the Incomprehensible Being, by whom the universe 
 was called into existence, and by whose omnipotence 
 
VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 67 
 
 it is upheld in order and beauty. There, also, he dis- 
 covers the origin of things, and the entrance of the 
 human race upon the stage of time. By them he is, 
 likewise, taught the divine original of that immortal 
 spirit which animates his frame, and directs his mind 
 in its researches after knowledge, wisdorit, and bliss. 
 
 The Scriptures abound with maxims, the most 
 wise and appropriate, for the guidance of conduct. 
 They require the discharge of no duty without, at the 
 same time, pointing out the means that forward its 
 performance, and exhibiting to its accomplishment the 
 reward of immortal felicity. They are abundant in 
 examples of dignity and virtue ; — they direct to the 
 paths of true honour, and the unerring way to fame 
 and greatness ; — they detail, with sympathetic feeling, 
 the error of primeval man ; — and they enable his ruin- 
 ed progeny to contemplate, with exultation and confi- 
 dence, that stupendous event which consummated the 
 divine benevolence, and won an everlasting triumph to 
 the Messiah's reign. 
 
 But the Scriptures, while they pledge a blissful re- 
 ward to the wise and virtuous, denounce the most 
 dreadful and irresistible judgments against the profane 
 and impious, — the worthless and the profligate, — a- 
 gainst those who deride virtue, exult in wickedness, 
 and contemn the omnipotent. 
 
 Exclusively of their moral tendency, however, the 
 inspired writings are supremely excellent as authentic 
 records of the achievements of the first nations, as 
 beautiful pictures of manners, and as elegant and sub- 
 
 i 2 
 
6S ON ISAIAH, NO. 
 
 lime specimens of language in all its applications and 
 forms. " 1 have carefully and regularly perused the 
 Holy Scriptures," says an exalted scholar *, " and am 
 of opinion, that they contain, independently of a divine 
 original, more true sublimity, more exquisite beauty, 
 purer morality, more important history, and finer strains 
 of poetry and eloquence, than could be collected, with- 
 in the same compass, from all other books that were 
 ever composed in any age, or in any idiom. 11 — 
 
 Among the other illustrious characters who have 
 written by divine inspiration, Isaiah maintains a con- 
 spicuous place. Being of royal consanguinity, he be- 
 came conversant with men of the highest rank, of the 
 greatest abilities, and of the most polished elocution. 
 His style is, therefore, noble, nervous, sublime, and 
 llorid ; his thoughts profound, and his expressions lof- 
 ty. His book, besides in many other passages of equal 
 grandeur and eloquence, contains, in the thirty-third 
 and thirty-fourth chapters, a most remarkable prophe- 
 cy. This forms an entire, regular, and beautiful Po- 
 em, consisting of two distinct parts. Of these, the 
 first contains a tremendous denunciation of destruction 
 against the enemies of Christianity; and, in consequence 
 of this event, a complete restoration is promised, in 
 the second, to the Church of God. 
 
 The Prophet introduces the subject by a most im- 
 pressive exordium, wherein he invokes universal nature 
 
 * Sir William Jones. — See the Memoirs of his Life, Writings, and 
 Correspondence, by Lord Teignmouth ; London Edition, 1807, 8vo, 
 
 p. 454-5. 
 
VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 69 
 
 to the observation of these great events. He then pro- 
 claims the decree of Jehovah concerning the extirpa- 
 tion of those nations against whom " his wrath is kind- 
 led;" and amplifies this act of destructive vengeance 
 by a very admirable selection of splendid and awful 
 imagery. He first exhibits a truly martial picture of 
 the slaughter and havoc that follow a victory ; and 
 then, taking a bolder flight, grandly illustrates his de- 
 scription with representations drawn from the Mosaic 
 chaos, displaying, as it were, the total subversion of 
 the universe. A different image immediately succeeds : 
 a solemn sacrifice, of numerous victims, is celebrated ; 
 Jehovah himself takes a part in this magnificent scene, 
 and every circumstance is brought directly before the 
 eyes. The haughty, ferocious, and insolent chiefs of 
 Bozra, Idumea, and other nations inimical to God, 
 are denoted by various figures of goats, rams, bulls, 
 and other different animals. A succession of new and 
 picturesque images are borrowed from the overthrow of 
 Sodom to demonstrate the consummation of the same 
 portentous event. This is, also, prefigured by the 
 scenery of a vast and solitary desart, the description of 
 which the prophet afterwards improves, diversifies, and 
 enlarges, by the addition of several important circum- 
 stances of certain analogy and connexion. 
 
 The second part is constructed upon similar prin- 
 ciples, and exhibits a beautiful contrast to the preced- 
 ing scene. The imagery possesses every advantage of 
 ornament and variety ; and, like the other, is of ex- 
 
70 
 
 ON ISAIAH. 
 
 and perspicuous. In the first, the poetical figures are 
 chiefly derived from Sacred History ; in this, they are 
 almost entirely taken from the objects of Nature. The 
 divine glory and majesty are portrayed by the beauty 
 of Lebanon, Carmel, and Sharon ; while, by the wa- 
 tering and cultivation of a barren and rocky soil, are 
 denoted the divine grace and spiritual endowments. 
 The prophecy may, therefore, be regarded as alluding, 
 in many places, to the first coming of the Messiah ; 
 but it is evidently one of those which are not yet com- 
 pletely fulfilled, and of which the greater part, at least, 
 is still deposited in the secret counsels of the Most High*. 
 Of this singularly beautiful and sublime specimen 
 of Hebrew poesy, the following metrical imitation is 
 given in the hope that, to some readers, it may not be 
 unacceptable. 
 
 I. 
 
 Attend ye people ! let the tribes draw near ! 
 Be earth attentive ! all its dwellers, hear ! 
 The universe, and every varied race, 
 Creation's sons, the habitants of space ! 
 
 Lo ! on the nations is Jehovah's ire, 
 Upon their armies burns his fury's fire : 
 They are devoted, ne'er to rise again ; 
 To havoc giv'n, and numbered with the slain. 
 
 * See Bishop Lowth's New Translation of Isaiah, Vol. I. p. 
 .103-7; Vol. II. p. 230-7; and his Lectures on the Sacred Poetry 
 of the Hebrews, Vol. II. p. 70, SO. 
 
YUI. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 71 
 
 The slaughtered ones, innumerous, strew the ground, 
 
 Their mangled corses taint the air around ; 
 
 The copious carnage swells a crimson flood, 
 
 And the high mountains melt in streams of blood , 
 
 As from the vine the sere leaf drops away, 
 Or blighted fig falls from the bending spray, 
 So shall the host celestial be dissolved, 
 The empyrean like a scroll convolved, 
 For bared in heaven is the avenging brand 
 That gleams tremendous in Jehovah's hand, 
 Lo ! it shall burst, in judgment, to the fate 
 Of Edom's race, and people of his hate, 
 
 Abundant deaths Jehovah's falchion sate, 
 It pamper' d is with marrow of the fat, 
 With gore of goats, and blood of slaughter' d lambs, 
 And with the fatness of the reins of rams : 
 For victims bleed in Bozra's destined plain, 
 In Edom's fields are hecatombs of slain. 
 And the wild goats with them shall prostrate fall ; 
 The bullocks, and the bulls together, all : 
 With their own blood be drench'd their native land, 
 And fat shall, there, enrich the dusty strand. 
 For, of the Lord, this is the vengeful day, 
 When Zion's guardian shall her ills repay. 
 
 Her streams to pitch, her dust to sulphur turn; 
 As blazing pitch, shall Idumea burn. 
 
72 ON ISAIAH, Nl 
 
 By night or day its flame shall never die, 
 
 Her volumed smoke shall cloud the swelt'ring sky. 
 
 From age to age the drear deserted clime 
 
 No man shall pass while glides incessant Time. 
 
 The hedge-hog, there, and pelican shall roam, 
 
 The owl and raven find a genial home. 
 
 The line of ruin o'er her, wide, shall pass, 
 
 Her parched plains, the plumb of emptiness. 
 
 Her kingdom's glory lost they shall deplore, 
 
 And all her princes fail for evermore. 
 
 Emblossom'd thorns shall deck her palace' walls, 
 
 The rank weed carpet her embattled halls ; 
 
 And, there, shall dragons join in fell resort, 
 
 The ostrich' daughters find a lonely court. 
 
 The jackal, there, the mountain-cat shall meet, 
 
 And satyr fierce his savage fellow greet ; 
 
 There, shall the screech-owl rear a place of rest, 
 
 The night-bird lay, and brood within her nest, 
 
 With shelt'ring wing o'ershade her young ones, there,, 
 
 And mated vultures in dire groupes repair. 
 
 Consult, and read Jehovah's book of fate, 
 These all are there, no female lacks her mate. 
 Jehovah's mouth hath giv'n the high command, 
 His spirit call'd the congregated band ; 
 Their lot for them, cast hath his hand divine, 
 Their portion meted by the measuring line ; 
 And they the land shall occupy for ay, 
 From race to race, while ages fleet away. 
 
VIII. CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. 
 
 II. 
 
 The waste, the desart shall with gladness beam, 
 The wilderness with gay luxuriance teem : 
 It flourish shall, as blooms a beauteous rose ; 
 The streamy plain be glad where Jordan flows ; 
 Of Lebanon the beauty > shall it fill, 
 Of Carmel's height, and Sharon's rosy hill : 
 These shall Jehovah's matchless grandeur see, 
 Their glory's source, and God's excellency. 
 
 Be stout, ye feeble ; firm, ye tottering throng ; 
 Ye faint of heart, be dauntless, be ye strong : 
 Behold your God ! come will his vengeance due ; 
 He will avenge ; God will deliver you. 
 Then vision bright the sightless eye shall cheer, 
 Be op'd to sound the unattending ear. 
 Leap shall the lame, as skips the mountain roe, 
 And from the dumb, harmonious anthems flow. 
 For gushing streams shall wash the banks of sand. 
 And torrents roll along the desart land. 
 Each glowing clime shall spread its rippling pool, 
 The thirsty soil its fountains bubbling cool : 
 And in the dens where hideous dragons lay, 
 There, shall the grass, the reed, the bulrush play. 
 
 The highway there, shall be a holy way ; 
 No foot impure along the road shall stray : 
 There walking, He shall lead the lone with care ; 
 No silly pilgrim can be wilder'd there. 
 
 VOL, T. E 
 
74< ON ISAIAH, CHAPTERS XXXIV. AND XXXV. NO. 
 
 No lion fierce shall haunt the heavenly path, 
 Nor beast of prey bestain its sides with death ; 
 None shall be there ; but, free from doubt and woe, 
 There, the redeem'd shall walk, secure and slow. 
 Yea, shall return Jehovah's ransomM race, 
 And come, with triumph, to his Holy Place. 
 Perpetual joy shall on their foreheads be, 
 Their gladness great, and pure their ecstacy. 
 No sighing there, nor grief shall cloud the soul, 
 While sweeps the car of Time, and countless ages roll. 
 
 No. IX. 
 
 " Haste ihee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
 
 Jest and youthful Jollity, 
 
 Quijjs, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
 
 Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, 
 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 
 And love to live in dimple sleek ; 
 
 Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
 
 And Laughter holding both his sides." 
 
 Milton's L'Allegro, v. 25 — 32. 
 
 EMOTIONS of delight originate in causes remark- 
 ably different. The contemplation of what is beau- 
 tiful, or useful, or generous, or good, excites very 
 pleasing sensations in the mind. There is also a kind 
 of agreeable feeling, which arises from the observation 
 
OX HUMOUR. 
 
 of what is droll, wild, waggish, or ludicrous. We 
 fondly cherish all those ideas that contribute to the in- 
 citement of mirth, and dwell with congratulation upon 
 the objects which furnish occasion of joy. Our en- 
 deavours, at the same time, are employed with an 
 equal solicitude to withdraw the attention from what- 
 ever tends to lessen or annihilate our pleasurable en- 
 joyments. But there must be the absence of care, of 
 pain, of grief, and there must be a congeniality of 
 feeling, a lively hilarity, and a naturally joyous pro- 
 pensity toward gladsome affections in the heart, before 
 a person be capable of relishing the sensations of gay- 
 ety, gladness, and glee. 
 
 The mirthful part of mankind are, doubtless, very 
 amiable. They diffuse a cheerfulness through society, 
 give a sprightliness to conversation, and furnish inno- 
 cent festivity with a fascinating zest. It requires, 
 however, to render the frolicsome disposition accepta- 
 ble, that its sallies be only attempted at proper seasons, 
 applied to fit objects, and employed on suitable occa- 
 sions. A ludicrous narrative or a ridiculous frolic will 
 sometimes produce the effect of dissipating the gravity 
 of a very demure or serious mind, which, when thus* 
 overcome, not unfrequently yields to a levity of equal 
 excess to its former solemnity. Genuine humour will, 
 indeed, make the benevolent, the compassionate, the 
 philosophic, the sage, regard with insuppressible en- 
 joyment even the distressful embarrassment and con- 
 fusion of those whom they venerate and love. Let us 
 
 k2 
 
76 ON HUMOUR, NO. 
 
 inquire into the nature of humour, and endeavour to 
 trace the influence of its displays upon the mind. 
 
 The term Humour, as expressive of that disposi- 
 tion of mind which inclines a person, by the exhib- 
 ition of grotesque imagery, to excite merriment or 
 jocularity, has been said to be peculiar to our own 
 language. In its original signification, it denominates 
 moisture in general ; and, in a restricted sense, the 
 moisture of animal bodies. As the temper of the mind 
 is supposed to depend upon the state of the corporeal 
 fluids, humour has come to be regarded as similar in im- 
 port with temper and disposition. As it is something, 
 however, which is capricious and whimsical, and may 
 either be agreeable or disagreeable, it is more proper- 
 ly to be denominated the disease of a disposition. The 
 indulgence of petulancy or sullenness procures a man 
 the character of ill-humoured, while frequent fits of 
 cheerfulness obtain him to be reckoned a good-humour- 
 ed and pleasant being. 
 
 In the present acceptation of the word, Humour is 
 often used to point out that quality of the imagination, 
 which bears a strong resemblance to wit. This, how- 
 ever, expresses something more designed, concerted, 
 and artificial : humour, is more wild, loose, extrava^ 
 gant, and fantastical. It comes upon a man by fits,, 
 which he can neither command nor restrain, and is not 
 at all times perfectly consistent with true politeness. 
 It has been regarded as more diverting than wit ; but 
 wit is certainly more dignified, and gives an airy agree- 
 ableness to the propriety of a just sentiment, and a 
 
JX. ON HUMOUR. 77 
 
 keenness to the edge of a merited satire. The object 
 of the former is seldom directed farther than to excite 
 or gratify a momentary sally of mirth, the latter has 
 been used with success in correcting the follies and vic- 
 es of mankind. For this purpose it is proper to mingle 
 with reprehension, the smiles of good nature, the pleas- 
 antries of ludicrous association, and the picturesque 
 sketchings of a sportive fancy. Humour is agreeable, 
 when it is so happily diffused as to give the grace of 
 novelty to domestic scenes and the common occurrences 
 of life. It is proper, when it never outsteps the mo- 
 desty of nature, nor raises merriment or wonder by 
 the violation of truth — when its figures neither divert 
 by distortion, nor amuse by aggravation. It is excel- 
 lent, when it copies life with so much fidelity that its 
 inventions can hardly be detected,— when its exhibitions 
 have so much of an original air, that it is difficult to 
 suppose them not merely the product of the imagination. 
 It is the practice of humorists to seize some story 
 or historical narration, and, adopting only the leading 
 circumstance, to found on it a series of fictions, of a 
 nature entirely whimsical and ludicrous, but which take 
 effect by a kind of agreeable extravagance and the cre- 
 ation of a grotesque imagery ingrafted upon the sub- 
 ject. It is, indeed, the essence of genuine humour to 
 dwell upon and enlarge to definite dimensions those 
 parts of character which are susceptible of ridicule and 
 laughable association, and it is the more appropriate, if 
 the sly simplicity of its strokes be inflicted with a seem- 
 
78 ON HUMOUR. NO. 
 
 ing unconsciousness of intention, while it renders them 
 more exquisite to attentive and sagacious observers. 
 
 Hilario was a youth of much humour and frolic ; 
 but his jests were always delicate and agreeable, and 
 his wildest pranks, though sufficiently ludicrous, were 
 playful and harmless. When his father, who was a 
 worthy man of a sedate disposition, used to remind him 
 that his mirth might betray him into levity, or his wag- 
 gery terminate in mischief, he seldom failed to repay 
 the admonition with an apologetic narrative, in gener- 
 al abundantly droll. Among others the following, 
 founded upon an incident which occurred to the good 
 old man in his youth, never failed to dissipate his gra- 
 vity, and to amuse the company, who well knew its 
 application. I must relate to you, my dear father, he 
 would say, the love-adventure of your ancient friend 
 Sereno, who is almost as good and as grave a man as 
 yourself; and thus he began: 
 
 " Sereno, you know, after he had been for some 
 time settled in the world, discovered, as many others 
 had done before him, that a good wife would be a help 
 meet for him. After a little consideration upon the 
 subject, he found out that he had actually fallen in love 
 with PSacidia, an amiable young lady of dispositions 
 very similar to his own. As he was rather a diffident 
 man, he felt considerably embarrassed when he came 
 to that part of the business which was to disclose his 
 intentions to the fair one herself. In frequent attempts 
 he failed. His modesty and irresolution always occa- 
 sioned his allowing the favourable moment to pass, A 
 

 IX# ON HUMOUR. 79 
 
 friend, however, succeeded at last in obtaining his se- 
 cret from him, and at the same time promised every 
 assistance in his power to forward the match. For 
 this purpose he invited to his house a number of young 
 folks to a tea-party, among whom were the lady and 
 her admirer, by delay and disappointment now made 
 deeply enamoured. When tea was served, the beaus 
 of course were all alert in the service of the ladies. 
 Sereno, as his kind host had previously concerted, 
 was seated just beside her whom he wished to be 
 near ; and, in his ow r n calm deliberate way, proceeded 
 to hand her a cup. As mischief would have it, howev- 
 er, something, no matter what, caused his hand to 
 give a sudden jerk, when a pretty large drop of very 
 hot tea was spilt upon the lady's robe of thin muslin. 
 Whether it proceeded from her fear lest the grave beau 
 should prostrate himself at her feet, or whether the tea 
 penetrated farther than it ought to have done, is un- 
 certain. Whatever, I say, was the cause, the fair 
 sufferer was obliged to voice the monosyllable Oh ! in 
 a tone neither so soft, so low, nor so sweet as she af- 
 terwards, perhaps, could have wished. The modest 
 youth was greatly disconcerted, and to conceal his em- 
 barrassment turned round to snuff the candle. Rare, 
 says the poet, are solitary woes. He cut too deep ; 
 and, to his extreme vexation, out went the light and 
 left the company in obscurity, for they did not place tw r o 
 candles upon the table when Sereno was young. Con- 
 fused and in considerable trepidation, he rushed to the 
 fire to relight the extinguished taper ; but, instead, of 
 
80 ON HUMOUR. NO, 
 
 using a piece of paper, he held it out to a brisk fire, 
 into the middle of which;, to his utter consternation, 
 it suddenly dropped, and a splendid illumination en- 
 sued. To this was added the harmonious concert of a 
 favourite puppy, which happened to be in the way of 
 the melting grease as it issued from the grate in various 
 directions, together with the bawling of frighted fe- 
 males, who were in terror lest the house should be set 
 on fire, and convert the business into a tragedy. But 
 the meek man's mortifications did not terminate here. 
 In the middle of his perplexity he resolved to leave the 
 room, and accordingly went to take up his hat ; but 
 misfortune seldom deserts the unhappy. Instead of his 
 own, he seized the hat of a gay lady, and this was 
 sprucely ornamented with a towering plume and the 
 proper quantity of ribbons. Inconscious of his capital 
 embellishments, he hasted to the door, and would soon 
 have found himself upon the street had not a boy's mar- 
 ble arrested his progress on the stair. . Having, in a 
 luckless moment, set his foot upon this fatal object, a 
 sudden slip produced a rapid descent of his centre of 
 gravity, and made an unoffending part salute the boards 
 with such a hard and weighty thump as to alarm the 
 whole house. Every body ran to see what could be 
 the matter. To the surprise of some and the wick- 
 ed amusement of others, here was found poor Sereno 5 
 sitting with less composure upon his countenance than 
 usual, whatever might be the chevaleresque appearance 
 it derived from the fair one's hat and feathers. — This 
 scene of misadventures, however, proved of advantage 
 
IX. ON HUMOUR. SI. 
 
 to the good man in the end. Not long after, he found 
 an opportunity of soliciting the forgiveness of the mild 
 Placidia for the pain and alarm he had occasioned her ; 
 but, while he was endeavouring to lay the blame upon 
 the unsteadiness of his hand, he muttered something a- 
 bout the agitation of his heart. This had nearly led 
 him into another predicament, when his kind friend 
 extricated him by making the lady acquainted with the 
 worthy man's intentions. The grand point was now 
 gained ; and, in due time, the excellent pair were unit- 
 ed in love and in matrimony. — They are now happy 
 in their mutual esteem and affection, and are particu- 
 lary fortunate in having a son, who is as waggish as 
 they themselves are benevolent and wise." 
 
 E. 
 
 No. X. 
 
 " O'er the dear urn, where glorious Wallace sleeps. 
 True Valour bleeds and patriot Virtue weeps. 
 Son of the lyre, what high ennobling strain, 
 Wliat meed from thee shall generous Wallace gain ! 
 Who greatly scorning an Usurper's pride, * 
 Bared his brave breast for liberty, and died." 
 
 Langhorne's Genius and Valour, v. 255 — 26'0. 
 
 " Look at that,"" said Angloscotus pointing to a par- 
 ticular spot of a Map of the Globe which lay upon the 
 table before us — « look at that little spot, and tell me 
 vou, I. T, 
 
82 ON COURAGE. NO. 
 
 what ideas the contemplation suggests." Inconscious- 
 ly my eye was directed toward the place. This was a 
 small inclustered groupe. It was the British Isles. I 
 felt that it was the land of my forefathers ; and, while 
 a glow of pride suffused my countenance, the thrill of 
 exultation pervaded my breast. We began to compare 
 the little Land of the Ocean, in extent, power, wealth, 
 and renown, with the other kingdoms of the world. 
 In regard to the first, when placed in comparison with 
 the other nations, it resembled the inconsiderable speck 
 of a convolving cloud amid the wide expanse of the sky. 
 But it required no reflection to discover that her power 
 was mighty and extended to the remotest lands — that 
 her wealth was immense and matchless, — and her fame 
 interminable in its course as the unmeasured path of 
 the billow of the boundless deep, or the unbridled ca- 
 reer of the gale of heaven. 
 
 From a review of these facts a wide and various 
 inquiry naturally originates, " Whereon is founded, and 
 what hath produced the excessive splendour of Britain, 
 the First of the Nations and Queen of the Seas ? — It 
 hath, doubtless, arisen from her local situation — from 
 her natural resources — and from the superior energies 
 of her exalted progeny, directed by wisdom and fos- 
 tered by magnanimity ; and this shall be the subject of 
 the present speculation. 
 
 What, then, is Magnanimity? It is the aggre- 
 gate of every sublime and generous virtue that can in- 
 vigorate or ennoble the heart of human-kind. It is 
 Fortitude. By this is meant — that firm and serene 
 
X. ON. COURAGE. S3 
 
 habit of the mind, which either tempers its fears, or 
 enables it to encounter calamity and danger with e- 
 quanimity — that lofty principle by which the soul is 
 fortified to suffer with resignation, or conducted to en- 
 terprise with the calmness of confidence and the ardour 
 of zeal. In peril and misfortune, it is the inspirer of 
 good hopes, the source of expedients, and the parent 
 of tranquillity. It is, indeed, the vigour of heroism, 
 and the energy of wisdom — the virtue of the valiant, 
 and the excellency of the good and the great. 
 
 Genuine Fortitude does not consist in that consti- 
 tutional courage, which has rendered some men bold 
 and dreadless in the most atrocious attempts, and is 
 only the rashness of a fool or the hardihood of a ruffian. 
 The one is the offspring of reason and reflection, which 
 incites to the best and noblest achievements ; and, fill- 
 ing the mind with cheerfulness and composure, fits a 
 man to act without confusion, anxiety, or trepidation. 
 The other is the child of an ardent temper, inspired 
 by temerity and cherished by inconsideration. 
 
 Human life is so full of uncertainty and so liable to 
 disaster, that, without Fortitude, there can be little 
 enjoyment or felicity. Being, therefore, necessary to 
 the support of virtue and a proper discharge of duty, 
 it is chiefly by condition and event that its exercise is 
 produced or its operation required. Observation, in- 
 deed, by scanning the motions of mind, may discover 
 the existence of this inborn principle ; but, until it be 
 commoved by an impulsive cause, the appropriate traits 
 which demonstrate its character may remain latent and 
 
 l 2 
 
84 ©N COURAGE. N0. 
 
 inert. It is, also, by the absence of such excitements, 
 that many a spirit of ethereal temper has been doomed 
 to wane within the breast of its inconscious possessor. 
 
 As a mental quality, Fortitude involves every mag- 
 nanimous attribute. These may be recognised in the 
 various epithets which denominate the more generous 
 affections. That virtue may be termed courage, which 
 suppresses fear in perilous action and animates to intre- 
 pidity amid the dangers of arduous enterprise, — pa- 
 tience, which enables us to undergo affliction, or disap- 
 pointment without repining or regret, — forbearance, 
 which resolves the mind to endure indignity, contume- 
 ly, or oppression, without resentment or malice, — and 
 constancy or resolution, which encourages perseverance 
 amid difficulties, and firmness in pain and distress. Un- 
 der each of these heads, the influence of this manly af- 
 fection upon conduct, will afford matter of consideration 
 in several essays; and what remains of this, shall, there- 
 fore, be directed to the regard of the former distinction, 
 namely that of active Fortitude, or Courage. 
 
 Fortitude has been regarded as synonymous with 
 courage : the former, however, is more general and al- 
 ways includes an assemblage of virtues ; the latter is pe- 
 culiar and may be a vice. Virtuous courage is the exer- 
 tion of fortitude ; vicious, is only temerity or fierceness. 
 Constitutional vigour may generate hardiness in the hu- 
 man heart, and habit confirm it into courage ; but true 
 fortitude is the genuine production of piety and moral 
 goodness. Existing only as an inconsiderate regard to 
 consequences, or as a daring contempt of danger, cour-> 
 
X, ON COURAGE. 85 
 
 age dignifies brutes and is the generous passion of ir- 
 rationals. " Hast thou given the horse strength ?" 
 says the Eastern Sage, " hast thou clothed his neck 
 with thunder ? Canst thou make him afraid as a grass- 
 hopper? The glory of his nostrils is terrible. He 
 paweth in the valley, and rejoiceth in his strength : he 
 goeth on to meet the armed men. He mocketh at fear, 
 and is not affrighted ; neither turneth be back from the 
 sword. The quiver rattleth against him — the glitter- 
 ing spear and the shield. He swalloweth the ground 
 with his fierceness and rage : neither believeth he that 
 it is the sound of the trumpet. He saith among the 
 trumpets, Ha ! Ha ! and he smelleth the battle afar 
 off — the thunder of the captains and the shouting*.'" 
 
 Courage is necessary to the support of a dignified 
 character in the faithful discharge of the duties of civil 
 life. As a mental trait it is absolutely indispensable in 
 the warrior, and in this application it is recognised in 
 several epithets of nearly the same signification. It 
 is expressed by the terms valour, heroism, prowess, 
 bravery, and others descriptive of a gallant spirit. The 
 display of this being only required in certain situations 
 and by the occurrence of particular incidents it is then 
 that the proper exertion of vigour is to be honoured 
 with the appellation of true courage. In repelling per- 
 sonal insult ; in redressing our own, or the wrongs of 
 those we love and esteem ; and in discharging the dif- 
 ficult duties of justice and patriotism, it is, perhaps, 
 
 * Job, Chapter XXXIX. v. 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, and 2& 
 
S6 
 
 ON COURAGE, 
 
 not easy to distinguish between the intrepid activity 
 of genuine courage, and the ardent impulse of revenge. 
 But the heart that beats to honest valour is never vin- 
 dictive, and the arm directed by duty is only terrible 
 to the wicked, the noxious, and the oppressive. The 
 vanquished is no longer the foe of the brave ; but ev- 
 ery energy of his soul is exerted against the enemies of 
 his race, the invaders of his rights, and the assailers 
 of the independency of his country. There is a dignified 
 sublimity in the picture of a magnanimous veteran en- 
 deavouring to infuse a generous intrepidity into the 
 mind of a spirited youth. It is attempted by allusions 
 to the deeds of his progenitors, and the feats of his own 
 achievement, which contain a display of the noblest he- 
 roism, to be equaled, in modern days, only by the vi- 
 gorous 'gallantry of a British warrior. " We sat," says 
 the Bard of Selma, " and heard the sprightly harp at Lu- 
 bar's gentle stream. Fingal himself was next to the foe; 
 and listened to the tales of bards. His godlike race were 
 in the song, the chiefs of other times. Attentive, leaning 
 on his shield, the king of Morven sat. The wind whist- 
 led through his aged locks, and his thoughts are of the 
 days of other years. Near him, on his bending spear, 
 my young, my lovely Oscar stood. He admired the 
 king of Morven : and his actions were swelling in his 
 soul. " Son of my son, 1 ' begun the King, " O Oscar, 
 " pride of youth ! I saw the shining of thy sword and 
 {4 gloried in my race. Pursue the glory of our fathers, 
 " and be what they have been ; when Trenmor lived, 
 " the first of men, and Trathal the father of heroes. 
 
X. ON COURAGE. §7 
 
 (i They fought the battle in their youth and are the 
 " song of bards. O Oscar ! bend the strong in arms ; 
 <« but spare the feeble hand. Be thou a stream of many 
 " tides against the foes of thy people ; but like the gale 
 " that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid. So 
 4i Trenmor lived ; such Trathal was ; and such has 
 " Fingal been. My arm was the support of the injur- 
 " ed; and the weak rested behind the lightning of my 
 " steel. — O Oscar ! be thou like the age of Fingal. 
 " Never seek the battle nor shun it when it comes '*." 
 Courage cannot exist but in a disinterested mind. 
 It is ever actuated by a supreme disregard of private 
 advantage, and is most arduous in the pursuits of pa- 
 triotism. When the path of duty is pointed out, and 
 an object of public benefit exhibited to its enterprise, 
 true courage instantly proceeds to weigh the difficulties 
 that may retard the progress of action, to calculate the 
 means necessary to accomplish the end, and to ascertain 
 the dangers that impend its execution. It then enters 
 upon the attempt with the circumspection of wisdom, 
 and the inflexible but ardent persistency of grand and 
 consummate heroism. Such a character was displayed 
 by Wallace, the Scottish patriot, when his more nu- 
 merous enemies dispatched two friars to his camp with 
 the proffer of terms. " Return," said the intrepid 
 Chief, " and tell your masters, that we came not here 
 a to treat, but to assert our rights, and to set Scot- 
 
 * Ossian's Poems., Fingal, Book III. towards the end. 
 
SS ON COURAGE. NO, 
 
 " land free : Let them advance, they will find us pre- 
 " pared *." 
 
 The heart of the valiant, however, is not insensi- 
 ble to the meed of applause, nor disregarded of the 
 honours that express the worth and dignity of a well- 
 earned renown. He contemplates the trophies of his 
 prowess with the exultation of honest pride, and re- 
 gards them as incentives to more energetic exploits. 
 The brave consider the acquisition of fame, only as an 
 obligation whereby they become devoted to the gener- 
 al weal ; and, inspired by this exalted spirit, they live 
 —they act — and they die. 
 
 It has been said that temerity or fierceness may be 
 misrepresented as courage. Every day's experience 
 demonstrates the truth of the observation. What else 
 is that spirit, by fools and wretches denominated hon- 
 our, which impels a man to provoke danger without a 
 cause, or to murder his friend for a trifle. This is the 
 frenzy of ignorance and therage of brutality — the bluster 
 of cowards and the malice of ruffians. It is the disgrace 
 of true honour, and the bane of civilized society, con- 
 demned alike by the brave, the wise, and the good. 
 
 The history of human action exhibits illustration 
 of the finest displays of splendid valour, directed to the 
 accomplishment of the noblest purposes, and success- 
 ful in the best of designs. Courage, however, may 
 be degraded by the impression of ignoble manners ; 
 and, being susceptible of influence from degenerate opin- 
 
 * Dalrymple's Annals of Scotland, 8vo. Ed. Vol. I. p. 274-5. 
 
X. ON COURAGE. 89 
 
 ion, may deviate into an affection, the proper defini- 
 tion of which, perhaps, is magnificent pusillanimity. 
 It is this that sometimes hurries the brave headlong in- 
 to ruin, when adversity obscures his prospects, and his 
 indignant spirit yields to the imperious dictates of de- 
 spair. Under such a storm sunk Durgetti *, an illus- 
 trious and accomplished Oriental princess, whose mag- 
 nanimous spirit deserved a better fate. This Queen, 
 who was famous for her beauty and her virtues, reign- 
 ed over the small territory of Gurrah, about the 
 middle of the sixteenth century. Her kingdom was 
 populous and flourishing, and had never been subject- 
 ed to the dominion of strangers. By Mohammed Ak- 
 bar the Mogul emperor, whose renown was equal to 
 his ambition, permission was given to Asaph, a warlike 
 omrah, to subdue her country. A war ensued, which 
 was terminated by a sanguinary action. In this, Dur- 
 getti, like a bold heroine, clothed in armour, with a 
 helmet upon her head, mounted in a castle upon an 
 elephant, with her bow and quiver lying by her side, 
 and a burnished lance in her hand, led on her own 
 troops. Her little army, however, being unequally op- 
 posed, was very soon broken by the enemy. The 
 prince Biar, her gallant son, after having exhibited 
 prodigies of valour, was slain in her presence. Her 
 people fled, and she was left in the field with only three 
 hundred men. She remained, however, unaffected by 
 her desperate situation, and stood her ground with un- 
 
 * See Dow's History of Hindcitan, Vol. IT. p. 244-5-6-7. 
 vol, T. M 
 
90 ON COURAGE. NO. 
 
 daunted fortitude, till she received an arrow in her eye. 
 While endeavouring to extricate it, part of the steel 
 broke short, and remained in the wound. In the mean 
 time, another arrow passed through her neck, which 
 she also drew out ; but, nature sinking under the pain, 
 a dimness swam before her eyes, and she began to nod 
 from side to side of the hovvdar *. Recovering from her 
 faintness, she rejected, with a splendid disdain, the 
 proposal of Adhar, a brave officer of her household, 
 who had requested permission to carry her off the field. 
 4i It is true," said she, " we are overcome in war, but 
 ■shall we ever be vanquished in honour ? Shall we for 
 the sake of a lingering ignominious life, lose that re- 
 putation and virtue which we have been so solicitous to 
 acquire ? No : let your gratitude now repay that ser- 
 vice for which I lifted up your head, and which I now 
 require at your hands. Haste, I say ; let your dagger 
 save me from the crime of putting a period to my own 
 existence." — Adhar burst into tears, and begged to be 
 permitted to carry her into a place of safety. While 
 he hesitated, she suddenly leaned forward, seized his 
 dagger, and, plunging it into her bosom, expired. — 
 Six Indian chiefs, upon their elephants, still stood firm, 
 and, ashamed of being outdone by a woman, dedica- 
 ted their lives to the revenge of the queen. 
 
 * A wooden tower mounted up on the back of an elephant. 
 
91 
 
 No. XI. 
 
 " Teach her, in Truth's unerring scales to weigh 
 Each thought, each precept, ere she mould the lay ! 
 Truth's vestal priestess, next her heart he worn 
 The awful gem by Egypt's * pontiff borne : 
 And though, with plumes from Fictions wing, she twint 
 A votive wreath, to grace her Godhead's shine, 
 Ne'er may her hand, in Fancy's heedless glow ! 
 The wreath on Error's semblant altar throw ! 
 Then, though she fail to purchase outward fame, 
 Yet inward conscience shall applaud her aim." — 
 
 Walker's Defence of Order, P. I. v. 201 — 210. 
 
 TRUTH is an exhibition conformable to fact and 
 consistent with the nature of things. It is opposed to 
 falsehood, a representation morally not true, because 
 it expresses that which is not thought — -and physically 
 not true, because it conceives what does not exist. The 
 attributes of Truth are veracity and reality : the one is 
 moral, the other physical truth. Any deviation from 
 it, viewed in either of these respects, is highly repre- 
 hensible ; and, opposition to it is a state of guilt orig- 
 inating in a want of integrity and consummated by 
 crime. There are some minds that would revolt from 
 the charge of falsehood, which, however, do not ob- 
 
 * " The chief priest of the Egyptians," says JElian, " wore a figure 
 round his neck, made of a sapphire stone, and the figure was called 
 TRUTH." 
 
 M 2 
 
02 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 serve error in equivocation nor delinquency in deceit. 
 But, whether by evasion, hypocrisy, treachery, or 
 perfidy we mislead or betray, we commit an outrage 
 upon truth, and seldom fail to fall into a maze of ob- 
 liquities which involves a multitude of embarrassments 
 or overwhelms with distress. Candour, ingenuousness, 
 sincerity, rectitude, and honour, are therefore, the best 
 guides of conduct, and the purest incentives to action. 
 They enable man to surmount the difficulties of life, 
 and smooth his path to the mansions of peace. 
 
 Eugene was returning from the Continent; where 
 he had been, during seventeen years, engaged in 
 the service of his country, and had boldly faced death 
 and danger in all their various forms. He was now 
 within view of his paternal inheritance, which had long 
 been the property of his ancestors. When Eugene 
 went abroad, his father was its possessor ; but he had, 
 some years before, followed his predecessors to that 
 home whither all must descend, and whence none ever 
 return. The mansion was still inhabited by a beloved 
 sister and her family, who were all very dear to him. 
 Besides these, no other object had a particular place 
 in his heart. 
 
 Having arrived within a short mile of home, he 
 took the pathway through a romantic valley, which 
 had often been the scene of his youthful amusements, 
 and, afterwards, the retirement wherein he had cher- 
 ished a sincere but eventful passion. Recollection now 
 saddened his heart, and his thoughts became melancho- 
 ly. The valley was still the same, save where his eye 
 
XI. CAROLINE. 93 
 
 discovered a little cottage reared on an eminence, and 
 surrounded by a miniature pleasure-ground, laid out 
 in a stile of elegant, but attractive, simplicity. He 
 paused ; and, leaning down upon a mossy bank, gave 
 way to a train of heart-rending recollections. Reader ! 
 wouldest thou know the cause of his grief? Listen, 
 then, to the story of the unhappy Caroline, and mark 
 the fatal effects of one single deviation from candour 
 by having recourse to deceit. 
 
 Caroline was the beautiful daughter of a neigh- 
 bouring gentleman, whose possessions were more ex- 
 tensive than those of Eugene^ father. An unfortunate 
 difference had long subsisted between the two old gen- 
 tlemen, and was, by the father of Caroline, carried to 
 such a height, that he forbade all communication with 
 any of the other family. Eugene, who was destined 
 for the army, was at this time attending the military 
 schools, and far distant from this scene of discord. He 
 had, now, for some time held a commission with to- 
 lerable prospects of preferment, when his regiment was 
 ordered on foreign service. Previously, however, to 
 their departure, he obtained leave to spend a short pe- 
 riod with his friends at home. His appearance and 
 manners were well calculated to captivate and prepos- 
 sess in his favour : his accomplishments, indeed, were 
 many, and those not merely external. He had seen 
 and admired Caroline when a child ; and now, by ac- 
 cident, met with her in all the bloom of matured beau- 
 ty. A mutual attachment was the consequence. — 
 
 It has often been observed that opposition, in such 
 
94 CAROLINE. NO. 
 
 cases, rather tends to forward than to frustrate the 
 progress of the tender passion. The father of Caroline 
 was violent and imperious, and learned with contemp- 
 tuous indignation, that his so much admired daughter 
 was secretly receiving the addresses of Eugene, the son 
 of a man he avowedly hated. The ardour of his tem- 
 per led him to treat her with great severity, in so much 
 that he insisted upon her solemnly declaring that she 
 would never marry Evigene, under pain of his utmost 
 displeasure and execration. Caroline evaded a direct 
 answer in the best manner possible, and only begged a 
 few days to make up her mind to comply with his de- 
 sires. Her resolution was already formed. This she 
 immediately communicated to her lover, and gave her 
 consent to have the marriage-ceremony privately per- 
 formed. She would then give her father the required 
 promise that she should never marry Eugene. 
 
 Prudent deliberation is scarcely to be expected of 
 young persons in love, and particularly in such a situation 
 as that of Eugene. Indeed, this seemed to him to be the 
 only expedient to prevent his forever losing the object 
 of his heart's affection. The greatest caution and se- 
 crecy was necessary in the execution of this design ; and 
 they got it accomplished beyond their most sanguine 
 expectations. The only persons in the secret were 
 Caroline's maid and the gardener, her admirer and in- 
 tended husband. Eugene brought from a considerable 
 distance the license, and a person properly qualified 
 who, in the presence of these two witnesses^ pronounced 
 their indissoluble union. 
 
XJi CAROLINE. 95 
 
 The spirit which supported Caroline during the 
 prosecution of their purpose, now that it was complet- 
 ed, began to sink. What, at the same time, added to 
 her dejection, was her husband's receiving orders to 
 join his regiment, now about to embark. Her father 
 observed an alteration in her countenance, and was 
 not quite sure how to interpret it. She, however, 
 soon dissipated his doubts, by making a solemn declara- 
 tion that she never should marry Eugene, whose de- 
 parture from the country would soon put an end to his 
 fears. 
 
 The fond pair now solaced themselves with the re- 
 flection that their union was complete ; and, although 
 the embarkation was delayed for several months, they 
 both deemed it prudent, under present circumstances, 
 that Eugene should not return. A correspondence, 
 however, was regularly conducted between them through 
 the medium of their faithful confidents. 
 
 Before the departure of her husband, Caroline 
 found herself in a situation which would render con- 
 cealment very difficult. She- had, in a feeling manner, 
 informed him of this circumstance ; and, on the very 
 day appointed for his sailing, she received from him a 
 most kind and sympathising answer. In this, he con- 
 jured her in the most earnest manner to be careful of 
 herself for his sake ; and, in case she should find it ne- 
 cessary, to leave her father's house. He inclosed am- 
 ple means, at the same time, for her support, until 
 such time as he should again be able to hear from her. 
 With this letter in her bosom, she retired to an ar- 
 
96 CAROLINE. NO. 
 
 bour in the garden ; and, on contemplating its contents, 
 she became extremely affected, as it placed, in her im- 
 mediate view, her husband's long absence and her own 
 critical situation. Her mind was so deeply engaged, 
 that her father approached unperceived ; and, her ap- 
 pearance at the time exciting his suspicions, he snatch- 
 ed the letter from her hand. He eagerly cast his eyes 
 over it, and finding himself so completely deceived, rage 
 choaked all utterance ; and, such was the fatal effect of 
 his violent temper, that he sunk at her feet in a fit of 
 apoplexy, and with a loud groan expired Words can- 
 not express the feelings of the distracted Caroline. 
 The sufferings of her father were soon over : her own 
 lasted a few weeks, when she followed him to a prema- 
 ture grave. She had, however, sufficient presence of 
 mind to conceal the letter ; and the cause of his unex- 
 pected death was thus forever hid from the world. 
 
 The very first letters which Eugene received from 
 Britain conveyed to him the melancholy intelligence of 
 the death of his beloved Caroline, and also that of her 
 father. He was given to understand, that the shock 
 which she received from witnessing the sudden fate of 
 her parent had occasioned her own. Seven months had 
 only elapsed from the period when they had been united 
 until they were thus forever separated by her untimely 
 end. 
 
 Eugene was for some time inconsolable, and inca- 
 pable of attending to his duty. He afterwards, how- 
 ever, entered upon it with redoubled energy, and 
 seemed willing to court the grim king of terrors, by 
 
XI. CAROLINE. 97 
 
 performing feats of daring valour. But death shunned 
 his approach. He seemed alike regardless of fame and 
 fortune, while both, as if by contrariety, followed his 
 steps. But his strength of constitution proved unequal 
 to his exertions, and his health was fast declining be- 
 fore he could be induced to revisit his native country. — 
 Such was the retrospective train of his melancholy re- 
 flections as he approached the scenes of his departed 
 joys. — He now arose from the verdant bank; and, with 
 a saddened heart and a lingering pace, reached the habi- 
 tation of his friends. 
 
 He was received with heartfelt joy, by all the fa- 
 mily, which he found considerably increased during 
 his absence. Of his sister's two children which were 
 born before he went out of the country, Alfred, thq 
 eldest, was prosecuting his studies at the University, 
 and Emmeline, then an infant, was become a beau- 
 tiful girl of seventeen. Their joy, however, was not 
 a little marred by Eugene's extreme dejection, and 
 visible ill health. Emmeline, in particular, was most 
 affected by it ; and, with tears streaming from her 
 lovely eyes, hung about his neck and caressed him with 
 all the affection of a daughter. Eugene would press 
 her to his bosom, while he sighed over his blasted pro- 
 spects. It was concerted between his sister and niece 
 to have a little party and ball on the following even- 
 ing ; and, if possible, to surprise him into better spir- 
 its. Cards of invitation were accordingly issued to all 
 their neighbouring acquaintance. Emmeline hesita- 
 ted, however, before she could venture to solicit per- 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
98 CAROLINE. NO. 
 
 mission to ask her own most dear and intimate friend. 
 This was the daughter of the inhabitants of* the cottage 
 which had attracted the notice of Eugene on entering 
 the adjacent valley. She was nearly of the same age 
 as Emmeline ; and her superior beauty was the admir- 
 ation of all who beheld her. From infancy the hearts 
 of the amiable pair had been united in more than or- 
 dinary friendship. To this, the parents of Emmeline 
 had never objected ; but of late, when Alfred was at 
 home during vacations, they had become rather uneasy 
 on account of his particular predilection for the cotta- 
 gers 1 fair daughter. They also had often cautioned 
 Emmeline against promoting it ; but, as he was now 
 absent, her request was readily granted. With joy, 
 therefore, she hastened to carry the invitation herself. 
 Next morning Eugene happened to inquire of his 
 brother-in-law, who it was that inhabited the romantic 
 cottage overlooking the valley. He was informed that 
 it was occupied by a decent industrious family, whom 
 all their neighbours esteemed for their propriety of 
 conduct ; and that they were noticed by many of a 
 much higher rank in society than themselves. He then 
 mentioned his fears concerning his son's attachment, 
 but freely acknowledged, at the same time, the super- 
 ior beauty and accomplishments of their daughter. 
 He, likewise, observed that, if her own dispositions 
 had not been uncommonly good, she must have been 
 spoiled by the excessive indulgence and fondness of her 
 parents, who seemed rather to adore than to love her. 
 
XI. CAROLINE. 99 
 
 Eugene sighed over the recital, and again sunk into 
 his former pensive silence. 
 
 In the afternoon the party began to assemble, but 
 he did not appear to enter into the spirit of it, and 
 could rather have dispensed with this instance of his 
 sister's kind and well-meant attention. Several very 
 pretty young ladies, besides matrons and gentlemen 
 had entered the room without seeming to arouse him. 
 any farther than good-breeding required, and even the 
 cottage beauty passed him entirely unobserved. It is 
 true he was then engaged in conversation with the on- 
 ly acquaintance he had yet recognised. Her entrance 
 was not, however, unnoticed by the company. They 
 had all often seen her before, but there was, at this 
 time, something in her appearance which particularly 
 attracted their observation. Her dress was plain and 
 simple, and her fine glossy auburn hair flowed in pro- 
 fusion over her snowy brow and neck. It was also 
 tastefully twisted in a band with real pearls, and fixed 
 at one side by a diamond clasp of great value. Up- 
 on her bosom, suspended by a massy gold chain, hung 
 the picture of a handsome young officer in full uni- 
 form. Unaccustomed to public parties and naturally 
 extremely modest, the scrutinizing eyes of so many 
 observers filled her with confusion, which Emmeline 
 seeing, she kindly seated herself beside her timid 
 friend, and thus contributed very much to her relief. 
 In the mean time, they were agreeably surprised by 
 the entrance of Alfred, who had left the town some 
 days sooner than they expected, and arrived thus 
 
 n 2 
 
100 
 
 CAROLINE. 
 
 opportunely to meet his uncle. His eagle eye of 
 love, at first glance, discovered his interesting favour- 
 ite ; nor did the picture escape his eager view. Con- 
 jecture, instantly, pointed it out as that of a more fa- 
 voured rival ; and his confusion must have betrayed 
 him, had it not passed for surprise at the unexpected 
 meeting of his uncle. Scarcely, however, had he re- 
 ceived the embrace of his affectionate relation, than, 
 casting a wild and disordered look at the unintending 
 object who occasioned it, he abruptly left the room and 
 sent for his sister. Emmeline, afraid lest he had been 
 taken ill, flew to the apartment into which he had re- 
 tired. His agitation and incoherent inquiries concern- 
 ing her friend not a little alarmed her, and she could 
 give him no information respecting the picture, for 
 she had never seen or heard of it before. As he seenir 
 ed so deeply interested, however, she offered to return, 
 and, if possible, obtain some intelligence, which she 
 should immediately communicate to him. With this 
 intention, she hastened back to the company. 
 
 The artless cottager had observed Alfred's pertur- 
 bation when he left the room, but ascribed it to a ve- 
 ry different cause. Her idea was, that he had changed 
 his mind with regard to her, and that he was dipleas- 
 ed at seeing her there. This impression operated so 
 forcefully upon her mind, scarcely yet recovered from 
 the confusion which her entrance had excited, that she 
 soon became quite sick ; and, just as Emmeline return- 
 ed, she was sinking from her seat in a faint. Emmeline 
 exclaimed, my dear Caroline !— -and flew to her sup- 
 
XI. CAROLINE. 101 
 
 port. The sound thrilled through the heart of Eugene, 
 and he started up to learn to whom it was applied. 
 What was his emotion, when he fixed his eyes on the 
 form of his beloved and lamented Caroline at the time 
 she became his wife, and decorated with his own picture 
 and other ornaments which he had on that occasion 
 presented to her. His eyes became dim, and in a 
 tremulous voice he exclaimed, Who — Who — , but the 
 sound died upon his lips, and he sunk speechless by 
 her side. The cries of Emmeline alarmed and brought 
 in Alfred who, now regardless of all the beholders, 
 caught Caroline in his arms, and uttered the wildest 
 expressions of love, grief, and despair. A flood of tears 
 at length came to her relief, and tended much to re- 
 store her, when all present seemed anxious that she 
 would clear up the mystery, and satisfy them with re- 
 gard to the cause of so much distress. In this respect, 
 however, she was as ignorant as themselves, and the 
 developement was to be sought in some other source. 
 
 Eugene had no sooner recovered from the state of 
 insensibility into which surprise had thrown him, than 
 he earnestly requested his brother-in-law to accompany 
 him to the cottage. By the way, a thousand ideas crowd- 
 ed upon his mind. He hoped, he feared, he knew not 
 what or why. Upon entering, he instantly recognised 
 in the cottagers, Susan the confidential maid of his la- 
 mented Caroline, and the gardener her husband. An 
 explanation immediately followed, by which he learn- 
 ed that his dear wife had been so much shocked by the 
 sudden death of her father, of which she accused her. 
 
102 CAROLINE. NO, 
 
 self as the cause, that it brought on the premature 
 birth of a daughter. Finding herself to be dying, and 
 having little reason to expect that the child should sur- 
 vive, she had, in a most impressive manner, enjoined 
 Susan to secrecy ; and, in case it lived, to rear it as 
 her own till such time as its father might return, 
 when he would be able to shield it from the obloquy to 
 which it must necessarily be subjected by the circum- 
 stances of its birth. Susan had, thus, strictly obeyed 
 the dying commands of her justly regretted lady. 
 
 With mingled sensations of grief and joy, Eugene 
 listened to the particulars of the death of one, whose 
 life was dearer to him than his own. He was agreea- 
 bly affected by the confirmation of the lovely young 
 Caroline being a pledge of his early love, and thus mir- 
 aculously spared to him. He now cordially thanked 
 the faithful pair for their generosity, and eagerly hast- 
 ed back to the mansion, there to feast his longing eyes 
 with a view of his sweet and amiable daughter. It 
 was not long till he clasped her in an embrace of patern- 
 al love ; and, while pressing her to his bosom, he felt 
 a glow of renovating life thrill through his heart, which 
 soon became visible on his countenance and his frame. 
 Henceforward, he daily recovered his health and spir- 
 its ; and, with heartfelt satisfaction, promoted a union 
 which joined the hand of his now rich as well as lovely 
 Caroline with that of his excellent nephew Alfred, 
 whose disinterested affection he had witnessed when 
 she was only the supposed daughter of the humble 
 cottagers. M. 
 
XII. ON THE RITES OP BUDDHA. 103 
 
 No. XII. 
 
 " First an all-potent all-pervading sound 
 Bade flow the waters — and the waters florid 
 Exulting in their measureless abode, 
 Diffusive, multitudinous, profound, 
 Above, beneath, around ; 
 Then o'er the vast expanse primordial wind 
 Breath' d gently, till a lucid bubble rose, 
 Which grew in gentle shape an egg refin'd : 
 Created substance no such lustre shows, 
 Earth no such beauty knows. 
 Above the warring waves it danc'd elate, 
 Till from its bursting shell with lovely state 
 A form cerulean flutter d o'er the deep, 
 Brightest of beings, greatest of the great : 
 Who, not as mortals steep, 
 Their eyes in dewy sleep, 
 But, heav'nly-pensive, on the Lotos lay, 
 That blossom'd at his touch and shed a golden ray." 
 Sir W. Jones' Hymn to Narayena, v. 37 — 54. 
 
 SUPERSTITION degrades the human mind, and 
 prepares it for the observance of useless and immoral 
 rites, and the accomplishment of frivolous and baneful 
 practices. As it discovers an evident influence upon 
 individual character and conduct, so it never fails to 
 modify economy and government when its ascendancy 
 becomes impressed upon the manners of society and 
 
104 
 
 ON THE RITES 
 
 the customs of nations. It is, doubtless, the genial pa- 
 rent of folly fostered by credulity, and the teeming 
 source of error and vice, cherished by ignorance and 
 prolific of crimes and cruelty. 
 
 Few of mankind are altogether exempted from the 
 operation of this malevolent affection. It lisps in the 
 language of the eloquent ; and, while it sullies the fame 
 of the great, it impairs the merit of the good and de- 
 bases the excellence of the wise. In the warbles of the 
 lyre, it glows and attracts ; and, in the tale of passion 
 and delight, it captivates and deceives. Being heady 
 and bold in the dogmas of the philosopher, the theologue, 
 and the moralist, it is imperious and confounds ; and, 
 when partial and ardent in the narratives of action and 
 renown, it blinds, misleads, and betrays. Hence have 
 arisen innumerable reveries respecting the descent of 
 sages and heroes, the origin of religions, and the peop- 
 ling of climes. Few, however, are willing to deduce 
 the objects of their applause and veneration from, an 
 obscure or ignoble stem. Systems, therefore, .although 
 fraught with foolery and degraded by falsehood, are 
 ascribed to sources, reverend from their sublimity and 
 awful from their power. Under the same impulsive 
 influence, the spark of patriotism, too, has been kind- 
 led to illumine the path of vanity amid the mazes of 
 fancy, obliquity, and pride. 
 
 While many thus, inconsciously, betray the la- 
 tent existence of this ungenerous principle in the mind, 
 others demonstrate their resignation under its predom- 
 inancy by the absurdity of their creeds and the flagitious 
 
XII. OP BUDDHA. 105 
 
 result of their forms. In illustration of this general 
 position, it might not be uninteresting to direct the at- 
 tention to a survey of such notices as have been collected 
 concerning the pagan ritual and idolatry of the prime- 
 val nations. The subsequent observations, in prosecu- 
 tion of this design, will be directed to a detail of what 
 sketches remain on record to illustrate the rites anddoc- 
 trines of the votaries of Buddha, an Oriental divinity, 
 whose worship prevails over the kingdoms of Ava and 
 Siam, and other parts of the vast continent of Hindos- 
 tan, together with the Island of Ceylon, which is believ- 
 ed to have been the seat of his appearance and the cradle 
 of his faith. The detail, if it represent the exhibition 
 of the simple ceremonies of an artless race, will, at 
 least, delineate human weakness in a shape neither re- 
 pulsive nor unamiable. Instead of contemplating the 
 stern observances, which sanctify cruelty by the mask 
 of expiatory immolation, or of regarding that splendid 
 mummery which astonishes ignorance and bewilders the 
 weak, the mind will be led to compare the traditions 
 and precepts of Buddha with the histories and doctrines 
 of the True Religion, the source of which is universal 
 benevolence and love. 
 
 Buddha, according to the oriental legends, is said 
 to have visited the Island of Ceylon * at three different 
 
 * Ceylon is an island in the Indian Ocean, between 5° 49' and 9 J 
 ."0' N. latitude, and between 79° 30' and 81° 5C E. longitude, being 
 situated at the-entrance of the Bay of Bengal. Its name would indicate 
 that it had early been considered as a seat of religious ceremonies. By 
 the Greeks and Romans, it was called Taprobane: in the Sanscrit tongue 
 it is denominated Tapobon, the wilderness of prayer, the place of the 
 VOL. I. O 
 
106 ON - THE RITES NO. 
 
 periods. At his first appearance, it was inhabited by 
 demons, whom he expelled ; at his second, he left the 
 impression of his foot on Adam's Peak, a romantic 
 mountain in the south-eastern part of the isle, where it 
 still remains ; at the third, he consecrated sixteen dif- 
 ferent places for the purposes of divine worship. One 
 of these is now overflowed by the sea, and snakes pro- 
 duced there are considered as objects of adoration ; an- 
 other is an inaccesible cavern in the vicinity of the Peak; 
 and all the rest are occupied by pagodas and consecrat- 
 ed fanes. 
 
 The circumstances of the birth of Buddha are re- 
 lated in the Poojawallia, or Book of Adorations, writ- 
 ten in the language of the Cingalese, a numerous peo- 
 ple in Ceylon. In this, he is represented as having 
 descended from the celestial regions, to have been mir- 
 aculously conceived and born, and to have appeared 
 upon earth as an instructor of religion and virtue, and 
 a mediator between mankind and the divinity. They 
 relate that he existed as a god in heaven ; and that, at 
 the request of the ethereal spirits, he consented to visit 
 this earth in the form of a man. " Before he quitted 
 the Empyreum," says the mythological legend, " four 
 uncommon symptoms, about his person, warned him 
 
 hallowed groves, whither pious pilgrims repaired from the remotest 
 parts of Hindostan, to offer gifts and adorations to the mysterious God. 
 By the natives, it is named Lanca, the Holy Isle. The appellations, 
 Serendib of the Arabians, Sielendiba of Cosmas Indopleustes, Zeilan 
 and Ceylon of modern times seem to refer to the character of the 
 people, and represent the place as being the Isle of a leonine race. 
 
XII. OF BUDDHA. 107 
 
 of his approaching change. The garment he wore, 
 and which had hitherto been spotless, appeared to be 
 sullied: his garland of perpetually blooming flowers be- 
 gan to fade : the brightness of his visage became dim : 
 a profuse perspiration issued from all his pores ; and 
 he vanished from the heavens as a taper is extinguish- 
 ed by the wind. 
 
 " A queen, in whose womb the miraculous concep- 
 tion took place, dreamed an extraordinary dream, which 
 she related to her king. He, anxious to obtain an in- 
 terpretation, convened a large assembly of sages, who 
 unanimously declared, that one of the celestial order 
 had left the empyreal regions, and that the child, to 
 be born of the queen, should appear a new deity among 
 men. 
 
 " On that day when he was conceived, the earth 
 was astonished with a blaze of wonders. Ten thousand 
 worlds trembled, and the brightness of light shone round 
 about them. Ten thousand blind received sight. Ten 
 thousand dumb spake. Ten thousand deaf heard. The 
 flames of hell, which blazed through thirteen hundred 
 and sixty thousand worlds, were completely extinguish- 
 ed. The persons who suffered torment in these flames 
 were relieved from pain, and felt as if they had been 
 plunged into a refreshing stream. The hungry were 
 fed. The beasts and birds, that formerly devoured 
 each other, played together as friends. The sick were 
 cured of their diseases. The hatred of men was turn- 
 ed into love and friendship. The horses neighed. The 
 elephants and lions uttered sounds of joy. The robe^ 
 
10S 
 
 ON" THE RITES 
 
 
 of the gods and their servants fell from their shoulders. 
 Six splendid colours beamed toward different points. 
 The wind wafted odours. Rain fell in ten thousand 
 worlds. All places of the earth were washed. The 
 fowls of the air descended, and walked upon the ground 
 without fear. The rivers overflowed their banks. The 
 forty thousand seas of the ten thousand worlds became 
 smooth as a lake and wholesome to drink as a running 
 brook, and flowers began to spring and to bloom on their 
 borders. The trees of every kind put forth their blos- 
 soms, which filled the atmosphere with their fragrance, 
 and fell, afterwards, like a shower of rain upon the 
 earth. 
 
 " After nine months and fifteen days, the queen 
 was seized with the pains of labour while Avalking in a 
 garden. Having reclined under a tree, called bogaha *, 
 covered with blossoms, she stretched out her hand to 
 lay hold of one of the branches, and the branch stoop- 
 ed down to meet her. And the prince was born with- 
 
 * The Bogaha, Ficus Religiosa, or Tree of Buddha, is held in great 
 veneration both in Ceylon and on the Continent of India. It acquires 
 the utmost elegance and gracefulness of form, grows to an immense size, 
 has a smooth bark, and is, perhaps, the most completely beautiful of all 
 the trees which adorn the wide garden of Nature. The leaves are parti- 
 cularly handsome, being exactly of the form of a heart, and having along 
 pointed extremity, and a long foot-stalk. When full-grown, they 
 measure upwards of six inches in breadth and eight in length, includ- 
 ing the tapering point, which is two inches. The first grows without 
 stalks adhering to the branches. The bogaha is accounted the most 
 sacred of trees in India; and is held in such high estimation in the coun- 
 try of Candy, that the form of its leaves is only allowed to be painted 
 upon furniture employed exclusively for the gratification of the king, 
 It is ranked in the Polygamia Class of Plants, 
 
XII. OF BUDDHA. 109 
 
 out spot or blemish." , — Such is the account of some of 
 the portentous accompaniments of the birth of Buddha, 
 and which can scarcely be read without suggesting the 
 existence of a resemblance between them and some pro- 
 phecies of the Christian Scriptures. To trace the ori- 
 gin of the tradition to its probable source might be a 
 theme of equal interest and instruction ; but this is not 
 the place for an inquiry so vast and so complicated. — 
 The precepts of Buddha direct a belief in the exis- 
 tence of One Supreme Being, and in a future state of 
 rewards and punishments. His religious rites are per- 
 formed in hallowed retirements and with little splen- 
 dour, the essential part of the ceremonies being the 
 offering of gifts. The Buddhists are prohibited from 
 killing any animal whatever, from the meanest insect 
 up to man ; and from drinking any liqour, or eating 
 any drug, of an intoxicating quality. They hold the 
 river Mahavillaganga in the same veneration as the 
 Ganges is by the Hindoos of Bengal. Its water is con- 
 sidered to be effectual in washing away sin : but dead 
 bodies are never thrown into it. 
 
 The temples of Buddha are chiefly buildings of a 
 -small size, having tiled roofs and plain stone walls, the 
 inside of which together with the ceilings, are covered 
 with historical paintings in miniature, and other orna- 
 ments in gaudy colours. In every complete temple 
 there is one colossal statue of Buddha, in a sleeping 
 posture, before which are hung curtains of printed cot- 
 ton, and only drawn aside when occasion requires. 
 TheBuddhists neverform images of the supreme creator. 
 
110 , ON THE RITES OF BUDDHA. NO. 
 
 A large cupola, raised upon a broad base, stands a near 
 companion to every temple and is said to contain some 
 sacred relic. The priests wear a long yellow garment 
 thrown over one shoulder, girded round the waist, and 
 reaching down to the ankles. The hair of their heads 
 is entirely shaved off, and they walk about without 
 any covering except a round flat umbrella in their hands, 
 or shaded by a talipot leaf carried by attending servants. 
 Before they are received into the priesthood they are 
 obliged to make a solemn renunciation of the world, 
 and to profess a life of celibacy. Their wants are sup- 
 plied by the people, and the most beautiful females of 
 the country attend them in their houses without wages. 
 They enjoy their lands free of taxes, and are honoured 
 to such a degree that wherever they go the people bow 
 down before them, but they bow to none. When they 
 wish to marry they may renounce their order, the cere- 
 mony attending which is, the pulling off their coat, 
 throwing it into a river, and afterward immersing 
 themselves in the stream. — Such are the doctrines of 
 Buddha *, the Ceylonese Messiah ; and such the tradi- 
 tions, the rites, and the faith of his votaries, as far as 
 they have been discovered by the investigations of Eu- 
 ropean research. Y. 
 
 * See An Historical Relation of the Island of Ceylon in the East 
 Indies, by Robert Knox, a captive there for nearly twenty years; Lon- 
 don, 16S1 : and a Description of Ceylon, by the Rev. James Cordin- 
 er late chaplain to the garrison of Columbo, 2 vols. 4to. London, 1807- 
 
Ill 
 
 No. XIII. 
 
 " Say, who is she, in whom the noble graces, 
 The engaging manner, dignity, and ease 
 Are join' d with manly sense and resolution ?" 
 
 Thomson's Alfred, Act II. Scene III. v. 177-9. 
 
 BIOGRAPHY, while it records the details of indi- 
 vidual action, not unfrequently exhibits a picture of 
 popular manners and a delineation of national charac- 
 ter. It, thus, becomes an agreeable source of amuse- 
 ment and a vehicle of useful instruction. When its 
 displays require the imitation of whatever is delightful, 
 or beneficent, or excellent, they attract the observant 
 attention of the virtuous ; and, if they depict what is 
 ignoble, or destructive, or vicious, by genuine imagery, 
 they place a beacon before the eyes of those whom similar 
 propensities may have misled or betrayed. The sub- 
 sequent sketch, with a view to please and inform, will 
 relate the facts and events which marked the fortunes 
 of a magnanimous female and an illustrious queen — 
 Septimia Zenobia, the celebrated princess of Palmyra, 
 and wife of Odenatus, Emperor of the East. 
 
 As the narrative, however, will direct the atten- 
 tion to three different topics, and each of these not un- 
 interesting, it may be convenient to allow them a se- 
 parate consideration. This, then, will include the 
 topography of Palmyra, an account of Odenatus, and 
 the story of Zenobia. 
 
112 PALMYRA. ' NO. 
 
 Palmyra * was the capital of Palmyrene, a coun- 
 try on the eastern boundaries of Syria. By the Arabs 
 who, in modern times, sojourn around it, the ruined 
 city is denominated Theudemor, a name which has in- 
 duced the ingenious to regard it as the same with that 
 which Solomon -f- beautified, and distinguished by the 
 characteristic appellation of Tadmor in the Wilderness. 
 Whoever might have been the founder of the place, 
 both the terms by which it is now known, seem to 
 point out its having abounded with palm trees, to af- 
 ford shade to the dwellers of that sunny land. It was 
 situated in a populous region, at the convergence of 
 two hills, and beyond the point where they approach. 
 The adjacent heights supplied it with water, and the 
 ruins of its aqueducts still remain. It seems to have 
 been a place of some importance antecedently to the 
 days of Solomon, who must have converted it into the 
 emporium of an extensive commerce carried on by his 
 subjects with India and the Persian Gulf. It was oc- 
 cupied by Nabuchadonosor the Babylonian, before he 
 laid seige to Jerusalem, and during the subsequent 
 
 * Pliny, Lib. V. c. 21. and VI. c. 26, SO, where it is represent- 
 ed as being situated in a rich soil, among pleasant streams, and total- 
 ly separated from the rest of the world by avast sandy desart. The 
 celebrated traveler, Bruce, from such observations as he was enabled 
 to make, concluded the latitude of Palmyra to be 33° 58' N. and its 
 longitude 37° 9' E. from Greenwich. He took a draught of the ruins, 
 divided into six angular views, upon large paper, which, on his re- 
 turn he presented to the king, in whose magnificent Collection they 
 now are. 
 
 f Wood's Ruins of Palmyra, folio, London, 1753, and Vclney's 
 Travels in Syria and Egypt, Vol. II. Chap, XXX. 
 
XIII. PALMYRA. 113 
 
 greatness of the Parthians and Romans, it suddenly 
 rose into a powerful and splendid city. 
 
 The authentic history of Palmyra does not com- 
 mence till after the captivity, in A.D. 260, of Valerian 
 the Roman emperor by the Persians. It is first men- 
 tioned, indeed, as a place which Mark Antony at- 
 tempted to plunder, upon pretence that it had not ob- 
 served a just neutrality between his own nation and the 
 Parthians. Under Odenatus, whose services against 
 the Persians procured him to be recognised, by Galli- 
 enus the Roman emperor, as his colleague in the East, 
 the Palmyrenians acquired their independency ; and 
 their city, being frequented by the caravans of the ori- 
 ental merchants, became a considerable seat of traffic 
 daily increasing in splendour and wealth. By the fall 
 of Zenobia it was overwhelmed in ruin, and from be- 
 ing a grand commercial emporium, and a retreat of 
 learning and the arts, it gradually sunk into a miser- 
 able groupe of mud-walled hovels erected amid the 
 most magnificent ruins in the world. 
 
 Since the age of Mahomet, the fortunes of Palmy- 
 ra have attracted little notice. At that period it was 
 considered a place of some importance and strength. 
 In the twelfth century, its population is said to have 
 included two thousand Jews ; but, in 1751, when it 
 was visited by Mr Wood, its humble occupants con- 
 sisted of about thirty families of Arabs, whose huts 
 were constructed in the court of a once spacious tem- 
 ple. These people are well-shaped, and their women, 
 though very swarthy, have good features. They paint 
 
114 PALMYRA. NO. 
 
 the ends of their fingers red, their lips blue, and their 
 eyebrows and eyelashes black. Their ornaments are 
 large rings of gold or brass in their ears and nostrils ; 
 and, although wearing veils, they do not so scrupu- 
 lously conceal their faces as most of the other oriental 
 females. They appear to be a healthy, robust, and hap- 
 py race. 
 
 The ruins of the City of Palms consist chiefly of 
 temples, palaces, porticoes, and funeral monuments. 
 These had been executed in Grecian architecture, and 
 lie scattered over a surface of many miles. The most 
 remarkable of the whole, and occupying a square of 
 two hundred and twenty yards, are the remains of a 
 stately temple of the Sun. It had been surrounded by 
 a lofty wall, built of square stones and adorned with 
 pilasters, both in the interior and exterior ; and these 
 amount to sixty-two on each side. Within the court, 
 are the ruins of two rows of very noble marble pil- 
 lars, thirty-seven feet high, with capitals of the most 
 exquisite workmanship. These seem to have been num- 
 erous, going round the whole court, and supporting a 
 double piazza ; of them, however, only fifty-eight re- 
 main. The walks on that side of the portico, which 
 fronts the castle, must have been very spacious and 
 beautiful. At each end of this line are two niches for 
 statues with their pedestals, borders, supporters, and 
 canopies, carved with extreme propriety and elegance. 
 The space within this inclcsure, now occupied by the 
 miserable huts of the inhabitants, was an open court, 
 in the middle of which stood the Solar Temple, en- 
 
xnr. PALMYRA. 115 
 
 compassed by another row of pillars, of a different or- 
 der, and fifty feet in height. These are all demolish- 
 ed to the number of sixteen. The whole space con- 
 tained within the pillars is fifty-nine, by twenty-nine 
 yards, of which one half constituted the site of the 
 temple. This points north and south, having, in the 
 middle of the western side, a most magnificent en- 
 trance, on the ruins of which are carved some vines and 
 clusters of grapes, in an inconceivably bold and master- 
 ly imitation of nature. Immediately above the door, 
 are a pair of wings, either of an eagle or a cherub, ex- 
 tending over the whole breadth; but the body to which 
 they belonged is totally effaced. The north end of the 
 building is adorned with the most curious fret-work and 
 bas-relief; and, in the middle, there is a dome or cu- 
 pola about ten feet in diameter. The windows, which 
 are not large, are narrower at the top than below. 
 North of this place, is an obelisk, fifty feet high and 
 twelve in circumference, consisting of seven large stones, 
 besides its capital and the wreathed work about it. At 
 the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, to the east 
 and west of this, are two others with the fragment of 
 a third, forming, perhaps, a part of what had origin- 
 ally been a continued row. About one hundred paces, 
 in front of the middle obelisk, is a splendid entry to a 
 piazza, forty feet broad, half a mile in length, and 
 inclosed with two rows of marble pillars, each twenty- 
 six feet high, and four in diameter. The upper end is 
 shut in by similar pillars, standing less distant. A Ut- 
 ile to the left are the ruins of a stately building, which 
 
116 PALMYRA. NO. 
 
 had been erected of excellent marble, and finished in a 
 style of superior elegance. The pillars which support- 
 ed it, are of one entire stone, measuring twenty-two 
 feet in length, and nearly nine in circumference. In 
 the west side of the piazza are several openings for 
 gates into the court of the palace, each of which 
 was adorned with four porphyry pillars, standing two 
 on each side in the front of the gate facing the palace. 
 These were thirty feet long, and four and a half in di- 
 ameter; but, excepting one, are all overturned. On 
 the east side, stand a great number of marble pillars, 
 the most of which are mutilated. At a little distance 
 are the remains of a little temple, unroofed, and hav- 
 ing the walls defaced. Before the entry, which looks 
 to the south, is a piazza supported by six pillars, two 
 on each side of the door and one at either end. The 
 pedestals of those in front have been filled with inscrip- 
 tions * in the Greek and Palmyrenian languages ; but 
 they are now rendered totally illegible. 
 
 Among the ruins of this once splendid city are many 
 sepulchres, ranged on each side of a hollow way, to- 
 ward the north part of the city, and extend more than 
 
 * See Universal Ancient History, Vol. II. p. 176, 258, 273-8 ; Phil- 
 osophieal Transactions, Nos. CCXVII andCCXVIII.; An Explication 
 of the Inscriptions at Palmyra hitherto published, by John Swinton, 
 of Christ- Church, Oxford; Barthelemy's Reflections on the Palmyrene 
 Alphabet, Paris, 1754; and The Ruins of Palmyra, or Tadmor in 
 the Desert, by Wood, Bouverie, and Dawkins, who traveled there in 
 1751, and published the result of their observations, in 1753, in the 
 form of an atlas of 57 copperplates, 16, by 12 inches, printed on 
 imperial paper. They are admirably executed; the drawing is correct 
 and masterly, and the engraving elegant and exquisitely finished. 
 
xnr. ODENATUS. lit 
 
 a mile. They are all square towers, four or five stor- 
 eys high ; but, though alike in form, differ greatly in 
 magnitude and splendour. The outside is of common 
 stone, the floors and partitions of marble. There is a 
 walk across the whole building, just in the middle; 
 and the space on each side is formed into six divisions 
 by thick walls, forming niches capable of receiving the 
 the largest bodies, of which six or seven are piled up- 
 on one another. Such was the state of the ruins of the 
 City of Zenobia, according to the survey of the latest 
 travelers in that interesting region. During the lapse 
 of years, however, they must be subjected to diminu- 
 tion from the wasteful influence of age and decay, and 
 to destruction from the malignant ignorance of the 
 rude hordes that roam around them. — An account of 
 Odenatus, the enterprising prince under whom Pal- 
 myra assumed a temporary independency will now in- 
 vite the attention, and may be so far entertaining as it 
 unfolds the progressive success of a vigorous mind. 
 
 The origin and birth of Odenatus has not been de- 
 tailed by the pen of history. It is only known, that 
 from an obscure and private station he became the hus- 
 band of Zenobia, and Emperor of the East. Being 
 naturally of a daring and ardent spirit, he early in- 
 ured himself to bear fatigue and to encounter danger. 
 While prosecuting the pursuits of pleasure and amuse- 
 ment, in the hunting of wild beasts, he accustomed 
 himself to the labours of a military life. He was a 
 faithful friend and intrepid ally of the Romans, in sup- 
 port of whose interests he employed the resources of 
 
118 ODENATUS. N(U 
 
 his kingdom with energy and success. When Valerian 
 had been taken prisoner by Sapor king of Persia, O- 
 denatus warmly interested himself in his cause, and 
 solicited his release, by writing and sending presents 
 to the conqueror. The haughty monarch was incensed 
 at this liberty, tore the letter, and commanded the ac- 
 companying presents to be thrown into a river. In 
 order, at the same time, to punish Odenatus, who had 
 the impudence, as he called it, to pay homage to so 
 great a monarch as himself, he directed that prince to 
 appear before him, on pain of being devoted to instant 
 destruction with all his family, if he dared to refuse. 
 Odenatus contemned this insolent summons, and pre- 
 pared to oppose force to force. 
 
 In the contest which succeeded, the fortune of the 
 Palmyrenian monarch was equal to his expectation and 
 the justice of his cause. He soon obtained some consid- 
 erable advantages over the troops of his enemy, whose 
 queen he took prisoner, together with a great and valua- 
 ble booty. His splendid victories over the Great King, 
 whom he twice chased to the gates of Ctesiphon, the 
 Persian capital, laid the foundation of his future fame 
 and power. In all these expeditions he was emulated by 
 the heroical Zenobia, and the armies which they com- 
 manded, and the provinces they saved, acknowledged 
 no other sovereign than these invincible chiefs. The sen- 
 ate and people of Rome observed their services with 
 gratitude, and revered a stranger who had avenged their 
 captive emperor, whose insensible son, Gallienus, ac- 
 cepted Odenatus for his legitimate colleague in the em- 
 
XIII. ODENATUS. 119 
 
 pire, giving the title of Augustus to his children, and that 
 of Augusta to his magnanimous consort and queen. 
 
 Odenatus, invested with new honours and greater 
 power, resolved to signalize himself more conspicuous- 
 ly by conquering the barbarians of the north. Having 
 made a successful expedition against the Gothic plun- 
 derers of Asia, he returned in triumph to the city of 
 Emesa in Syria. Victorious in war, he was there cut 
 off by domestic treason ; and his favourite amusement 
 of hunting was the cause, or at least the occasion of 
 his death. His nephew, Mseonius, presumed to dart 
 his javelin before that of his uncle ; and, though ad- 
 monished of his error, repeated the same insolence. 
 As a monarch and as a sportsman, Odenatus was pro- 
 voked ; took away his horse, a mark of ignominy a- 
 mong the oriental nations, and chastised the rash youth 
 by a short confinement. The offence was soon forgot- 
 ten ; but the punishment was remembered. Mse- 
 onius, with a few daring associates, assassinated his 
 uncle, in A. D. 267, in the midst of a great entertain- 
 ment. But the murderer obtained only the pleasure 
 of revenge by this bloody deed. He had scarcely time 
 to assume the Imperial title, before he was sacrificed 
 by Zenobia * to the memory of her husband. 
 
 * Trebellius Pollio, in Historic Augustas Scriptores Sex, folio, 
 Paris, 1620. The beginning of Pollio's history is lost : part of the 
 reign of Valerian, and the Lives of the two Gallieni, with those of 
 the Thirty Tyrants, are the only fragments remaining. The author 
 flourished in the beginning of the fourth century. See also Lempriere's 
 Classical Dictionary, in vo ; and Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the 
 Roman Empire, Vol. II. Chap. XI. p. 28, 29. 
 
120 ZENOBIA. NO. 
 
 Europe has produced many illustrious women, who 
 have sustained with glory the weight of empire. Nor 
 has our own country, so abundant in heroes and feats 
 of splendid heroism, been destitute of such distinguish- 
 ed and illustrious characters. But Zenobia is, perhaps, 
 the only female whose superior genius broke through 
 the servile indolence imposed upon her sex by the clim- 
 ate and manners of the East. She claimed her descent 
 from the Macedonian kings of Egypt, and boasted the 
 blood of Cleopatra, whom she equaled in beauty, and 
 far surpassed in virtue and valour. 
 
 Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely as well as 
 the most heroic of her sex. She was of a dark com- 
 plexion, having teeth of a pearly whiteness, and fine 
 large black eyes, sparkling with uncommon fire, but 
 tempered by the most attractive sweetness. Her voice 
 was strong and harmonious, and her manly understand- 
 ing was strengthened by study. Under the tuition of 
 the sublime Longinus *, she became skilled in the Latin 
 tongue, and understood, in perfection, the Greek, the 
 
 * Dionysius Cassius Longinus was a celebrated Athenian philo- 
 sopher and critic. He became preceptor and minister to Zenobia, 
 but his zeal and spirited activity in her cause proved, at last, fatal to 
 him. When Aurelian subdued Palmyra, in A. D. 273, he was sacri- 
 ficed to the fury of the Roman soldiers. He exemplified the truth of 
 his doctrines by the magnanimity and resolution which he displayed 
 at his death. Longinus has rendered his name immortal by his criti- 
 cal remarks on ancient authors ; and his Treatise on the Sublime gives 
 the world reason to lament the loss of his other valuable compositions. 
 — The best editions of his works are, that of Tollius, 4to. Trajecti 
 ad Rhenum, 1694; and that of Toup, 8vo. Oxon. 1778. Vide Lem- 
 priere in vo. 
 
SJ1I. ZENbBIA. 121 
 
 Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. She familiarly 
 compared the beauties of Homer and Plato ; and had 
 drawn up, for her own use, an epitome of oriental his- 
 tory. Zenobia was, indeed, a princess of extraordi- 
 nary virtue and energy, being, at the same time, beau- 
 tiful, chaste, learned, valiant, enterprising, and wise. 
 
 This most accomplished woman, having given her 
 hand to Odenatus, soon became the friend and the 
 companion of a hero. He was passionately fond of 
 hunting, and the manly sports of the field. He pur- 
 sued with ardour the wild beasts of the desart — bears, 
 panthers, and lions ; and the eagerness of the queen 
 was equal to his own. By such vigorous exercises, she 
 inured her constitution to fatigue, and her mind to dan- 
 ger. Disdaining the use of a covered carriage, she 
 generally appeared on horseback in a military habit, 
 and sometimes marched several miles on foot at the 
 head of her troops. Her judgment and activity were 
 not inferior to her resolution ; and the success of O- 
 denatus must, in a great measure, be ascribed to her in- 
 comparable prudence and fortitude. 
 
 By the death of Odenatus, whose assassins Zeno- 
 bia instantly sacrificed to indignant justice, that author- 
 ity, which the Roman senate had granted him only as 
 a personal distinction, was at an end. With the as- 
 sistance of his most faithful friends, she, however, 
 immediately filled the vacant throne ; and, during more 
 than five years, governed, with wisdom and vigour. 
 Palmyra, Syria, and the East. When Rome and her 
 effeminate emperor, Gallienus, disapproved of her as--. 
 
122 ZENOBIA. NO, 
 
 sumption of the sovereign power, she opposed the 
 Roman troops, and compelled Heraclianus, one of their 
 generals, who had been sent against her, to retreat with 
 the loss of his army and reputation. Pursuing her 
 success, the intrepid heroine over-ran Egypt, and af- 
 ter a long and obstinate siege, took Bruchium, the 
 citadel of Alexandria, and entirely destroyed it. Pro- 
 bus, the commander of the Roman troops, in that 
 province, to avoid falling into the hands of the victor- 
 ious queen, dispatched himself with his own sword. 
 
 The wisdom of Zenobia^s political administration 
 was equal to her vigour in the field. Unbiased by the 
 little passions that perplex a female reign, her steady 
 government was guided by most judicious maxims of 
 policy. If it were expedient to pardon, she could calm 
 her resentment : if it were necessary to punish, she 
 could impose silence on the voice of pity. Her strict 
 economy might be accused of avarice ; yet on every 
 proper occasion she appeared magnificent and liberal. 
 The neighbouring states of Arabia, Armenia, and Per- 
 sia, dreaded her enmity, and solicited her alliance. 
 Her dominions extended from the banks of the Eu- 
 phrates to the western frontiers of Egypt, then, a fer- 
 tile, populous, and flourishing kingdom. The emper- 
 or Claudius, who had succeeded Gallienus, acknow- 
 ledged her merit, and was content that while he pursued 
 the Gothic war, she should assert the dignity of the 
 Empire in the East. If ever Zenobia erred in policy, 
 ambition now betrayed her to assume a false dignity, and 
 to enter into a labyrinth of rashness, difficulty, and 
 
XIII. 2EN0BIA. 123 
 
 danger. Presuming on the existing embarrassments of 
 Rome, she appears to have conceived the design of e- 
 rec'ting not only an independent monarchy, but one 
 hostile to the former allies of her state. She began, 
 at this period, to assume the grandeur of a queen, im- 
 itating the pomp and magnificence of the Persian raon- 
 archs, and causing all who presented themselves before 
 her, to fall prostrate after the manner of the Oriental 
 courts. With this stately pomp she blended the popu- 
 lar manners of the Roman emperors, giving magnificent 
 entertainments, and joining in scenes of festivity with 
 the officers of her army. On her three sons * she be- 
 stowed a classical education, and often showed them 
 to the troops adorned with the regalia of empire and 
 robed in the imperial purple. For herself she re- 
 served the diadem, with the power of a sovereign, and 
 the splendid title of Queen of the East. 
 
 The glorious career of Zenobia was now hastening 
 towards its termination. By the death of the great 
 and excellent Flavius Claudius, the supreme power 
 devolved upon Aurelian, a prince of stern manners and 
 consummate valour. He was the son of a Sirmiau 
 peasant ; and, from the place of a common soldier, rose, 
 by regular gradations, to be head of the vast Roman 
 empire. In every station he distinguished himself by 
 
 * Their names were Timolaus, Herennianus, and Vaballathus, 
 of whom the two former are supposed to have died before the over- 
 throw of their country. Upon the last, Aurelian bestowed a small pro- 
 vince of Armenia, with the title of king. Several of his medals are 
 still extant. Vide Le Nain de TiHemont Hist, des Emp. -3to. Paris. 
 3 TOO, Tom. Hi. p. 3 • 90. 
 
 Q 2 
 
124 ZENOBIA. NO. 
 
 matchless intrepidity, rigid discipline, and successful 
 conduct. By the emperor Valerian, who invested him 
 with the consulship, he was styled, in the pompous 
 language of that age, the Deliverer of Illyricum, the 
 Restorer of Gaul, and the Rival of the Scipios. He 
 was adopted by Ulpius Crinitus *, a senator of high 
 rank and merit, who gave him his daughter in mar- 
 riage ; and, with his ample fortune, relieved the honour- 
 able poverty which Aurelian had preserved inviolate. 
 
 Being admitted to that dignity, by the senate and 
 army, to which his predecessor had recommended him, 
 Aurelian entered upon his administration with energy, 
 prudence, and a rigid attention to justice. By his se- 
 vere discipline he rendered his troops obedient, frugal, 
 and laborious ; and, having suppressed the feeble efforts 
 of a rival, repelled the predatory Goths, vanquished the 
 Alemanni, and subdued two usurpers, he prepared, in 
 A. D. 272, to annihilate the pretensions and power of 
 the Queen of the East. Passing over into Asia at the 
 head of his legions, he reduced to obedience or received 
 the submission of Ancyra, Tyana, Antioch, and other 
 places, and reconciled the minds of the Syrians to the 
 Roman government, either by an unexpected mildness 
 of conduct, or by the terror of his arms. 
 
 Zenoeia would have ill-deserved her reputation, 
 had she indolently permitted the army of her enemy to 
 
 * The ceremony of his adoption, which was performed at Byzan- 
 tium in the presence of the emperor and the chief officers of the state.. 
 is described in Aureliani Vita ap. Hist. August, p. 213. 
 
XIH, ZENOBIA. 125 
 
 advance within a hundred miles of her capital. From 
 Tyana, Aurelian led his troops straight to Antioch, in 
 the neighbourhood of which he defeated the Palmyren- 
 ian forces, in an engagement the success of which he 
 owed more to a stratagem than to the superior bravery 
 of his men. Zenobia retired to Emesa with her army, 
 consisting of seventy thousand men. By her presence 
 she animated the soldiers, and on Zabdas, an officer 
 of great courage and experience, who had already sig- 
 nalized himself by the conquest of Egypt, she devolv- 
 ed the execution of her orders. Aurelian led on, to a se- 
 cond attack, the hardy veterans whose valour had been 
 severely tried in the Alemannic war, and, in a well- 
 fought action, was again victorious. This defeat obliged 
 the heroine to retreat to Palmyra, the last resource of 
 her waning power. She retired within the walls of 
 her capital, made every preparation for a vigorous re- 
 sistance, and intrepidly declared, that the last moment 
 of her reign and her life should be the same. 
 
 Aurelian immediately invested the City of Palms ; 
 and, by repeated assaults, endeavoured to carry it. 
 Proving unsuccessful, however, in all his efforts, he be- 
 gan to batter it with every warlike engine known in that 
 martial age. Animated by the example of their coura- 
 geous queen, her people repulsed the aggressors with 
 showers of arrows, darts, and stones. The emperor, at 
 length, becoming quite tired of the toils and fatigues of 
 so long a siege, wrote a letter to Zenobia, promising her 
 honourable terms, and exhorting her to submit. To this 
 she returned the following spirited answer. " No man 
 
126 ZENOIUA. NO. 
 
 " ever, before you, made such a demand. It is not 
 " by letters, but by valour, that you must induce me 
 " to submit. You cannot but know, that Cleopatra 
 " chose rather to die than live under Augustus, not- 
 " withstanding the great promises he made to her. I 
 " expect daily the Persians, Saracens, and Armenians, 
 " who are all hastening to my relief. What will, then, 
 " become of you and your army, whom the robbers of 
 " Syria have put to flight ? You will then lay aside 
 " that pride and presumption, with which you command 
 " me to surrender, as if you were the conqueror of the 
 " universe *." — 
 
 The haughty Roman, though picquedby the scorn 
 of this reply, was not to be deceived from his purpose. 
 He immediately ordered a general assault to be made 
 upon the place ; in which, however, he was repulsed 
 with great loss, and obliged to give up the attempt. He 
 was more fortunate, some days after, in an attack he 
 directed against the Persians, who were coming to the 
 assistance of the besieged ; and, by menaces and pro- 
 mises, prevailed upon her other allies to join him against 
 the queen whom they expected to assist. Zenobia, 
 being thus disappointed, and despairing of being able 
 to hold out much longer with her own forces, resolved 
 to withdraw privately from the city into Persia, and 
 there, in person, to solicit more powerful supplies. Ac- 
 cordingly she set out, at midnight, with a small reti- 
 nue on fleet dromedaries, carrying away part of her 
 
 * Aureliam Vita in Hist. August, p. 218. and Un. Ant. Hist. Vol, 
 XV. p. 455. 
 
ZENOBIA. 
 
 127 
 
 jewels and treasures. Aurelian, however, was too alert 
 to permit such a prize to escape. Having received 
 timely notice of her flight, he detached a party of light 
 horse to intercept her progress. These, coming up with 
 her when about to cross the Euphrates in a boat, seiz- 
 ed and carried her back to the conqueror, who, from 
 that moment, began to consider himself sole lord of the 
 East. The city of Palmyra * soon after submitted, 
 and was treated with a lenity as unusual in the Roman 
 commander as it was unexpected by the citizens. 
 
 Aurelian, having thus recovered and settled the 
 eastern provinces, returned by Chalcedon and Byzan- 
 tium into Europe, carrying with him his illustrious 
 captive. His triumph, however, was degraded by an 
 ignoble vengeance, and his renown sullied by the per- 
 petration of cruelty. To these ungenerous passions he 
 sacrificed several patriots of Palmyra, because the wis- 
 dom of their counsels had governed the weakness of 
 their queen's sex, and their vigour prolonged the ob- 
 stinacy of her resistance. Of this number was the cel- 
 ebrated Longinus, whose fame will survive that of the 
 ruthless tyrant who condemned him. When the Syrian 
 queen was brought into the victor's presence, he stern- 
 
 '* Aurelian had only reached Thrace cm his homeward route, 
 when the Palmyrenians revolted, put the Roman governor and gar- 
 rison to the sword, and proclaimed Antiochus, one of the royal line, 
 their sovereign. The emperor, on receiving this intelligence, hasted 
 hack into Syria, and, arriving before Palmyra ere the inhabitants had 
 any notice of his march, took the city by assault, and put all the citi- 
 zens, without distinction of age or sex, to the sword. Id. ibid. 
 
128 ZENOBTA. ISO. 
 
 ly asked, how she had presumed to rise in arms against 
 the emperors of Rome ? Her answer displayed a pru- 
 dent mixture of respect and firmness. " Because," 
 said she, " I disdained to consider as Roman emper- 
 " ors an Aureolus or a Gallienus. You alone I acknow- 
 " ledge as my conqueror and my sovereign *."" 
 
 But the humiliation of Zenobia did not terminate 
 with her degradation from empire. She was compelled, 
 by her ignominy, to swell the triumph of the stern 
 Aurelian. Since the foundation of Rome, no general 
 had, perhaps, so nobly won this high honour ; and it 
 was celebrated with superior pride and magnificence. 
 The pompous exhibition was opened by twenty ele- 
 phants, four royal tigers, and above two hundred of 
 the most curious animals from every climate of the 
 North, the East, and the South. These were followed 
 by sixteen hundred gladiators, devoted to the cruel a- 
 musement of the amphitheatre. The wealth of Asia, 
 the arms and ensigns of so many conquered nations, 
 and the magnificent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian 
 queen, were disposed in exact symmetry or artful dis-* 
 order. There were four royal chariots — the first, 
 which had belonged to Odenatus, was entirely covered 
 with silver, gold, and jewels— another, equally rich, 
 was a present to Aurelian from the king of Persia-— 
 the third was Zenobia's own chariot — and the fourth, 
 which was drawn by four stags, had been taken by the 
 emperor from a Gothic prince. The ambassadors of the 
 
 * Trebellius Pollio in Hist. August. Scrip. Sex, p. 199. 
 
XIII. ZENOBIA. 129 
 
 most remote nations, all remarkable for the singular- 
 ity or richness of their dresses, displayed the fame and 
 power of Aurelian, who exposed, likewise, to the pub- 
 lic view the presents he had received, and particularly 
 a great number of crowns of gold, the offerings of 
 grateful cities. His victories were, at the same time 
 attested by the multitude of captives *, who, marching 
 with their hands tied behind their backs, augmented 
 this extraordinary procession. Each people was dis- 
 tinguished by a peculiar inscription, and ten Gothic 
 heroines were honoured with the appellation of Ama- 
 zons: But every eye, disregarding the crowd of cap- 
 tives, was fixed upon the humbled Tetricus a Roman 
 senator who had assumed the purple, and the Queen 
 of the East. This unfortunate prince, as well as his 
 son, whom he had created Augustus, was dressed in 
 Gaulic trowsers, a saffron tunic, and a robe of purple. 
 Next to them marched Zenobia, whose uncommon 
 beauty, noble stature, and majestic mien, attracted the 
 eyes of the spectators, and seemed to eclipse the em- 
 peror himself. Her beauteous figure was confined by 
 fetters of gold. A slave, robed in the most rich and 
 gaudy attire, supported the golden chain which encir- 
 cled her neck : and she was so loaded with pearls, pre- 
 
 * These consisted of Goths, Alans, Roxolans, Sarmatians, Franks, 
 Suevians, Vandals, Alemans, Blemyes, Auxumites, Arabians, Eudas- 
 monians, Indians, Bactrians, Iberians, Saracens, Armenians, Persians, 
 Palmyrenians, Egyptians; together with some Gothic women whom 
 Aurelian had taken fighting in the armour and habit of men. — Flavi- 
 ns Vopiscus describes this triumph with much minuteness in Historic 
 ^ugustse Scriptores Sex, p. 220. He wrote, about A. D. 303. 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
130 ZENOBIA. NO. 
 
 cious stones, and other splendid decorations, that she 
 was often obliged to halt, being ready to faint under 
 the intolerable weight of her jewels. She was follow- 
 ed by the triumphal chariot of the conqueror, behind 
 which were ranged the senate and the people of Rome 
 with their various standards. The victorious legions 
 closed the rear. They were equipped in rich and splen- 
 did armour, with crowns of laurel on their heads, and 
 branches of palm-trees, the symbols of victory, in their 
 hands. In the Capitol, Aurelian sacrificed to Jupiter, 
 the four stags that had drawn his chariot, after which 
 he proceeded to the palace, attended by immense crowds 
 of the Roman people, who gratified his pride by loud 
 shouts of gratulation and applause. The next and se- 
 veral following days were enlivened by plays, races in 
 the circus, shews of gladiators, combats of wild-beasts, 
 sea-fights in the Naumachia, and all sorts of public fes- 
 tivities and entertainments. So grand was the Triumph 
 of Aurelian, in which the illustrious Queen of the City 
 of Palms was compelled to act so conspicuous a part. 
 
 However Aurelian might indulge his pride by the 
 humiliation of his magnanimous captive, he afterwards 
 treated her with a generous clemency, which was sel- 
 dom exercised by the ancient conquerors. He gave to 
 Zenobia lands and possessions in the neighbourhood of 
 Tibur *, sufficient to maintain her in a princely rank. 
 On that estate she lived, like a Roman matron, with 
 
 * Now Tivoli upon the banks of a small river which falls into 
 the Tiber, and about twenty miles north-east from the city of Rome. 
 
XIII. ZENOBIA. 131 
 
 her daughters, one of whom the emperor is said to have 
 married, while her mother became the wife of an illus- 
 trious Roman senator. The rest were united to per- 
 sons of the first quality in the city. Her descendants 
 lived at Rome in great magnificence towards the end 
 of the fourth century ; and Zenobius *, the venerable 
 bishop of Florence, who was contemporary with St. 
 Ambrose, is believed to have been a descendant of her 
 family. — Such were the interesting scenes which occu- 
 pied a considerable portion of Zenobia's eventful life, 
 and such the instructive vicissitudes, whereby her va- 
 rious fortune may engage the intention of a reflective 
 mind. 
 
 Aurelian did not long survive this scene of splen- 
 did magnificence. Conscious of the character in which 
 nature and experience had enabled him to excel, he 
 again took the field a few months after his triumph. 
 His object was to punish the Persian monarch who, 
 exulting in the shame of Valerian, still braved with 
 impunity the offended majesty of Rome. At the head 
 of*a valiant and welL-disciplined army he had proceed- 
 ed on his expedition to the vicinity of Byzantium, when 
 he was assassinated, in October A. D. 274, by Mucapor, 
 a general whom he had always loved and trusted. He 
 died regretted by the army, detested by the senate, but 
 universally acknowledged a warlike and fortunate prince, 
 the useful, though severe, reformer of a degenerate state. 
 
 M. 
 
 * Baronius is of this opinion, ad Ann. Doni. CCLXX1V. Vide, 
 rdinalis Baronii Annales Ecclesiastici, folio, 12 Tom. RoniEe, 1580. 
 R 2 
 
132 ON GOVERNING 
 
 No. XIV. 
 
 " / saw the virtuous man contend 
 With life's unnumbered woes ; 
 
 And he was poor — without a friend- 
 Press' d by a thousand foes. 
 
 iC I saw the Passion's pliant slave 
 
 In gallant trim, and gay ; 
 His course was Pleasure's placid wave, 
 
 His life a summer day. — 
 
 " And I was caught in Folly's snare, 
 
 And join 'd her giddy train — 
 But found her soon the nurse of Care, 
 
 And Punishment, and Pain. 
 
 cc There surely is some guiding Power 
 
 Which rightly suffers wrong — 
 Gives Vice to bloom its little hour — 
 But Virtue, late and long !" 
 Stanzas by Camoens, Ld. Strangford's Trans, p. 4$. 
 
 PASSIONS and appetites have been implanted in 
 men by their Maker for the wisest and best of purpos-r 
 es. Divested of these, they would become inanimate, 
 useless beings, without excitement to action, and in- 
 sensible to objects of laudable and virtuous desire 
 As, however, they have been placed within the human 
 breast to excite emulation, to promote inquiries of im- 
 
XIV. THE PASSIONS. 133 
 
 provement and beneficence, to foster a well-regulated 
 ambition, and to stimulate the energies of the soul, it 
 becomes a concern of the highest importance to provide 
 for them a rational control and a wise direction. If 
 they be allowed to gain an ascendancy over the mind, 
 its liberty is annihilated, and it sinks, overwhelmed, 
 beneath the weight of the most degrading and peri- 
 lous slavery. But, if they be subjected to rules of or- 
 der, morality, and religion, they are made to answer 
 the nobler purposes to which, by the will of Heaven, 
 they have been intended. It is then, that they become 
 the pleasing source of uncontaminated enjoyment, of 
 intellectual pleasure, and of grateful piety. Thus the 
 proper government of the passions becomes a duty as 
 indispensable as it is delightful to an upright mind. 
 
 In the heart of every human being there exists some 
 predominant passion to which all others are subordin- 
 ate. With diligence, therefore, it behoves him to ap- 
 ply himself to the discovery of that desire, by which 
 he is chiefly influenced. In this research he will ac- 
 quire a knowledge of his peculiar propensities together 
 with the discovery of his own imperfection and weak- 
 ness. He must not, however humiliating the inquiry, 
 pause at this part of his progress. He must, assidu- 
 ously and closely, scrutinize the most secret recesses 
 of his soul, and regulate his conduct by the result of his 
 observations. These will soon compel him to confess 
 his imbecillity, and, perhaps reluctantly, induce him 
 to look around for directive aid. Amid the objects of 
 creation this is not to be found. While, therefore, he 
 
134 ON GOVERNING NO. 
 
 commences the difficult task of subduing his passions 
 by subjecting them to the dictates of prudence and the 
 rules of enlightened reason, let him uplift the humble 
 eye of a suppliant to the Omnipotent, and implore the 
 help of him, who is abundant in goodness and mighty 
 to save. 
 
 Nature is content with little, but luxury knows 
 no bounds. The necessary wants of man are simple 
 and easily satisfied ; but, by an indulgence of the pas- 
 sions, imaginary and artificial desires are created, and 
 he becomes involved in a maze of incessant embarrass- 
 ments during his search after something wherewith to 
 gratify them. Without suppressing industrious activi- 
 ty, or restraining laudable enterprize, let the youthful 
 and the vigorous endeavour to cherish contentment, 
 to cultivate moderation, and to acquire temperate ha- 
 bits. From these a pleasure will be derived which re- 
 fines the mind, invigorates the body, improves proper- 
 ty, renders man superior to fortune, and places him 
 out of the reach of adversity. The mind thus attem- 
 pered will become the seat of exquisite felicity — of 
 that happiness which only satiates but never cloys — 
 and of that virtue which is the parent of regular passions, 
 of sweet resignation, of happy youth, of vigorous old- 
 age, and of long life free from many an hour of lan- 
 gour, remorse, and pain. 
 
 From a review of the honour and advantages to be 
 derived from a rational subordination of the passions, 
 let the attention be directed to the consequences of an 
 unfettered gratification of licentious desire. By its 
 
XIV. THE PASSIONS. 135 
 
 powerful influence, many an unhappy being has been 
 led, in triumph, in the train of error and infamy ; and, 
 in defiance of the most disastrous consequences, has 
 been impelled by his headlong appetites to persist in 
 the quest of sensual indulgence. Unlessoned by ex- 
 perience, which should have taught him to know the 
 fatal end of an unbridled career, he proceeds on his 
 course, and is only convinced of its preposterous folly 
 by the completion of his mortification, disappointment, 
 and misery. 
 
 Among the other fell passions that disturb and de- 
 grade the human heart, that of anger is neither the 
 least unruly, nor the least conspicuous. By a sage of 
 older times it has been denominated madness ; and 
 surely he is mad, who is the child of wrath and whose 
 soul is the seat of rage. Like the other turbulent pas- 
 sions that assail our feeble nature, this ought, though 
 difficult and painful the contest, to be combated by a 
 resolute and vigorous exertion of our powers and re- 
 sources at our entrance upon the stage of life. At that 
 period, pleasure, interest, business, power, honour, 
 fame, and all the follies and all the corruptions of this 
 world, combine to allure the mind from the paths of 
 rectitude. But, on him who, in the beginning of his 
 days, " has kept himself unspotted from the world," all 
 its subsequent attractions, all its magnificence, wealth, 
 and splendour, will make little impression. A mind 
 that has become habituated to discipline, restraint, and 
 self-command, will have nothing to apprehend from 
 the most powerful temptations. Knowing well its own 
 
136 ON GOVERNING NO. 
 
 strength and its own weakness, such will ever be upon 
 its guard ; and, while it places an humble confidence in 
 the omnipotence of the divine goodness to support it, 
 and looks forward to an eternity of happiness as the re- 
 ward of its well-doing, what is there that can shake its 
 constancy or corrupt its fidelity ? 
 
 This paper may now be instructively concluded by 
 an example of neglect to acquire the habit of a strict 
 and constant self-government. It will exhibit the pic- 
 ture of a soul which aspired to give laws to the World, 
 without having been able to control its own vehement 
 and wrathful propensities. It is the story of Alexan- 
 der *, who, in a fit of intoxicated rage, murdered one 
 of his ablest warriors and most faithful servants — 
 Clitus, his familiar friend and foster-brother, who had 
 saved his life in a sanguinary engagement. 
 
 " It happened in the following manner: the king 
 had some Grecian fruit brought him from on board a 
 vessel, and as he greatly admired its freshness and beau- 
 ty, he desired Clitus to see it and partake of it. It 
 happened that Clitus was offering sacrifice that day ; 
 but he left it to wait upon the king. Three of the 
 sheep on which the libation was already poured, fol- 
 lowed him. The king, informed of that accident, con- 
 sulted his soothsayers, Aristander and Cleomantes the 
 Spartan, upon it ; and they assured him it was a very 
 bad omen. He, therefore, ordered the victims to be 
 
 * See Langhorne's Plutarch's Lives, London Edition, 1805- 
 Vol. IV. p. 192-3-4-5. 
 
XIV. THE PASSIONS. 137 
 
 Immediately offered for the health of Clitus ; the rath- 
 er, because three days before he had a strange and a- 
 larming dream, in which Clitus appeared in mourning, 
 sitting by the dead sons of Parmenio. However, be- 
 fore the sacrifice was finished, Clitus went to sup with 
 the king, who that day had been paying his homage to 
 Castor and Pollux. 
 
 " After they were warmed with drinking, somebody 
 began to sing the verses of one Pranicus, or, as others 
 will have it, of Pierio, written in ridicule of the Mace- 
 donian officers who had been beaten by the barbarians. 
 The older part of the company were greatly offended 
 at it, and condemned both the poet and the singer ; but 
 Alexander, and those about him, listened with pleasure, 
 and bade him go on. Clitus, who by this time had 
 drank too much, and was naturally rough and forward, 
 could not bear their behaviour. He said, " It was not 
 " well done to make a jest, and that among barbarians 
 " and enemies, of Macedonians who were much better 
 c ' men than the laughers, though they had met with a 
 " misfortune." Alexander made answer, " That Clitus 
 " was pleading his own cause, when he gave cowardice 
 *' the soft name of misfortune. 1 '' Then Clitus started 
 up, and said, " Yet it was this cowardice that saved 
 44 you, son of Jupiter as you are, when you were turn- 
 " ing your back to the sword of Spithridates. It is by 
 " the blood of the Macedonians and these wounds that 
 " you are grown so great, that you disdain to acknow- 
 " ledge Philip for your father, and will needs pass your- 
 " self for the son of Jupiter Amnion." 
 
138 ON GOVERNING NO. 
 
 " Irritated by this insolence, Alexander replied, " It 
 " is in this villainous manner thou talkest of me in all 
 " companies, and stirrest up the Macedonians to mu- 
 " tiny ; but dost thou think to enjoy it long ?" « And 
 " what do we now enjoy ?" said Clitus ; " what reward 
 " have we for all our toils ? Do we not envy those 
 " who did not live to see Macedonians bleed under Me- 
 *' dian rods, or sue to Persians for access to their king? - " 
 While Clitus went on in this rash manner, and the king 
 retorted upon him with equal bitterness, the old men 
 interposed, and endeavoured to allay the flame. Mean- 
 time Alexander turned to Xenodochus the Cardian, 
 and Artemius the Colophonian, and said, " Do not the 
 44 Greeks appear to you among the Macedonians like 
 " demigods among so many wild beasts ?" Clitus, far 
 from giving up the dispute, called upon Alexander " To 
 " speak out what he had to say, or not to invite free- 
 " men to his table, who would declare their sentiments 
 * : without reserve. But, perhaps," continued he, " it 
 " were better to pass your life with barbarians and 
 " slaves, who will worship your Persian girdle and 
 " white robe without scruple." 
 
 " Alexander, no longer able to restrain his anger, 
 threw an apple at his face, and then looked about for 
 his sword. But Aristophanes, one of his guards, had 
 taken it away in time, and the company gathered about 
 him, and entreated him to be quiet. Their remonstran- 
 ces, however, were vain. He broke from them, and 
 called out, in the Macedonian language, for his guards, 
 which was the signal of a great tumult. At the same 
 
XIV. THE PASSIONS. 139 
 
 time he ordered the trumpeter to sound, and struck 
 him with his fist, upon his discovering an unwillingness 
 to obey. This man was afterwards held in great es- 
 teem, because he prevented the whole army from being 
 alarmed. 
 
 " As Clitus would not make the least submission, his 
 friends, with much ado, forced him out of the room : 
 but he soon returned by another door, repeating in a 
 bold and disrespectful tone those verses from the An- 
 dromache of Euripides: 
 
 Are these your customs ? Is it thus that Greece 
 Rewards her combatants ? Shall one man claim 
 The trophies won by thousands? 
 
 Then Alexander snatched a spear from one of his guards, 
 and meeting Clitus as he was putting by the curtain, 
 ran him through the body : he fell immediately to the 
 ground, and with a dismal groan expired. 
 
 " Alexander's rage subsided in a moment ; he came 
 to himself; and, seeing his friends standing in silent 
 astonishment by him, he hastily drew the spear out of 
 the dead body, and was applying it to his own throat, 
 when his guards seized his hands, and carried him by 
 force into his chamber. He passed that night and the 
 next day in anguish inexpressible ; and when he had 
 wasted himself with tears and lamentations, he lay in 
 speechless grief, uttering only now and then a groan. 
 His friends, alarmed at this melancholy silence, forced 
 themselves into the room, and attempted to console 
 him : but he would listen to none of them, except Aris- 
 
 s2 
 
140 ON GOVERNING THE PASSIONS. NO. 
 
 tander, who put him in mind of his dream and the ill 
 omen of the sheep, and assured him that the whole was 
 by the decree of fate. As he seemed a little comforted, 
 Callisthenes the philosopher, Aristotle's near relation, 
 and Anaxarchus the Abderite, were called in. Callis- 
 thenes began in a soft and tender manner, endeavour- 
 ing to relieve him without searching the wound. But 
 Anaxarchus, who had a particular walk in philosophy, 
 and looked upon his fellow-labourers in science with 
 contempt, cried out, on entering the room, " Is this 
 " Alexander, upon whom the whole work! have their 
 " eyes ? Can it be he who lies extended on the ground, 
 " crying like a slave, in fear of the law and the tongues 
 " of men, to whom he should himself be a law and the 
 " measure of right and wrong? What did he conquer 
 " for, but to rule and command, not servilely to submit 
 " to the vain opinions of men ? Know you not," con- 
 tinued he, " that Jupiter is represented with Themis 
 " and Justice by his side, to show that whatever is 
 " done by supreme power is right ?" By this, and 
 other discourses of the same kind,, he alleviated the 
 king's grief, indeed, but made him withal more haugh- 
 ty and unjust. At the same time, he insinuated him- 
 self into his favour in so extraordinary a manner, that 
 lie could no longer bear the conversation of Callisthenes,, 
 who before was not very agreeable on account of his 
 austerity.' 1 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE ALTGRANDE, 141 
 
 No. XV. 
 
 " Among the heathy hills and ragged moods 
 The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
 Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
 Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 
 As high in air the bursting torrents flow , 
 ' As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 
 Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, 
 And viewless echo's ear, asionish'd, rends. 
 Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless showers, 
 The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
 Still through the gap the struggling river toils, 
 And still below, the horrid cauldron boils." — 
 
 Burns' Works, Lond. Edit. 1809, Vol. III. p. 363-4.. 
 
 NATURAL Beauty exhibits many subjects of in- 
 teresting contemplation. Its simple traits become 
 pleasing by a kind of agreeable attraction, while its 
 grander features overawe by their sublimity or aston- 
 ish by the vastness of their forms. Combined with 
 such influence are those associations which delight the 
 wanderers of the wild, and the roamers in secluded and 
 lonely retreats- — which furnish that exquisite enjoy- 
 ment discovered by many, while they trace the bold 
 lineaments of picturesque scenery, displayed in the 
 combination of rocks, and groves, and dells, and lakes, 
 and roaring torrents. — A description of such a picture, 
 rude, remote, and romantic, is attempted in the sub- 
 joined 
 
142 DESCRIPTION OF NO, 
 
 EPISTLE, 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 Being, as you well know, a 
 great admirer of natural scenery, I took an opportuni- 
 ty, some time ago, when at Dingwall in Ross-shire, 
 to engage in a little excursion, the result of which af- 
 forded me abundant gratification. As I am hopeful 
 that an account of it may be agreeable to you, I shall 
 proceed in the detail with all possible brevity. 
 
 Having, on frequent occasions, heard the Altgrande 
 mentioned as a stream that flowed through a country 
 singularly romantic, I resolved, in company with an 
 intelligent acquaintance, to visit the interesting spot. 
 In completion of this design, we traversed the banks of 
 the river, from its mouth to the sources whence its in- 
 fant waters proceed, and are thereby enabled to give 
 you the topography of a scene, little known but de- 
 lightfully picturesque and wild. 
 
 The Altgrande* originates in the collected springs 
 which descend the sides of Ben-Rannach, Ben-Glas, 
 and the north-eastern declivities of Ben-Uais. In the 
 valley between the two last mentioned mountains these 
 waters form Loch-Glas, a beautiful inland lake, situ- 
 ated at the distance of six miles from the sea. It is 
 
 * This stream takes its name from two Celtic words, Alt, sig- 
 nifying a brook or torrent, and Granda, what is deformed, rugged, 
 or shaggy. — The Inn at Drummond will accommodate the Tourist who 
 may choose to visit the romantic alpine scenery on the banks of that 
 impetuous stream. 
 
XV. THE ALTGRANDE. 143 
 
 of considerable depth, five miles long, and nearly one 
 in breadth. Except in severe frosts, it never freezes, 
 and is abundant in trouts of an excellent flavour, though 
 not of a large size. Flowing out of the extremity of 
 this lake at Balnacoul, the river, receiving many tri- 
 butary streamlets in its course, passes Assint, and then 
 taking an eastern direction, falls into the Bay of Crom- 
 arty, at the bleaehfield of Culcairn. 
 
 The banks of the Altgrande, are thickly covered 
 with shrubs and trees, which greatly adorn its steep 
 and rugged sides. It is, at all times, a tumultuous cur- 
 rent ; but, when it becomes swollen by the melting of 
 snow upon the surrounding mountains or by great falls 
 of rain, it rushes down with resistless rapidity, over- 
 flowing its margins, inundating the adjacent fields, and 
 sweeping before it every obstacle to its impetuous ca- 
 reer. About two miles from its source, the bed of the 
 river is much contracted by the sides of a rock, rugged, 
 vast, and stupendous, named Craig-Grande, through 
 which with difficulty it urges its boisterous way. The 
 channel, here, is a profound chasm formed by two 
 opposing precipices, abrupt and elevated. Through 
 this gloomy and dreadful abyss, the river toils away, 
 over a space of more than two miles. The entrance 
 into the terrific gully is distinguished by a bold rock 
 jutting into the stream, whereby its breadth is greatly 
 diminished. From this place, it rolls, and roars, and 
 rages, and labours onward, with excessive vehemence 
 and velocity for about thirteen hundred yards, when a 
 sudden projection of the crag again confines its conrsr . 
 
144 DESCRIPTION OF XV. 
 
 and produces a view which, upon a spectator from the 
 impending cliffs, has a very impressive and sublime ef- 
 fect. Thus interrupted, the angry waters are thrown 
 into a state of violent gurgitation, and, writhing, foam- 
 ing, floundering, dashing around, beat the obstructing 
 barrier with a force inconceivably powerful and furious. 
 Strengthening as it struggles, the torrent now darts 
 erect, and, with a bounding rush, shoots through a 
 winding passage on the opposite side, then rough, reel- 
 ing, and resistless, bounds along. 
 
 Beyond this obstructive bar, the chasm through 
 which the river now proceeds, greatly increases in 
 depth and straitness. In many places, the stream is hid 
 from the view by the thick umbrage of trees and the 
 beetling sides of the precipitous rocks with which its 
 channel is confined. About four hundred yards farth- 
 er down, a slight wooden bridge has been thrown over 
 the abyss, at a place where its width does not exceed 
 fifteen feet. From this an intrepid observer will be 
 gratified with a view beneath him, supremely grand 
 and impressive. The combination unites a display of 
 scenery at once picturesque'ar.d sublime — awful and as- 
 tonishing. The gray rocks are steep and rugged, 
 while their dark cliffs and caverns, into which the sun 
 never penetrated, teem with the dreary silence of gloom 
 and horror. Ingulfed at the depth of one hundred and 
 thirty feet below, the labouring stream emits a hoarse 
 and hollow murmur, which is increased by the undu- 
 lating sounds of many descending rills. This savage 
 association is, however, finely contrasted with thick 
 

 XV. THE ALTGRANDE. 145 
 
 groves of pines, which majestically climb the sides of 
 a beautiful eminence that rises immediately from the 
 brink of the tremendous chasm. Throughout the re- 
 mainder of its course the river is less interrupted ; 
 and, after crossing the public road between Drum- 
 mond and the parish church, where a very neat well- 
 finished bridge is thrown over it, falls into the Frith 
 of Cromarty, a fine arm of the sea. 
 
 Leaving the Inn at Drummond, we proceeded in 
 our return to Dingwall, by a charming road, command- 
 ing many delightful views, and embellished with much 
 romantic scenery. Upon the left hand expands the 
 Bay of Cromarty, and beyond, is the village of Fern- 
 tosh celebrated for excellent whisky. Trees and shrubs 
 of various kinds cover the rising grounds upon the left, 
 relieving the eye and giving an agreeable diversity to 
 the landscape. Among other objects of notice there is, 
 on that side, a perpendicular rock of considerable ele- 
 vation, covered with brushwood, which conceals the na- 
 tural cascade of a mountain rill. Beside this, there is an 
 artificial grove, havingseats planted around with flowers, 
 and some romantic decorations fixed on the face of the 
 rock, the whole throwing a picturesque air over this 
 pleasant rural retreat. 
 
 But our attention was more engaged by an ac- 
 count of the remains of a venerable Druidic temple 
 situated upon the top of an eminence, and we there- 
 fore resolved to visit it. The places devoted to sacred 
 worship by the primeval priests of our progenitors were 
 simple, but,, at the same time, very expressive of the 
 vot, r, T 
 
146 DESCRIPTION OP NO 
 
 exalted idpas they entertained, and wished to convey, 
 of the Divinity. They adored the Sovereign Creator 
 beneath the wide expanse of the sky, and the spot con- 
 secrated to their devotions was defined by circles of un- 
 hewn stones, placed upright and at certain intervals^ 
 Of a similar construction is that which we visited. It 
 is situated about half a mile west from the mansion of 
 Mountgerald, nearly five hundred yards north from 
 the road, and consists of one row of twelve large e- 
 rect stones so disposed as to form two conjoined ovals. 
 Of these, the areas are equal, being thirteen feet from 
 east to west, and ten in the centre from south to north. 
 The stones are of various length, seldom exceeding 
 five feet, except that at the west end of one of the 
 areas, which rises eight feet above the surface of the 
 earth. In the middle of this oval, is a flat stone, which 
 probably had been used as a cromlech or sacrificial altar, 
 consecrated to the rites of departed days. 
 
 The rising ground, which contains the ruins of this 
 druidic fane, is surrounded by three concentric circles, 
 the lowest of which encompasses the base and measures 
 about eighty paces ; another is thirty feet higher, and 
 is fifty paces ; and the third is only thirty-five, being 
 the most elevated.— By a consideration of this singular 
 arrangement, we were disposed to ascribe this remark- 
 able relic of antiquity to that class of remains which re- 
 search and learning have ranked, with the utmost pro- 
 bability, among the labours of the votaries of Druidism. 
 It must not, however, be denied, that ingenuity has 
 sriven them a place anions the rude fabrics constructed 
 
XVI. THE ALTGRANDE. 147 
 
 by a Gothic people for the purposes of deliberative con- 
 vention, where the wisdom of the chiefs was inculcated, 
 and the judgment of the tribes ascertained. But, to 
 whatever uses this and similar constructions may have 
 been devoted, they are to be regarded by us, as the 
 reverend seclusions, wherein our fathers convened for 
 the exercise of piety, the administration of justice, or 
 th - ascertainment of counsel and the promulgation of 
 law. 
 
 I am, &c. 
 
 Triaixan. 
 
 No. XVI. 
 
 <e Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen butter's dear, 
 Of Irish swains potatoe is the chear ; 
 Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind, 
 Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind, 
 While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise, 
 Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe prize." 
 
 Gay's Shepherd's-Week, No. I. v. 83—88. 
 
 INCREDIBLY various have been the ridiculous 
 pursuits of men in their researches after the pleasures 
 of enjoyment. On this roll of folly stands, in a place 
 not unconspicuous, the Tulipomania, or that passion 
 which once agitated a great part of Europe and still 
 continues to interest many individuals, in acquiring 
 
 t 2 
 
148 TULIPOMANIA. NO, 
 
 varieties of that species of plants from which the term 
 is derived. As an account of its rise and progress is 
 curious, in this place, a brief sketch of it, taken from a 
 popular work, may tend to amuse. 
 
 The greater part of the flowers which adorn our 
 gardens have been brought to us from the Levant. A 
 few have been procured from other parts of the world ; 
 and some of our own indigenous plants, that grow wild, 
 have, by care and cultivation, been so much improved 
 as to merit a place in our parterres. Our ancestors, 
 perhaps, some centuries ago paid attention to flowers ; 
 but it appears that the Orientals, and particularly the 
 Turks, who in other respects are not very susceptible 
 of the inanimate beauties of nature, were the first peo- 
 ple who cultivated a variety of them in their gardens 
 for ornament and pleasure. From their gardens, 
 therefore, have been procured the most of those which 
 decorate ours ; and among these is the tulip. 
 
 Few plants acquire through accident, weakness, or 
 disease, so many tints, variegations, and figures as the 
 tulip. When uncultivated and in its natural state, it 
 is almost of one colour ; has large leaves and an extra- 
 ordinary long stem. When it has been weakened by 
 culture, it becomes more agreeable in the eyes of the 
 florist. The petals are then paler, more variegated, 
 and smaller ; the leaves assume a fainter or softer green 
 colour: and this masterpiece of culture, the more beau- 
 tiful it turns, grows so much the weaker, so that, with 
 the most careful skill and attention, it can scarcely be 
 transplanted, and even scarcely kept alive. 
 
XVI. TULIPOMAKTIA. 149 
 
 That the tulip grows wild in the Levant, and was 
 thence brought to us, may be proved by the testimony 
 of many writers. Busbequius saw them on the road 
 between Adrianople and Constantinople ; Shaw found 
 them in Syria, in the plains between Jaffa and Rama; 
 and Chardin on the northern confines of Arabia. The 
 early blowing kinds, it appears, were brought to Con- 
 stantinople from Cayal, and the late blowing from 
 Caffa ; and on this account the former are called by 
 the Turks Cavala lale, and the latter Cqffe Idle. Ca- 
 val is a town on the eastern coast of Macedonia, of 
 which Paul Lucas gives some account ; and Caffa is 
 a city in the Crimea, or peninsula of Gazaria, as it 
 was called, in the middle ages, from the Gazares, a 
 people very little known. 
 
 Though florists have published numerous catalogues 
 of the species of the tulip, botanists are acquainted on- 
 ly with two, or at most three *, of which scarcely one 
 is indigenous in Europe. All those found in our gar- 
 dens have been propagated from the species named af- 
 ter that learned man, to whom natural history is so 
 much indebted, Conrad Gesner, the Linnaeus of the six- 
 teenth century, who first made the tulip known by a 
 botanical description and a figure. In his additions to 
 
 * Modern Botanists distinguish seven species of the Tillipa, the 
 Sylvcstris, which grows in Britain, in other parts of Europe, and in Si- 
 beria ; the Suaveolens, in the south of Europe ; the Gesncriana, in 
 Cappadocia and Russia ; the Biflora, on the desartsof the Volga; the 
 Breyniana, at the Cape of Good Hope ; the Celsiana, in the East ; and 
 the Chisiana, in Persia. 
 
150 TULIPOMANIA. NO, 
 
 the works of Valerius Cordus, he tells us, that he saw 
 the first in the beginning of April, 1559, at Augsburg, 
 in the garden of the learned and ingenious counsellor 
 John Henry Herwart. The seeds had been brought 
 from Constantinople, or according to others from Cap- 
 padocia. This flower was then known in Italy, under 
 the name of tulipa, or tulip, which is said to be of Tur- 
 kish extraction, and given to it on account of its re- 
 sembling a tulbent or turban. 
 
 Balbinus asserts, that Busbequius brought the first 
 tulip roots to Prague, from which they were afterwards 
 spread all over Germany. This is not improbable : 
 for Busbequius says, in a letter written in 1554, that 
 this flower was then new to him, and it is known that 
 besides coins and manuscripts he collected also natural 
 curiosities, and brought them with him from the Levant. 
 Nay, he himself says, that he paid very dear to the 
 Turks for these tulips ; but I do not find he any where 
 says that he was the first who brought them from the 
 East. 
 
 In the year 1565 there were tulips in the Garden of 
 Mr Fugger, from whom Gesner wished to procure 
 some. They first appeared in Provence, in France, 
 in the garden of the celebrated Peyresc, in the year 
 1611. 
 
 After the tulip was known, Dutch merchants, and 
 rich people at Vienna, who were fond of flowers, sent, 
 at different times, to Constantinople for various kinds. 
 The first roots planted in England were sent thither 
 from Vienna, about the end of the sixteenth century, 
 
XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 151 
 
 according to Hakluyt. He is, however, wrong in 
 ascribing to Clusius the honour of having first intro- 
 duced them into Europe ; for that naturalist only col- 
 lected and described all the then known species. 
 
 These flowers, which are of no farther use than to 
 ornament gardens, which are exceeded in beauty by- 
 many other plants, and whose duration is short, and 
 very precarious, became, in the middle of the last cen- 
 tury, the object of a trade, such as is not to be met 
 with in the history of commerce, and by which their 
 price rose above that of the most precious metals. An 
 account of this trade has been given by many authors ; 
 but by all late ones it has been misrepresented. Peo- 
 ple laugh at the Tulipomania, because they believe 
 that the beauty and rarity of the flowers induced flor- 
 ists to give such extravagant prices : they imagine that 
 the tulips were purchased so excessively dear, in order 
 to ornament gardens ; but this supposition is false, as 
 I shall shew hereafter. 
 
 This trade was not carried on throughout all Eu- 
 rope C but in some cities of the Netherlands, particu- 
 larly Amsterdam, Harlem, Utrecht, Alkmar, Leyden, 
 Rotterdam, Hoorn, Enkhuysen and Meedenbliek ; and 
 rose to the greatest height in the years 1634, 35, 36 
 and 37. Munting has given, from some of the books 
 kept during that trade, a few of the prices then paid, 
 of which I shall present the reader with the following, 
 For a root of that species called the Viceroy, the after- 
 mentioned articles, valued as expressed below, were 
 agreed to bo delivered. 
 
153 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 
 
 florins, 
 2 lasts of wheat ~*»~~*~*~»»*~ %/ ** % ^4AS 
 4 ditto rye ~~~~~~~~~~~~~,~~558 
 
 4 fat oxen ~~~ ~~ 480 
 
 8 fat swine «~240 
 
 12 fat sheep 120 
 
 2 hogsheads of wine~~~~ — ~~~~~ 70 
 4 tons beer ~~^,.~~~~~~~~~~.~,~32 
 
 2 ditto butter . 192 
 
 1000 pounds of cheese ^ ~120 
 
 a complete bed ^~~~^~~,.,.w~~100 
 a suit of clothes — ww . — w ~~ — 80 
 a silver beaker ^^.^^^^v^ 60 
 
 Sum 2500 =£250 Ster. 
 
 These tulips afterwards were sold according to the 
 weight of the roots. Four hundred perits * of Admir- 
 al Liefken cost 4400 florins ; 446 ditto of Admiral Von 
 der Eyk, 1620 florins ; 106 perits Schilder cost 1615 
 florins ; 200 ditto Semper Augustus, 5500 florins ; 
 410 ditto Viceroy, 3000 florins, &c. The species Sem- 
 per Augustus has been often sold for 2000 florins; and 
 it once happened, that there were only two roots of 
 it to be had, the one at Amsterdam and the other at 
 Harlem. For a root of this species, one agreed to 
 give 4600 florins, together with a new carriage, two 
 gray horses, and a complete harness. Another agreed 
 
 * A perit is a small weight less than a grain. 
 
XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 153 
 
 to give twelve acres of land for a root : for those who 
 had not ready money, promised their moveable and 
 immoveable goods, house and lands, cattle and clothes. 
 A man, whose name Hunting * once knew, but could 
 not recollect, won by this trade more than 60,000 
 florins in the course of four months. It was follow- 
 ed not only by mercantile people, but also by the 
 first noblemen, citizens of every description, mechan- 
 ics, seamen, farmers, turf-diggers, chimney-sweeps, 
 footmen, maid-servants, old clothes-women, and others. 
 At first, every one won and no one lost. Some of 
 the poorest people gained in a very few months houses, 
 coaches and horses, and figured away like the first 
 characters in the land. In every town some tavern was 
 selected which served as a 'Change, where high and low 
 traded in flowers, and confirmed their bargains with 
 the most sumptuous entertainments. They formed 
 laws for themselves, and had their notaries and clerks. 
 When one reflects seriously on this trade, one will 
 readily perceive, that to get possession of these flowers, 
 was not the real object of it, though many have repre- 
 sented it in that light. The price of tulips rose always 
 higher from the year 1634 to the year 1637 ; but had 
 the object of the purchaser been to get possession of the 
 flowers, the price in such a length of time must have 
 fallen instead of risen. " Raise the prices of the pro- 
 duction of agriculture, when you wish to reduce them, 15 
 
 * Naauwkeurige beschryving der aardgewassen, door Abraham 
 Munting, Leyden en Utrecht, folio, 1696. 
 
154 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 
 
 says Young ; and in this he is undoubtedly right, for 
 a great consumption causes a greater reproduction. 
 This has been sufficiently proved by the price of aspar- 
 agus at Gottingen. As it was much sought after, and 
 large prices paid for it, more of it was planted, and the 
 price has fallen. In like manner plantations of tulips 
 would have in a short time been formed in Holland, 
 and florists would have been able to purchase flowers 
 at a much lower price. But this was not done ; and 
 the chimney-sweeper, who threw aside his besom, did 
 not become a gardener, though he was a dealer in 
 flowers. Roots would have been imported from dis- 
 tant countries, as asparagus was from Hanover and 
 Brunswick to Gottingen ; the high price would have 
 induced people to go to Constantinople to purchase 
 roots, as the Europeans to Golconda and Visapour to 
 procure precious stones : but the dealers in tulips con- 
 fined themselves to their own country, without think- 
 ing of long journeys. I will allow that a flower might 
 have become scarce, and consequently dearer ; but it 
 would have been impossible for the price to rise to a 
 great height, and continue so for a year. How ridi- 
 culous would it have been to have purchased useless 
 roots with their weight of gold, if the possession of the 
 flower had been the only object ! Great is the folly of 
 mankind; but they are not fools without a cause, as they 
 would have been under such circumstances. 
 
 During the time of the Tulipomania, a speculator 
 often offered and paid large sums for a root which he 
 never received, and never wished to receive. Another 
 
XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 155 
 
 sold roots which he never possessed or delivered. Oft 
 did a nobleman purchase of a chimney-sweep tulips to 
 the amount of 2000 florins, and sold them at the same 
 time to a farmer; and neither the nobleman, chim- 
 ney-sweep, or farmer had roots in their possession, or 
 wished to possess them. Before the tulip season was 
 over, more roots were sold and purchased, bespoke, and 
 promised to be delivered, than in all probability were 
 to be found in the gardens of Holland ; and when Sem- 
 per Augustus was not to be had, which happened twice, 
 no species perhaps was oftener purchased and sold. In 
 the space of six years, as Munting tells us, more than 
 ten millions were expended in this trade, in only one 
 town of Holland. 
 
 To understand this gambling traffic, it may be ne- 
 cessary to make the following supposition. A noble- 
 man bespoke of a merchant a tulip root, to be delivered 
 in six months, at the price of 1000 florins. During 
 these six months the price of that species of tulip must 
 have risen or fallen, or remained as it was. We shall 
 suppose, that at the expiration of that time the price 
 was 1,500 florins; in that case, the nobleman did not 
 wish to have the tulip, and the merchant paid him 500 
 florins, which the latter lost and the former won. If 
 the price was fallen when the six months were expired, 
 so that a root could be purchased for 800 florins, the 
 nobleman then paid to the merchant 200 florins, which 
 he received as so much gain ; but if the price continued 
 the same, that is, 1000 florins, neither party gained or 
 lost. In all these circumstances, however, no one ever 
 
 v2 
 
156 TULIPOMANIA. MO. 
 
 thought of delivering the roots or of receiving them. 
 Henry Hunting, in 1636, sold to a merchant at Alk- 
 mar, a tulip root for 7000 florins, to be delivered in six 
 months ; but as the price during that time had fallen, 
 the merchant paid, according to agreement, only ten 
 per cent. « So that my father,"" says the son, " receiv- 
 ed 700 florins for nothing ; but he would much rather 
 have delivered the root itself for 7000." The term of 
 these contracts was often much shorter, and on that ac- 
 count the trade became brisker. In proportion as more 
 gained by this traffic, more engaged in it ; and those 
 who had money to pay to one, had soon money to re- 
 ceive of another ; as at faro, one loses upon one card, 
 and at the same time wins on another. The tulip deal- 
 ers often discounted sums also, and transferred their 
 debts to one another ; so that large sums were paid 
 without cash, without bills, and without goods, as by 
 the Virements at Lyons. The whole of this trade was 
 a game at hazard, as the Missisippi trade was after* 
 wards, and as stock-jobbing Is at present. The only 
 difference between the tulip-trade and stock-jobbing is, 
 that at the end of the contract the price in the latter is 
 determined by the Stock-exchange ; whereas in the for- 
 mer it was determined by that at which most bargains 
 were made. High and low priced kinds of tulips were 
 procured, in order that both the rich and the poor 
 might gamble with them ; and the roots were weighed 
 by perits, that an imagined whole might be divided, 
 and that people might not only have whole, but half 
 and quarter lots. Whoever is surprised that such a 
 
XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 157 
 
 traffic should become general, needs only to reflect up- 
 on what is done where lotteries are established, by 
 which trades are often neglected, and even abandoned, 
 because a speedier mode of getting fortunes is pointed 
 out to the lower classes. In short, the tulip-trade may 
 very well serve to explain stock-jobbing, of which so 
 much is written in gazettes, and of which so many talk 
 in company without understanding it ; and I hope on 
 that account, I shall be forgiven for employing so much 
 time in illustrating what I should otherwise have con- 
 sidered as below my notice. 
 
 At length, however, this trade fell all of a sudden. 
 Among such a number of contracts many were broken ; 
 many had engaged to pay more than they were able ; 
 the whole stock of the adventurers was consumed by 
 the extravagance of the winners ; new adventurers no 
 more engaged in it ; and many becoming sensible of 
 the odious traffic in which they had been concerned, 
 returned to their former occupations. By these means, 
 as the value of tulips still fell, and never rose, the sel- 
 lers wished to deliver the roots in natura to the pur- 
 chasers at the prices agreed on ; but as the latter had 
 no desire for tulips at even such a low rate, they refus- 
 ed to take them or to pay for them. To end this dis- 
 pute, the tulip-dealers of Alkmar sent in the year 1637 
 deputies to Amsterdam, and a resolution was passed on 
 the 24th of February, that all contracts made prior to 
 the last of November, 1638, should be null and void; 
 and that, in those made after that date, purchasers 
 should be free on paying ten per cent, to the vender. 
 
158 TULIPOMAttlA. XO. 
 
 The more disgusted people became with this trade, 
 the more did complaints increase to the magistrates of 
 the different towns ; but as the courts there would take 
 no cognizance of it, the complainants applied to the 
 States of Holland and West Friesland. These refer- 
 red the business to the determination of the provincial 
 council at the Hague, which on the 27th of April de- 
 clared, that it would not deliver its opinion on this 
 traffic until it had received more information on the 
 subject ; that in the mean time every vender should of- 
 fer his tulips to the purchaser ; and, in case he refused 
 to receive them, the vender should either keep them, 
 or sell them to another, and have recourse on the pur- 
 chaser for any loss he might sustain. It was ordered 
 also, that all contracts should remain in force till far- 
 ther enquiry was made. But as no one could foresee 
 what judgment would be given respecting the validity 
 of each contract, the buyers were more obstinate in re- 
 fusing payment than before ; and venders, thinking it 
 much safer to accommodate matters amicably, were at 
 length satisfied with a small profit instead of exorbitant 
 gain : and thus ended this extraordinary traffic, or 
 rather gambling. 
 
 It is however certain, that persons fond of flowers* 
 particularly in Holland, have paid, and still pay, very 
 high prices for tulips, as the catalogues of florists shew *. 
 
 * In the year 1769, the dearest kinds in England were Don Que- 
 vedo and Valentinier. The former sold at two guineas and the latter 
 at £2 1 2 6. In the German catalogues none of the prices were so. 
 high. In those published of late in London, the highest rates for tulips 
 were, from 10, 20, 30, to 40 pounds sterling each. 
 
XVI. TULIPOMANIA. 159 
 
 This may be called the lesser Tulipomania, which has 
 given occasion to many laughable circumstances. When 
 John Balthasar Schuppe was in Holland, a merchant 
 gave a herring to a sailor who had brought him some 
 goods. The sailor, seeing some valuable tulip roots 
 lying about, which he considered as of little conse- 
 quence, thinking them to be onions, took some of them 
 unperceived, and ate them with his herring. Through 
 this mistake the sailor's breakfast cost the merchant a 
 much greater sum than if he had treated the Prince of 
 Orange. No less laughable is the anecdote of an Eng- 
 lishman who traveled with Matthews. Being in a 
 Dutchman's garden, he pulled a couple of tulips, on 
 which he wished lo make some botanical observations," 
 and put them in his pocket ; but he was apprehended 
 as a thief, and obliged to pay a considerable sum be- 
 fore he could obtain his liberty. 
 
 Reimman and others accuse Justus Lipsius of the 
 Tulipomania; but if, by this word we understand 
 that gambling traffic which I have described, the ac- 
 cusation is unfounded. Lipsius was fond of scarce and 
 beautiful flowers, which he endeavoured to procure by 
 the assistance of his friends, and which he cultivated 
 himself with great care in his garden ; but this taste 
 can be by no means called a mania. That he might 
 relax and refresh his mind, worn out by study, he a- 
 mused himself with the cultivation of his garden and 
 of flowers, and particularly of tulips, the roots of which 
 he was at great pains to procure from all parts of the 
 world, by means of Dodoneus, Clusius, and 3k)isotus 5 
 
160 TULIPOMANIA. NO. 
 
 men singularly well skilled in horticulture, and by 
 others of his friends. Thus employed, at a distance 
 from civil tumult, with a cheerful countenance and pla- 
 cid eye, he sauntered through his plants and flowers, 
 contemplating sometimes one declining, sometimes a- 
 nother springing up, and forgetting all his cares amid 
 the pleasures which these objects afforded him. Other 
 learned men of the same age were fond of flowers, such 
 as John Barclay * the celebrated author of Argenis, 
 Fompeius de Angelis, and others, who would probably 
 have been so, even though the cultivation of flowers 
 had not been the prevailing taste. It however cannot 
 be denied, that learned men may be infected with epi- 
 demical follies. In the present age, many have be- 
 come physiognomists, because physiognomy is in fash- 
 ion ; and even animal magnetism has met with partisans 
 to support it-f*. The subjects infected with the Biblio- 
 mania, a rage for scarce books, are no less numerous 
 and eminent. A noble Marquis, at the sale of the late 
 Duke of Roxburgh's library, gave the enormous sum 
 of £29,60 for a copy of Boccaccio's Decameron. It 
 was printed in 1471 and is a small folio volume ! 
 
 * He rented a house near the Vatican, with a garden, in which 
 he had planted the choicest flowers, and those chiefly which are not 
 propagated from seeds or roots, but from bulbs. These flowers were 
 not known about thirty years before, nor had they been ever seen at 
 Rome, but lay neglected in the Alps. Of those kinds, which have 
 no smell, but are esteemed only on account of their colours, Barclay 
 was remarkably fond, and purchased their bulbs at a great price, 
 Erythrcei Pinacotheca, Lipsis, 1712, 8vo. Vol. iii. p. 623. 
 
 f Beckman's History of Inventions and Discoveries, translated 
 by Johnston, London, 1797, Vol. I. p. 36 — 51. 
 
XVII. ©N THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. 161 
 
 No. XVII. 
 
 -■" The soul of man was made to walk the sMeSj 
 Delightful outlet of her prison here 1 
 There, disincumber d from her chains, the ties 
 Of toys terrestrial, she can rove at large ; 
 There, freely can respire, dilate, extend, 
 I n full proportion let loose all her powers, 
 And, undeluded, grasp at something great." 
 
 Young's Complaint, Night IX. v. 101 S — 1024. 
 
 IN the soul of man there exists a certain principle 
 "rvhich inspires him with a dread of oblivion, and inces- 
 santly prompts him to aspire to immortality. By this, 
 his wishes are formed and his actions are regulated. 
 It likewise enables him to cultivate the laudable desire 
 of becoming eminent in the pursuits which reason and 
 religion approve, while it acts as a faithful monitor, 
 counteracting the inclinations that would mislead him 
 into habits of error and depravity. Originating from 
 the same source, his observation leads him to distin- 
 guish the coeval race into two grand classes, and to 
 court the society and imitate the actions of those who 
 constitute the association which he approves. The one 
 order includes the children of virtue in whom conscious 
 rectitude is present, as the pledge of future happiness. 
 The other consists of those unhappy beings, who, amid 
 the enjoyment of sensual gratification and the comple- 
 tion of their intemperate desires, are perpetually sub- 
 
162 ON THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM NO. 
 
 jectetl to self-reproach, and annoyed by the painful 
 presentiments of a retributory hereafter, wherein they 
 must be subjected to wants not to be relieved and to 
 wretchedness never to be alleviated. 
 
 The belief and the practice of all nations, in every 
 age, attest the truth of this observation. Convinced, 
 therefore, by constant experience of the restricted- and 
 transitory nature of human existence, and excited by 
 its influence upon the mind, men have ever been an- 
 xious to define what, they believed would be the ever- 
 lasting repository of their being and their bliss, as a 
 state replete with each object of virtuous desire, in a 
 place teeming, agreeably to their conceptions, with 
 every congenial accompaniment. To those, also, in 
 whom the predominancy of folly and vice may have 
 produced dissimilar habits and practices, the same dis- 
 criminative propensity has adjudged a co-existent con- 
 dition supremely the reverse. To such an abode of 
 permanent felicity the term heaven, in our language, 
 has been applied, and, to the other, that of hell, the 
 dismal residence of ever-during misery, of want, and 
 of woe. — 
 
 The Mythology of every race has been eloquent in 
 the definition of these very different abodes. As, how- 
 ever, the belief of primeval nations is extensively vari- 
 ous respecting their Place of Bliss, the present specula- 
 tion will be confined to a descriptive sketch of the future 
 dwellings of the virtuous, as defined by the classic 
 philosophers, and by the priests of our ancestors, the 
 Gothic and Celtic people of earlier times. 
 
xvir. Ott THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. 163 
 
 Heaven, by the ancients denominated Elysium, 
 and Elysian Fields, is the repository of the souls of 
 the good after death, where they enjoy perpetual fe- 
 licity and reap the repose to which their benevolence to 
 mankind and their exploits during life seemed to entitle 
 them. By some mythologists this delightful retreat 
 was placed in the Fortunate Islands *, situated off the 
 coast of Africa, in the Atlantic Ocean. Others consid- 
 er them to have existed in Leuce, a small triangular 
 island in the Euxine Sea, between the mouths of the 
 Danube and the Borysthenes, and famed as the spot 
 where Achilles celebrated his nuptials with Helen, and 
 shared the pleasures of the place with the manes of 
 Ajax, one of the bravest Greeks who conducted the 
 Trojan war. Lucian assigns them a place in the vi- 
 cinity of the moon, and Plutarch fixes their locality in 
 the centre of the earth, while Virgil declares them to 
 be situated in Italy. 
 
 In whatever portion of space the Elsysian Fields 
 may be represented to exist, they are always described 
 as abounding with every object of desire and delight. 
 The happiness of the inhabitants was unalloyed and 
 complete, their pleasures innocent and refined. They 
 solaced themselves in bowers forever green, or strayed 
 
 * They are supposed to be the Canary Islands of the moderns. — 
 When they had been described to Sertorius in the most fascinating co- 
 lours, that celebrated general is said to have expressed a wish to re- 
 tire thither, and to remove himself from the noise of the world, and 
 the dangers of war. Plutarch's Lives by Langhorne, London Edit. 
 1805, Vol. IV. p. 345. 
 
 X 2 
 
164 ON THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM. NO. 
 
 through delightful meadows or umbrageous lawns, scent- 
 ed with the sweetest odours of fragrant flowers, and 
 washed by the waters of rivulets ever tranquil and pure. 
 The air was wholesome, temperate, and serene. An in- 
 cessant melody pervaded the groves, produced by the 
 choral warblings of every songster of the wood. The 
 blissful dwellers were also cheered by the enliven- 
 inp r radiance of another sun, and the silver lustre of oth- 
 er stars. There, departed heroes exercised themselves 
 in congenial amusements ; they mimicked the toils of 
 war and the labours of the chase, and regaled themselves 
 amid visionary orgies, listening to songs of renown. 
 Sages, there, expatiated on moral and philosophic 
 themes; while to every inmate of that happy clime there 
 were objects to satiate the most varied longings of vir- 
 tuous desire. 
 
 Such embellished descriptions, however, are only 
 popular charms intended to lure unreflecting minds. 
 The genuine opinions of the sages of old respecting the 
 future residence and felicity of the good- may be better 
 ascertained from the pen of Cicero, whose name will 
 be co-evai with wisdom and his renown with the race 
 of men. In that beautiful episode, known by the ap- 
 pellation of Scipio's Dream, wherein under the char- 
 acter of iEmilianus, he relates his own sentiments re- 
 garding a future state. He imagines an interview 
 between Masinissa a veteran Numidian prince and the 
 young Roman, who gives such an account of it as the 
 following. 
 
 I accost Masinissa. The old man clasps me in his 
 
XVII. ©N THE CLASSIC ELYSIUM, 165 
 
 arms and bathes me with his tears. He raises his eyes 
 to heaven and exclaims : " Thou, Sun ! and ye, Ce- 
 lestial Deities ! accept my thanks. I receive, before I 
 die, in my kingdom and my habitation, the illustrious 
 heir of the most virtuous man and the matchless com- 
 mander, who still survives in my remembrance.' 1 — 
 
 During the night, my mind being occupied with 
 the conversation of Masinissa, I dreamed that African- 
 ers appeared before me. I trembled, overpowered with 
 respect and dread. Africanus exhorted me to be of 
 good cheer, and carried me with him to the summit of 
 the empyrean, to a place glorious and fair, and brilliant 
 with stars. He thus addressed me : " Look down and 
 behold that city. It is Carthage. I compelled her to 
 submit to the Roman people : in two years thou wilt 
 raze her to the ground, and merit, by thine own a- 
 chievements, the name of Africanus, which as yet thou 
 only inheritest from me. Know, for thy encourage- 
 ment in virtue, that there is a place in heaven set apart 
 for the just. What on earth is denominated life, is but 
 death. Existence commences only in the everlasting 
 mansions of souls, and thither we cannot arrive without 
 piety, religion, justice, respect to our parents, and de- 
 votion to our country. Learn, above all, to despise 
 the recompenses of mortals. Thou here seest how 
 small is the earth — how small a space the most exten- 
 sive kingdoms occupy on the globe, which thou canst 
 scarcely discern— how many desarts and seas divide the 
 nations from each other. What then should be the ob- 
 ject of thy ambition ? Has the fame of Rome ever 
 
166 ON THE VALHALLA No. 
 
 reached the summits of Caucasus or the banks of the 
 Ganges ? How many nations in the east, in the west, 
 in the north, and in the south, will never hear the name 
 of Afric3nus ? And as for those that now pronounce 
 it, how long will they continue to speak of him? They 
 will soon be no more. In the convulsions of empires, 
 in those great revolutions which time brings about, my 
 memory will be irrecoverably lost. O my son ! think, 
 then, only of those divine sanctuaries where thou wilt 
 hear that harmony of the spheres, with which thine 
 ears are at this moment charmed. Aspire only to those 
 eternal temples prepared for great souls and for those 
 sublime geniuses who, during life, exalted themselves 
 to the contemplation of celestial things. — Africanus 
 ceased to speak and I awoke. 
 
 Having briefly conducted a survey of the classic 
 delineation of Heaven, it may be amusing to continue 
 the inquiry as far as it relates to the opinions of our 
 remote ancestors upon the same interesting subject. 
 The mythology of ancient Europe, in this sketch, may 
 therefore be ranged under these two grand distinctive 
 classes, the Gothic and Celtic faiths, each of which 
 was as remarkable as ic was characteristic of its votaries. 
 
 The peculiar genius of the Gothic tribes is to be 
 traced in the exploits of the Scandinavian Vikingr, 
 whose fame during the middle ages, became a theme 
 of distinctionthroughout every corner of Europe. The 
 religion of their fathers, which these people still pro- 
 fessed, seems to have been wisely adapted, by their 
 theofogues, to the martial propensities of a race so rest- 
 
XVII^ OF ODIN, 167 
 
 less and enterprising. They addressed their adorations 
 to Odin, the presider over conflicts and sovereign of 
 the celestial regions; they believed in the immortality of 
 the soul, and cultivated few other virtues than a fierce 
 patriotism and the most intrepid contempt of danger 
 and death. To excellence in the discharge of these 
 stern duties a future state of congenial rewards was ex- 
 hibited, to be enjoyed in an abode the delights of which 
 were embellished with every decoration which a rude 
 fancy could invent, and a pathetic eloquence recom- 
 mend. But into the Mansion of Bliss no soul was per- 
 mitted to enter except those of such warriors as had fal- 
 len with their faces toward the foe and the sword of 
 slaughter in their hands. 
 
 The Heaven of the Northmen was denominated 
 Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain. Into this receptacle 
 of felicity, were received the souls of the slaughtered in 
 the hour of death. There, Odin himself presided. An 
 inexhaustible wild boar, which, though boiled every 
 morning for dinner,, remained at night entire, supplied 
 his table. Ale, the favourite beverage of the North, 
 went round in the skulls of those that had been the en- 
 emies of his followers and friends. The God himself 
 was alone indulged with the juice of the grape ; but he 
 partook not of the rest of the feast. Two wolves that 
 stood by his side dispatched his share of the fat of ths 
 festal boar. The heroes, in the order of their admis- 
 sion, sat around a vast table in his presence. They 
 drank, with great conviviality and joy, ale of the best 
 kind', and the strongest - mead. This luscious, rasad 
 
168 ON THE VALHALLA N0 . 
 
 was produced by the goat Heidrun, which stood a- 
 bove the Valhalla, fed on the leaves of the celebrated 
 tree, called Lerader, and from her udder supplied a 
 quantity sufficient for all the heroes. In this state of 
 daily festivity, the warriors were served by beautiful 
 young virgins, named Valkyr, the chosen ones of the 
 fallen. 
 
 War and arms, which had been the delight of the 
 Scandinavian on earth, continued to be his amusement 
 in another world. Battle is the daily pastime, slaugh- 
 ter itself the recreation of the blessed. A cock, with 
 a crest of gold, crows every morning in the presence 
 of the Gods. He awakes the heroes to battle before 
 Odin, the father of armies. They rush, armed and 
 clothed, to the field, and slay one another with mutual 
 wounds. These deaths, however, were only tempor- 
 ary. The power of Odin revives the slain. At the 
 approach of dinner, they start up reanimated, ride in- 
 to the Valhalla, sit down together in the most friendly 
 manner, and indulge themselves with copious draughts 
 of beer and mead. 
 
 The Valkyrian virgins were the messengers of Odin 
 to the heroes whom he invited into his Elysian Hall. 
 Without an invitation, it was not permitted even to 
 the slain to enter. The heavens were, therefore, di- 
 vided in other abodes of joy. In these, subordinate 
 intelligences presided and administered bliss to the souls 
 of men. Thor * had his peculiar palace : Frea, her 
 
 * Thor, the thunderer, either an inferior divinity of an epithet 
 "descriptive of one of the attributes of Odin. From his name our 
 
XVII. OF ODIN. 169 
 
 mansions of happiness. Into the residence of the for- 
 mer, those who were not invited by the fair messen- 
 gers of Odin were admitted; and, into the hall of Frea, 
 were received that part of the female sex, who descend- 
 ed virgins into the grave. 
 
 But these inferior receptacles were only appenda- 
 ges of Odin's ethereal Hall. The felicity of daily 
 slaughter had raised this into unequaled eminence a- 
 mong the fierce spirits of a nation devoted to war and 
 blood. It was dignified with many names expressive 
 of its beauty, magnificence, and splendour. It was 
 called Godheim, the dwelling of gods; Asgard, the 
 residence of the Asse, the oriental progenitors of the 
 Scandinavian priests ; Wingulf, the palace of friends ; 
 Gladsheimur, the place of gladness and the world of 
 
 Though the souls of men were admitted into the 
 Valhalla, it was reckoned a place of more dignity than 
 the other mansions in heaven which were appropriated 
 to the subordinate gods. The Alfheimur, or home 
 of spirits, was less brilliant than the Valhalla ; Breid- 
 dablic, the splendid quarter of heaven, yielded to it in 
 beauty ; and, though the walls and pillars of Glitner, 
 the celestial citadel, were of solid gold and its roof of 
 silver, it was of inferior magnificence. There, also is 
 Himinborg, the heavenly mount, situated upon the 
 frontiers of the empyrean, at a place where the Bifros- 
 
 Thursday is derived, as is Friday from Frea, the president of benev- 
 olence, hospitality, and peace. 
 
170 ON THE VALHALLA KO. 
 
 ta, the rainbow or bridge of the gods, touches the verge 
 of the sky. 
 
 The Northern Mythology also describes the great 
 city of Valascialf, which belongs to Odin and is all 
 built of pure silver. There, is the royal throne, called 
 Lidscialf, the terror of the nations. When the Uni- 
 versal Father * is seated upon it he can view the whole 
 earth. But, upon the utmost limit of heaven, toward 
 the south, is the most beautiful of all the supernal abodes. 
 It is the city Gimle, which is more brilliant and shin- 
 ing than the sun itself, and will subsist when the earth 
 and the sky have passed away ; and men of approved 
 goodness and integrity shall abide there through ever- 
 lasting ages. — These are the joys which the ancient 
 Scandinavians provided for departed souls in the land 
 of future happiness and bliss. 
 
 The operation of such ruthless doctrines on the 
 minds of a barbarous people must have been of active 
 and unbounded influence. Accordingly, the heroes of 
 the North are found triumphing in death, and welcom- 
 ing the blow of destruction that is to transmit their 
 souls to the mansions of Odin, there to enjoy an everr- 
 lasting revelry and to riot in havoc and in blood. In- 
 spired by the expectation of soon entering upon such 
 
 * Odin, who is also distinguished by many other appellations, 
 chiefly descriptive of his sanguinary nature. Such are, Walfader, fa- 
 ther of the slain ; Sigmundur, giver of victory ; Audun, the destroyer ; 
 Drepsvarpur, he that lays armies dead ; and Drouza Drotten; the lord 
 of graves. See Macpherson's Introduction to the History cf Great 
 Britain and Ireland, p 334, et seq ; and Percy's Northern Antiquities 
 from the French of Mallet, Vol. II. p. 49— CO. 
 
XVII. OP ODIN. 171 
 
 a scene, the celebrated Regner Lodbrog * exulted in 
 the approach of dissolution and cheered his departing 
 spirit in such audacious strains as these. " We fought 
 " with swords, that day wherein I saw ten thousand 
 " of my foes rolling in the dust near a promontory of 
 " England. A dew of blood distilled from our swords. 
 " The arrows which flew in search of the helmets, his- 
 " sed through the air. The pleasure of that day was 
 " equal to that of clasping a fair virgin in my arms. 
 « — We fought with swords in the Isles of the South. 
 " There Herthife proved victorious : there died many 
 " of my valiant warriors. In the shower of arms, 
 " Rogvaldur fell, I lost my son. In the play of arms 
 " came the deadly spear : his lofty crest was dyed with 
 " gore. The birds of prey bewailed his fall : they lost 
 " Him that had prepared them banquets. — We fought 
 " with swords : I am still full of joy, when I think 
 " that a carousal is preparing for me, in the palace of 
 " the Gods. Soon, soon in the splendid abode of O- 
 " din, we shall drink Beer out of the skulls of our ene- 
 
 * Lodbrog wat a distinguished warrior, poet, and sx-king, or pir- 
 ate, who reigned in Scandinavia about A.D. 864. After a long series 
 of maritime expeditions against almost all the neighbouring nations, 
 he was defeated by Ella, king of the Northumbrian Saxons, taken pris- 
 soner, and doomed to perish in a dungeon by the sting of hunger and 
 the bite of serpents. While shut up in this den of horror he compos- 
 ed his Quida or death song, which has long been venerated for ite 
 antiquity, and celebrated for the sublimity of its genius. An excellent 
 edition of it was published, in 1782, by the Rev. W. Johnston. It is. 
 edited from various MSS. with a free English, and a literal Latin, 
 translation, the different readings, a glossary, and notes, forming 
 altogether a most curious and instructive work. 
 
 y3 
 
372 
 
 ON FLATH-INNIS, THE 
 
 " mies. A brave man shrinks not at death. I shall 
 " utter no words expressive of fear as I enter the Hall 
 ?* of Odin. — We fought with our swords in fifty and 
 ',* one battles under my floating banners. From my 
 «f early youth I have learned to dye the steel of my 
 " lance with blood ; and thought I never could meet 
 " with a king more valiant than myself. But it is 
 " time to cease : Odin hath sent his Goddesses to con- 
 " duct me to his palace. 1 am going to be placed on 
 " the highest seat, there to quaff goblets of Beer with 
 " the Immortals. The hours of my life are rolled away. 
 " I die laughing." 
 
 The Celtic definition of the land of virtuous souls 
 now awaits consideration. By their sages, denominat- 
 ed Druids, the Celtae were taught the doctrines of a 
 future state and of the immortality of the soul. They 
 adored one Omnipotent Being, cherished the most de- 
 voted patriotism, and exerted the most exalted intre- 
 pidity. At the same time a generous hospitality did 
 honour to their character, while a proper discharge of 
 that social duty elevated their hopes to an increase of 
 felicity in the abodes of the blessed. They little re- 
 garded the happiness of this life which was soon to pass 
 away, Their desires were directed to those mansions 
 of permanent delight into which none but the good and 
 valiant could ever enter. This they named Flath-in- 
 nis, the Isle of the Noble Ones, a beautiful retreat, 
 viewless to mortal eye and far removed amid the stormy 
 billows of the western main. There, they partook of 
 happiness which never palled, and were enlivened, with 
 
XVII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 173 
 
 joys forever new. The war-man, there, experienced 
 a renovated pleasure in quelling the ghosts of his form- 
 er foes ; and the hunter bounded in the chase of aerial 
 deer. There, the imparadised dwellers reacted the 
 scenes of life, unalloyed with their cares and endeared 
 to the soul by their security and never-ending duration. 
 There, also, the spirits of the departed retained, in 
 the midst of their happiness, a warm affection for their 
 country and their living friends. They sometimes visit- 
 ed the hills of their fathers, and by the sons of their 
 people they were transiently seen in the hour of peril. 
 « Oscar," sings the bard of Selma, " slowly ascends the 
 hill. The meteors of night set on the heath before him. 
 A distant torrent faintly roars. Unfrequent blasts rush 
 through the aged oaks. The half-enlightened moon 
 sinks dim and red behind her hill. Feeble voices are 
 heard on the heath. Oscar drew his sword. Trenmor 
 came from his hill, at the voice of his mighty son. A 
 cloud, like the steed of the stranger, supported his airy 
 limbs. His robe is of the mist of Lano, that brings 
 death to the people. His sword is a green meteor, half 
 extinguished. His face is without form, and dark. 
 He sighed thrice over the hero : and thrice the winds 
 of the night roared around. Many were his words to 
 Oscar. He slowly vanished, like a mist that melts on 
 the sunny hill." On the near approach of dissolution 
 the shades of the deceased were also seen. It was 
 then, that at midnight the death-devoted were sud- 
 denly awakened by a strange knocking at their gates : 
 it was then, that they heard the indistinct voice of their 
 
174 Ott PLATH-INNIS, THE NO. 
 
 departed friends calling them away to the Noble Isle. 
 A sudden joy, then, rushed upon their minds, and that 
 pleasing melancholy which looks forward to happiness 
 in a distant land. A fine description of Flath-Innis is 
 given in the following simple Celtic tale *. 
 
 Of yore, on his rock of the ocean, lived a Druid of 
 high renown. The blast of wind waited for his com- 
 mand at the gate ; he rode on the tempest, and the 
 troubled wave offered itself as a pillow for his repose. 
 His eye followed the sun by day ; his thoughts travel- 
 ed from star to star in the season of night ; he thirsted 
 after things unseen ; he sighed over the narrow circle 
 which surrounded his days ; he often sat in silence he- 
 neath the sound of his groves ; and he blamed the 
 careless billows that rolled between him and the Green 
 Isle of the West. 
 
 One day, as the Druid of Skerr-f- sat thoughtful 
 upon his rock, a tempest arose on the ocean : a cloud, 
 under whose squally skirts the foaming waters com- 
 plained, rushed suddenly into the bay, and from its 
 dark womb issued a boat, with its white sails bent to 
 the wind, and hung round with a hundred moving oars. 
 But it was destitute of mariners, itself seemed to live 
 and move. An unusual terror seized the hoary Druid ; 
 he heard a voice, though he saw no human form. * A- 
 
 * Macpherson's Introduction to the History of Great Britain and 
 Ireland, London Edition, 4to. 1773, p. 238-9-40-11-12. 
 
 f A rock jutting out into the sea ; also written Scor. See Shaw't 
 Gaelic Dictionary, in vo. 
 
XVII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 175 
 
 rise !' it said, « behold the boat of the heroes ! arise and 
 see the Green Isle of those who have passed away !' 
 
 He felt a strange force on his limbs ; he saw no per- 
 son ; but he moved to the boat : the wind immediately- 
 changed ; in the bosom of the cloud he sailed away. 
 Seven days gleamed faintly round him, seven nights 
 added their gloom to his darkness ; his ears were stun- 
 ned with shrill voices ; the dull murmur of winds pas- 
 sed him on either side ; he slept not, but his eyes were 
 not heavy ; he ate not, but he was not hungry. On 
 the eighth day the waves swelled into mountains ; the 
 boat was tossed violently from side to side : the dark- 
 ness thickened around him, when a thousand voices 
 at once cried aloud, the Isle ! the Isle ! The billows 
 opened wide before him ; the calm land of the departed 
 rushed in light on his eyes. It was not a light that 
 dazzled, but a pure, distinguishing, and placid light, 
 which called forth every object to view in its most per- 
 fect form. The Isle spread large before him like a 
 pleasing dream of the soul, where distance fades not on 
 the sight, where nearness fatigues not the eye. It had 
 its gently-sloping hills of green, nor did they wholly 
 want their clouds; but the clouds were bright and tran- 
 sparent, and each involved in its bosom the source of 
 a stream, a beauteous stream, which, wandering down 
 the steep, was like the faint notes of the half-touched 
 harp to the distant ear. The valleys were open and 
 free to the ocean ; trees loaded with leaves, which 
 scarcely waved to the light breeze, were scattered on 
 the green declivities and rising grounds. The rude 
 
176 ON FLATII-INNIS, THE NO. 
 
 winds walked not on the mountain ; no storm took its 
 course through the sky. All was calm and bright; the 
 pure sun of autumn shone from his blue sky on the 
 fields; he hastened not to the West for repose, nor 
 was he seen to rise from the East : he sits in his mid- 
 day height, and looks obliquely on the Noble Isle. 
 
 In each valley is its slow-moving stream : the pure 
 waters swell over the banks, yet abstain from the fields: 
 the showers disturb them not, nor are they lessened by 
 the heat of the sun. On the rising hill are the halls of 
 the departed, the high-roofed dwellings of the heroes 
 of old There, with the valiant, are the companions 
 of their loves, whose beauty is increased with the 
 change : they are ruddy lights in the Island of Joy. — 
 
 The employments of the blessed in their Fortunate 
 Island, seemed to the sage visitant to differ very little 
 from the favourite amusements of the most simple in- 
 habitants of a mountainous country. The renovated 
 bodies of the departed heroes bloomed with a healthful 
 grace, and were active with unfading vigour. A pe- 
 culiar elegance adorned the " fair ones of delight, 1 " 
 whose beauty was matchless and their loveliness infinite- 
 ly superior to that of the daughters of men. Every ob- 
 ject in the Noble Isle was surpassing in fairness, gran- 
 deur, and delight. 
 
 After a very transient vision of the Isle of the 
 Blessed, the Druid of Skerr returned home in the same 
 miraculous manner in which he had been carried across 
 the ocean. But, though in his own mind he compre- 
 hended his absence in sixteen days, he found every 
 
XVIII. PARADISE OP THE CELTS. 177 
 
 thing changed at his return. No trace of his habita- 
 tion remained. He knew not the face of any man. 
 He was even forced to make inquiry concerning him- 
 self; and tradition had scarcely carried down his name 
 to the generation that then possessed the Island of 
 Skerr. Two complete centuries had passed away since 
 his departure ; so imperceptible had been the flight of 
 time in the felicity of the paradisial Isle. Y. 
 
 No. XVIII. 
 
 " Stretch' d in her cell with pallid cheek the Queen, 
 And tears fast dropping from her beamless eyes, 
 Wore the long months of grief — The cold excuse, 
 The taunt, the studied silence of neglect, 
 Silence than cold evasion and than taunt 
 More keen, she bore : yet dreams of brighter hours 
 Still cherished ; and still hoped, and hoped anew, 
 To burst the chains which envious hate had twined ; 
 Till Freedom on the sable scaffold's height 
 Stood hand in hand with all-subduing Death 
 
 To end her bondage." 
 
 Gisborne's Walks in a Forest, No. IV. v. 375 — S91 — 99. 
 
 LETTERS are mirrors of the mind. Describing 
 the thoughts, feelings, and actions of the writer, they 
 cause him to pass, as it were, in review before the 
 reader's judgment. Epistolary productions have, there- 
 
178 LETTER OP No. 
 
 fore, always been acceptable to people of taste, and to 
 those whose aim is, to develope the characters of things 
 and of men. Collections of this kind, from the corres- 
 pondence of the ancients, have long been the admiration 
 and delight of the lovers of elegant and instructive read- 
 ing. These, too, have been emulated, in generous 
 rivalry, by modern pens, of whom many have met with 
 approbation, and some with applause. The following 
 epistle, which exhibits, in strong colours, the traits of 
 a lofty mind, is worthy of consideration from the elo- 
 quence and dignity of its composition; but, from the cir- 
 cumstances of the writer and the sublimity of sentiment 
 which it breathes, is most pathetically interesting and 
 grand. 
 
 It is a letter of Mary, Queen of Scots, to Queen 
 Elizabeth, which, says a candid and elegant writer *, 
 " no person can read without some degree of astonish- 
 " ment. It is difficult to say, whether in it the pa- 
 " thetic or the grand shine most. To it, the admirers 
 " of Queen Mary may refer, as a ground of their pane- 
 " gyrics ; whether there is to be considered — The 
 " great mind which it displays — The solemnity which 
 " reigns throughout — The piety which it expresses — 
 " The chain of argument which is maintained — The 
 
 * Dr Thomas Robertson of Dalmeny. — See his History of Mary 
 Queen of Scots, 4to. Edinburgh, 1793, p. 140. The letter is translat- 
 ed in his appendix, p. 1 33 ; and the French original is to be found 
 in a valuable collection intituled, De Vita et Rebus Gestis Serenissimas 
 Principis Maria Scotorum Reginas, Franciaj Dotaria?, ad optima fidei 
 codices resensuit S. Jebb, Londini, folio, 2 Tom. i. 1725. T. II. p. 266. 
 It is dated, November 28, 1582. 
 
MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 179 
 
 C 
 
 " eloquence with which it glows — Or, the bold and 
 "just reproach with which it fearlessly brands the 
 " English Queen. — It may also be remarked ; that this 
 " letter, written upon the prospect of approaching death, 
 «? gives us a high idea of her resignation and goodness 
 " of heart, as well as of her magnanimity and courage. 
 " — The latter scenes of Mary's life were, indeed, the 
 Ci greatest ; and notwithstanding so long a tract of cap- 
 " tivity and indignities, although she was, at times, 
 " deeply affected, so far from being subdued, compos- 
 « ure and majesty of mind grew upon her, as she drew 
 (C nearer to the end of her sufferings, and in proportion 
 ■" to the number of them." — 
 
 The letter, commencing with a reference to the in- 
 trigues which then agitated Scotland, and endangered 
 the person and government of the young prince, James 
 VI. proceeds thus ; 
 
 Madam, 
 
 Upon what has come to my knowledge 
 concerning the late conspiracies accomplished in Scot- 
 land against my poor child, having every occasion to 
 dread the result of them, from the example of myself, 
 it is necessary that I employ what little of life and 
 strength remains to me before my death, to disburden 
 fully to you, my heart, of my just and lamentable com- 
 plaints, of which I desire that this letter may serve 
 you, as long as you shall live after me, as a perpetual 
 testimony and engraving upon your conscience, as well 
 
180 LETTER OF XQ. 
 
 as my acquittal with posterity, as for the shame and 
 confusion of all those, who, with your approbation, have 
 so cruelly and unworthily treated me hitherto, and 
 brought me to the extremity wherein I am. But where- 
 as their designs, practices, actions, and proceedings, 
 however detestable they may have been, have always pre- 
 vailed with you against my most just remonstrances 
 and sincere conduct ; and, as the force which you pos- 
 sess has always stood instead of reason with the public, 
 1 will have recourse to the living God, our sole judge, 
 who has established us, equally and immediately under 
 him, in the government of his people ; I will invoke him 
 in the extremity of this my most urgent affliction to re- 
 quite to you and to me (as He will do at His last judg- 
 ment) the reward of our merits and demerits, one to- 
 wards another. And remember, Madam, that from Him 
 we shall not be able to disguise any thing by the gloss 
 and cunning of the world, although now my enemies, 
 under you, may for a time cover from mankind and per- 
 haps from 3>"QU, their guileful inventions. In His name, 
 and as if before Him sitting between you and me, I will 
 remind you, that by agents, spies, and secret messen- 
 gers sent under your name to Scotland while I was 
 there, my subjects have been corrupted and excited to 
 rebel against me, to attempt against my person, and 
 in one word, to speak, do, enterprise, and execute 
 whatever during my troubles has happened in that 
 country : of which I will not specify at present any other 
 proof, than that which I shall infer from the confes- 
 sion of one who has since been of those most advance*! 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 1S1 
 
 for this good service, and of the witnesses confronted 
 with him. 
 
 To him *, if I had afterwards done justice, he would 
 not have since renewed, by means of his old correspon- 
 dences, the same practices against my son, and would 
 not have furnished, to all my traitors and rebellious 
 subjects who have taken refuge with you, the aid and 
 support which they have had, even since my detention 
 here; without which support, I consider that these 
 traitors would not since have prevailed, nor would have 
 so long subsisted, as they have done. During my im- 
 prisonment in Lochleven, the late Throkmorton ad- 
 vised me, on your part, to sign the demission which he 
 let me know was to be presented to me, assuring me 
 that it could not be valid. And since that time, there 
 has not been a place in Christendom where it has been 
 held as such, and maintained, except here, even to the 
 assisting of the authors of it, by open force. In your 
 conscience, Madam, would you approve the like lib- 
 erty and power in your subjects ? This (power J not- 
 withstanding my authority, has been, by my subjects 
 conferred upon my son when he was not capable of ex- 
 ercising it. And after I have been disposed legally to con* 
 firm him in it, being of age to be aided to act for his own 
 interest, it was suddenly wrested from him and given to 
 two or three traitors who, in already having deprived 
 him of the effect of it, will take away from him as 
 from me, both the name and title of it, if he contra- 
 
 * Camden thinks the person here allnded to, was the Earl 
 Morton. 
 
182 LETTER OK NO. 
 
 diet them in any sort, and perhaps his life, if God do 
 not provide for his preservation. When I had escap- 
 ed from Lochleven, ready to give battle to my rebels, 
 I sent you by a gentleman-courier, a diamond ring, 
 which formerly I received from you as a token, and 
 with assurance of being succoured by you against my 
 rebels, and also, that upon retreating to you, you 
 would come even to the frontier to assist me, as by 
 different messengers was confirmed to me. This pro- 
 mise coming, and repeatedly from your mouth (though 
 by your ministers I had found myself often abused) 
 made me place such confidence in the effect of it, that 
 the rout of my army following after, I came straight 
 to throw myself into your arms, if I could have reach- 
 ed them. But while deliberating to go in quest of 
 you, Lo ! I was in the middle of my journey arrest- 
 ed, surrounded with guards, shut up in strong places, 
 and at last reduced, all shame being banished, to that 
 captivity wherein I this day die, after the thousand 
 deaths which I have already suffered. I know that 
 you will alledge against me what passed between me 
 and the late Duke of Norfolk. I maintain that there 
 was nothing in it to your prejudice, nor against the 
 public good of this realm, and that the treaty was ap- 
 proved, by the advice and seals of the greatest who 
 were then of your Council, with the assurance of 
 procuring your approbation of it. How could such 
 personages have undertaken to make you consent to 
 that which should deprive you of your life, honour, 
 and crown, as you- declare you were persuaded ofj 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 183 
 
 to all the Ambassadors and others who speak to you 
 concerning me ? Meanwhile my rebels perceiving that 
 their precipitate course had carried them much farth- 
 er than they had proposed ; and the reality of those 
 falsehoods spread against me, having appeared at the 
 conference to which I submitted in full assembly of 
 your deputies and mine, with those of the opposite party 
 in the country, in order publicly to clear myself; Be- 
 hold ! the chief of them, on account of their having 
 come to repentance, besieged by your forces in the cas- 
 tie of Edinburgh, and one of the chief of them (Lething- 
 ton * J poisoned, and the other f Kirkaldy J most cruelly 
 hanged, after I had made them twice lay down their 
 arms at your request, in hope of an accommodation, 
 which God knows if my enemies intended. I was willing 
 for a long time, to try if patience could alleviate the 
 rigour and bad treatment, which they have begun, es- 
 pecially for these ten years, to make me suffer; and, ac- 
 commodating myself exactly to the order prescribed to 
 me for my captivity in this house, as well with re- 
 gard to the number and quality of the servants I retain- 
 ed, having dismissed others, as for my diet and ordin- 
 ary exercise on account of my health, I have lived till 
 the present time as quietly and peaceably, as one 
 inferior to me, and more obliged, than I from this 
 treatment am to you, could have done, even to the 
 
 * When Kirkaldy and his brother had been hanged at the cross c f 
 Edinburgh, Lethington, to avoid the ignominy of a public execution, 
 ended his days after the old Roman fashion. Melville's Memoirs, Edin- 
 burgh Edition, 8vo. 3 7:"5, p. 243, 
 
184 LETTER OP NO. 
 
 depriving myself (to remove all shadow of suspicion 
 and distrust from you), of a request to have some 
 correspondence with my son and my country, which by 
 no right nor reason could be denied me ; and chiefly 
 with my son, whom, in place of this, every means has 
 been used to set him against me, on purpose to weak- 
 en us by our division. It was allowed me, you will 
 say, three years since, to send to visit him. His cap- 
 tivity then at Stirling under the tyranny of Morton, 
 was the cause, as his liberty since has been, of a refus- 
 al of such a visit. All this last year, I have often pro- 
 posed different overtures for the establishment of a good 
 friendship between us, and a sure agreement between 
 these two kingdoms for the time to come. 
 
 It is about ten years since Commissioners were sent 
 to me at Chatsworth for that purpose. The Ambassa- 
 dors of France, and mine, treated with you yourself upon 
 it. I myself, last winter, made every advantageous pro- 
 posal to Beale * that was possible. What have I got by 
 it? My good intention despised, the sincerity of my be- 
 haviourneglectedandcalumniated, the state of my affairs 
 perplexed by delays, adjournments, and such other ar- 
 tifices. And the conclusion has been worse and more 
 unworthy treatment from one day to another, whatev- 
 er I have forced myself to do to deserve the contrary ; 
 my too long and pernicious patience, having led me to 
 this point, that my enemies through the habit of doing 
 
 * The original reads Reale, which seems to be a mistake for Beale, 
 who was a clerk to Queen Elizabeth's privy council. 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 185 
 
 me ill, think that they now have a right of prescription 
 to treat me, not as a prisoner which I cannot reasonably 
 be, but as some slave whose life and death depend on 
 their sole tyranny. I cannot, Madam, longer endure it, 
 and I must in dying discover the authors of my 
 death ; or if I live, I must attempt under your protec- 
 tion, to put an end to the cruelties, calumnies, and 
 traiterous designs of these my enemies, on purpose to 
 attain a little more tranquillity during what remains 
 of my life. To remove the pretended occasions of all 
 differences between us, acquaint yourself, if you please, 
 of the truth of all that has been reported to you concern- 
 ing my behaviour: revise the depositions of the strangers 
 taken in Ireland ; let those of the Jesuits last executed 
 be represented to you : give liberty to those who shall 
 undertake to accuse me publicly, and permit me to en- 
 ter upon my defence: if any evil be found in me, let me 
 suffer it, which I will do patiently when I know the 
 reason for it; if any good, do not allow me to be longer 
 mal-treated, with your supreme commission before God 
 and man. The vilest criminals that are in your prisons, 
 born in your dominions, are admitted to their justifica- 
 tion, and there is always declared to them, their accusers 
 and their accusations. Why then shall not the same rule 
 take place with respect to me, a sovereign queen, your 
 nearest relation, and lawful heiress ? I conceive that this 
 last circumstance has hitherto been the principal cause 
 of it, on the part of my enemies, and of all their cal- 
 umnies, for the purpose, by keeping us divided, of in- 
 sinuating between the two, their unjust pretences, 
 
18t> LETTER OF NO. 
 
 But, alas ! they have now little reason and less need to 
 torment me more on this account. For I protest to you 
 upon my honour, that this day, I wait for no other 
 kingdom than that of my God, whom I see prepar- 
 ing me for the best termination of all my afflictions 
 and adversities past. It will be for you, to acquit 
 your conscience towards my child, as to what shall be- 
 long to him after my death by this affair ; and mean- 
 while not to countenance, to his prejudice, the contin- 
 ual practices and secret conspiracies which our enemies 
 in this kingdom, carry on daily for the advancement 01" 
 their pretensions ; labouring, on the other hand, with 
 my traiterous subjects in Scotland, by all the means 
 they can, to hasten his ruin ; of which I ask no better 
 proof than the charges given to your last deputies sent 
 into Scotland, and what these deputies seditiously prac- 
 tised there, as I believe, without your knowledge, but 
 with the good and sufficient solicitation of the Earl (of 
 Huntington) my good cousin, at York. 
 
 And on this point, Madam, by what right can it 
 be maintained, that I, as mother of my child, should 
 be totally interdicted, not only from relieving him in 
 the necessity so urgent in which he is, but even from 
 having any knowledge of his affairs ? Who can shew 
 more care, duty and sincerity than I? Who can be more 
 interested ? At least, if sending to him to provide for 
 his safety, as the Earl of Shrewsbury lately made me 
 understand on your part, you had been pleased in this, 
 to receive my advice, you would have intermeddled 
 with better reason, I think, and with more complais- 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 187 
 
 ance towards me. But consider what you leave me 
 to think, when forgetting so suddenly the offences 
 which you pretended against my son, when I request- 
 ed you that we should together send to him, you have 
 dispatched a message while he was a prisoner, not only 
 without advising me of it, but depriving me, at the same 
 time, of aliliberty, on purpose that by every mean, I should 
 have no news of it. If the intention of those, who have 
 procured, on your part, so hasty a visit to my son, have 
 been for his preservation and the quiet of the country, 
 they ought not to have so carefully concealed it from me, 
 as a thing in which I was unwilling to concur with you : 
 they have thus made you lose the regard which I 
 would have had for you ; and, to speak more freely to 
 you, I beg of you no more to employ such means nor 
 such persons. For, although I reckon the Lord de 
 Kerry (Ca?y, Lwd Himsdon) to be too sensible of the 
 family from which he is sprung, to engage in any vil- 
 lainous act, he has had for an assistant a sworn partis- 
 an of the Earl of Huntington, by the ill offices of whom, 
 an action as bad has been accomplished with a similar 
 effect. I shall be satisfied then, with your only permit- 
 ting that, from this country, my son receive no injury, 
 which is all I ever required of you before, even when 
 an army was sent to the borders to prevent justice being 
 done upon the execrable Morton; and that none of your 
 servants, directly or indirectly, intermeddle any more 
 with the affairs of Scotland, unless it be with my know- 
 ledge, to whom all cognisance of them pertains, or with 
 the assistance of some one on the part of the most Chris* 
 
 2 a 2 
 
188 
 
 LETTER OP 
 
 tian King, my good brother, whom, as our principal 
 ally, I wish to be made acquainted with every thing in 
 this matter, on account of the little credit he can have 
 with the traitors, who detain my son at present. In 
 the mean time, I declare to you very freely that I hold 
 this last conspiracy and innovation (the restriction of 
 James VI J to be pure treason against the life of my 
 son, the good of his affairs, and that of the country ; 
 and so long as he shall be in the state wherein I under- 
 stand he is, I will not esteem word, writing, or act 
 that may come from him or which passes under his 
 name, as proceeding from his free and unrestrained dis- 
 position, but solely from these conspirators, who, at the 
 price of his life, make use of him as a mask. Now, 
 Madam, with all this liberty of speaking, which I 
 foresee may in some respects displease you although 
 it be the truth itself, you will find it I assure my- 
 self, more strange, that I come now to importune you 
 farther with a request of much greater importance, 
 and nevertheless very easy for you to grant to me and 
 to perform. This is, not having been able hitherto, in 
 accommodating myself patiently so long to the rigour- 
 ous treatment of this captivity, and behaving myself 
 sincerely in all things, yea even to the least which affect 
 you very little, to obtain any assurance of your good 
 grace, or to give you some, of my entire affection to 
 you ; every hope being by it taken away, of better 
 (treatment), in the little time that remains to me to 
 live, I supplicate you, in honour of the grievous pas- 
 sion of our Saviour and Redeemer Jesus Christ, I sun- 
 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 189 
 
 plicate you once more to permit me to retire out of this 
 kingdom to some place of repose, to seek some comfort 
 to my poor body so exhausted with continual sorrows, 
 and, with liberty to my conscience, to prepare my soul 
 for God, who daily calls for it. Believe, Madam, and 
 the physicians whom you sent me this last summer are 
 sufficiently able to judge of it, that I cannot so long 
 exist as to be a foundation of jealousy or distrust on 
 my part. And, notwithstanding this, take of me such 
 assurances and conditions, just and reasonable, as you 
 shall choose. The greatest power rests always, on your 
 side, to make me keep them, though, for any thing 
 whatever, I would not wish to break them. You have 
 had sufficient experience of the observation of my sim- 
 ple promises, and sometimes to my own prejudice, as 
 I shewed to you upon this same subject, within these 
 two years. Recollect, if you please, what I then wrote 
 you, and that you could not so much bind my heart 
 to you as by gentleness ; although you confine for ever 
 my poor languishing body within four walls, those of 
 my rank and natural disposition are neither to be gain- 
 ed, nor to be forced by any rigour. Your prison, with- 
 out any right or just foundation, has already destroyed 
 my body, of which you will soon have the end, if it 
 continue but a little longer there ; and my enemies will 
 not have much time to glut their cruelties upon me. 
 There remains only to me, the soul ; which all your 
 power cannot enslave. Allow it, then, a little more free- 
 ly to aspire after its salvation, as being the only thing 
 it now seeks for, more than all the grandeur of the world. 
 
190 LETTER OF NO. 
 
 It appears to me; that it cannot be to you any 
 great satisfaction, honour, or advantage that my ene- 
 mies tread my life under foot, till they have stifled me 
 in your presence ; whereas, if in this extremity, how- 
 ever late it be, you deliver me from their hands, you 
 will bind me greatly to you, and all those who belong 
 to me, especially my poor child, whom by that you 
 will be able perhaps to make sure to yourself. I shall 
 never cease to importune you with this request until it be 
 granted to me. And, regarding this, I pray you let 
 me be acquainted with your intention ; having, to please 
 you, delayed till now, during two years, to renew the 
 solicitation of it, for which the miserable state of my 
 health presses me more than you can imagine. In the 
 mean time provide, if you please, for the improvement 
 of my treatment here, that I may not suffer any longer, 
 and remit me not to the discretion of any other but 
 your own self, from whom alone (as I wrote you late- 
 ly), I wish in future to hold all the good and the evil, 
 which I shall receive in your country. Do me this 
 favour, that I have your intention in writing, or the 
 Ambassador of France for me. For, to confine me to 
 what the Earl of Shrewsbury, or others, shall write 
 concerning it on your part, I have too much experience, 
 to be able to place any assurance in it ; the least point 
 which they shall fancy being sufficient to innovate the 
 whole from day to day. Besides this, the last time 
 that I wrote to those of your council, you gave me to 
 understand that I ought not to address myself to them, 
 but to you alone : and thus to extend their credit and 
 
XVIir. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. 191 
 
 authority only to do me injury, could not be reasonable, 
 as has happened in the last restriction, by which, con- 
 trary to your intention, I have been most unworthily 
 treated. This gives me every reason to doubt that 
 some of my enemies in your council may have pur- 
 posely procured it, so as others of the said council may 
 neither be made acquainted with my just complaints, 
 nor to perceive, perhaps, their companions adhering to 
 their wicked attempts upon my life, whereof, if they 
 should have any knowledge, they would oppose them for 
 the sake of your honour and of their duty towards you. 
 Two things, in fine, I have principally to require, 
 the one, that near as I am to depart out of this 
 world, I may have with me for my consolation some 
 respectable person of the Church, to remind me daily 
 of the journey I have to finish, and to instruct me to 
 perform it according to my religion, in which I am 
 firmly resolved to live and to die. This is a lastduty which 
 cannot be denied to the most wicked and miserable that 
 lives. It is a liberty which you give to all the foreign 
 Ambassadors, as in like manner, all Catholic kings allow 
 yours the exercise of their religion. And I myself, have 
 never compelled my own subjects to any thing contrary 
 to their religion, although I had all power and author- 
 ity over them ; and, that I should, in this extremity, be 
 deprived of such liberty, you cannot justly require. What 
 advantage will accrue to you when you shall deny it to 
 me ? I hope that God will pardon me, if, by you op- 
 pressed in this manner, I cease to perform my duty but 
 only as I shall be permitted to do it in my heart. But 
 
192 LETTER OF NO. 
 
 you will afford a very bad example to the other princes 
 of Christendom to employ, towards their subjects, the 
 same rigour that you shall exercise towards me, a sov- 
 ereign Queen and your nearest relation, which I am, 
 and will be as long as I shall live, in spite of my ene- 
 mies. I will not importune you now about an augmen- 
 tation of my household, for which, during the time that 
 I see remaining to me to live in the world, I shall not 
 have much need. I require of you, then, only two bed- 
 chamber women, to assist me during my illness, affirm- 
 ing to you, before God, that they are most necessary 
 to me, when I shall be a poor creature among simple 
 people. Grant these to me, for the honour of God, 
 and prove by it that my enemies have not so much 
 credit with you against me, as to exercise their vengeance 
 and cruelty in a matter of so little consequence, and de- 
 pending upon a simple office of humanity. 
 
 I will come now to that, of which the Earl of 
 Shrewsbury has charged me (if such a one as he can 
 charge me) ; it is this, that contrary to my promise 
 made to Beale, and without your knowledge, I had ne- 
 gociated with my son, to resign to him my title to the 
 crown of Scotland, having bound myself not to proceed 
 in it, but with your advice, by one of my servants, who 
 in their common journey would be directed by one of 
 yours. These are, I think, the very words of the 
 said Earl. I will tell you upon this, Madam, that 
 Beale has never had any simple and absolute promise 
 from me ; but indeed conditional overtures, to which 
 I could not in any manner whatever remain bound, w r ith- 
 
UVIH. MARY, QUEEN OP SCOTS. . 103 
 
 out, previously, the conditions I had affixed to them 
 were executed; about which, so far is he from having ful- 
 filled them, that on the contrary I have never had from 
 him any answer, nor on his part heard mention made 
 since. And on this account, I remember very well 
 that the Earl of Shrewsbury, about last Easter, wish- 
 ing to draw from me a new confirmation of what I had 
 spoken to the said Beale, I replied to him very fully, 
 that it was only in case the said conditions should be 
 granted to me, and consequently performed. Both of 
 them are yet alive to demonstrate it to you, if they be 
 willing to speak the truth. Then, seeing that no ans- 
 wer was made to me ; but, on the contrary, by delays 
 and evasions, my enemies continued more licentiously 
 than ever their practices, arranged since the residence 
 of the said Beale with me, to traverse my just inten- 
 tions in Scotland, so that the effects of them have been 
 well witnessed there ; and that, by this mean, the door 
 remained open to the ruin of my son and of myself; 
 I took your silence for a refusal, and released myself, 
 by letters express as well to yourself as to your council, 
 from all that I had negociated with the said Beale. I 
 made you well acquainted with what Monsieur the 
 King, and Madame the Queen, had written to me with 
 their own hands concerning this affair, and upon it 
 asked your advice, which is yet to come, with which my 
 intention in truth was to proceed, if you had in time 
 given it to me, and had permitted me to send to my 
 son, assisting me in the overtures I had made to you, 
 towards establishing between these two kingdoms a 
 
 VOL. I. 2 B 
 
19& LETTER OF NO. 
 
 proper amity and perfect understanding for the time to 
 come. But to engage myself implicitly to follow your 
 advice, before I knew what it would be, and during 
 the journey of our servants, to subject mine to the direc- 
 tion of yours, even in my own country, I was never 
 so simple as to think of it. Now, I refer to your con- 
 sideration, if you have known the false game which my 
 enemies here, have played me in Scotland, in order to 
 bring matters to the extremity in which they are *, 
 which of us has proceeded in it with the greatest sin- 
 cerity. God be judge between them and me, and a- 
 vert from this island the punishment of their demerits. 
 Send back again at once the intelligence, which my 
 traitorous subjects of Scotland may have given you : 
 you will find, and I will maintain it before all Chris- 
 tian princes, that there has not passed on my part any 
 thing to your prejudice, nor against the weal and re- 
 pose of this kingdom which I regard not less than any 
 Counselor or subject that you have, taking more inter- 
 est in it than any of them. There was a discus- 
 sion concerning the gratifying my son with the title 
 and name of King, and preserving as well the said title 
 to him as to the rebels all impunity for their past of- 
 fences, and to replace every thing in peace and tran- 
 quillity for the future, without any innovation in af- 
 fairs whatever. Was this to take away the crown 
 from my son ? My enemies, as I believe, did not wish 
 that it should be secured to him; and, on that account, 
 
 * Mary, in this, as in former passages alludes to the attempt of 
 "the Earl of Gowry upon the person of James VI. at Perth, in 1582 
 
XVIII. MARY, QUEEN Op SCOTS. 19A 
 
 are very willing that he retain it by the lawless violence 
 of some, from all antiquity, perfidious enemies to the 
 whole of our family. Was this, then, to seek justice 
 of the past offences of these traitors, which my clemen- 
 cy has always surpassed ? But an evil conscience can 
 never be secure, carrying continually its terror in its 
 greatest perplexity along with it. Was it to wish to 
 disturb the repose of the country, to forward it by a 
 clement remission of every thing past, and a general 
 reconciliation between all our subjects ? This is what 
 our enemies here dread as much as they make a shew 
 of desiring it. What injury in this was there done you ? 
 Mark then, and verify it, if you please, in any other 
 thing ; I will reply to it, upon my honour. Ah ! will 
 you, Madam, allow yourself to be so blind to the ar- 
 tifices of my enemies, as to establish after you? and 
 peradventure against yourself, their unjust pretensions 
 to this crown ; will you suffer them, yourself living, 
 and see them ruin and so cruelly cause to perish those 
 who concern you so near, both in affection and blood ? 
 What profit and honour can you expect by permitting 
 them to retain us, my son and myself, so long separa- 
 ted, and him and me from you ? Resume the ancient 
 pledges of your good natural disposition ; attach your 
 relations to yourself; grant me the happiness before I 
 die, that, seeing every thing well adjusted between us, 
 my soul, set free from this body, may not be compelled 
 to pour out its lamentations before God, for the wrong 
 which you have suffered to be done to me, here below: 
 but rather, that being fortunately united to you, it may 
 
196' LETTER OF NO. 
 
 quit this captivity to begin its journey towards him, 
 whom I pray to direct you aright upon my very just 
 and more than reasonable complaints and sorrows. 
 
 From Sheffield, this 28th of November, 1582. 
 Your very disconsolate nearest relation, 
 
 and affectionate cousin 
 
 Mary Queen. 
 
 This letter, so nervous and pathetic, is frequently 
 rendered obscure, by that which is incident to all letters, 
 the rapid glancing of the mind to and from circumstan- 
 ces, familiar both to the writer and the receiver, and 
 therefore noticed only in a cursory manner. By many 
 of the writers of Mary^ life it has been introduced in- 
 to the narrative accompanied with observations descrip- 
 tive of the melancholy eloquence and sublime energy 
 with which it abounds. Blackwood first published the 
 original, in 1587; Cambden has abridged it in his An- 
 nals, Vol. I. p. 353; Mademoiselle De Keralio gare it a 
 place in her Appendix, Vol. V. p. 340; it is in Stuarfs 
 History, Vol. II. p. 164, and Whitaker has inserted 
 it with a translation in the end of Vol. III. of his De- 
 fence of Mary, where he thus very forcibly expresses 
 himself. " I now take leave of my reader with a gen- 
 " uine letter of Mary ; which recapitulates the conduct 
 " of Elizabeth to her, in all its principal outlines; which 
 li shows Elizabeth to us, as we have seen her before, 
 " but with an addition of evidence, mean, tyrannical, 
 " insidious, and savage ; and also shows the soul of 
 " Mary to us, at the seeming approaches of death, re- 
 
XVUI. MARY, QUSEN OF SCOTS. 197 
 
 " collected in its sentiments, earnest in i^s feelings, 
 " maintaining her innocence with awful solemnity, and 
 *' appealing to that God, before whom she thought she 
 " was going to appear, for the vindication of her hon- 
 " our and the avenging of her wrongs. From the in- 
 " teresting nature of distress, the elevating force of in- 
 " nocence, and the ennobling dignity of religion, the 
 " sick and dying Mary here appears with a majesty, 
 " before which the low-souled Elizabeth shrinks abash- 
 " ed and confounded. Every honest and generous feel- 
 " ing of our hearts comes forward to the aid of the 
 ts oppressed Queen. And we think of her oppressor, 
 " with disgust, with disdain, and with detestation.'" — 
 Such are the terms wherein an eminent English clergy- 
 man speaks of the most popular of the sovereigns of 
 England. E. 
 
 No. XIX. 
 
 " Hcec stiulia adolescent iam alunt, senectutem ohlecianl, se~ 
 cundas 7'es omant, adversis jyerfiigium ac solatium pi'cebent." 
 Cicero pro Aichia Poeta. 
 
 ALMOST no time is more pleasantly and usefully 
 passed than that, which is dedicated to the acquisition 
 of knowledge. The mind, being ardently engaged, and 
 directed to this object, partakes of the pleasure, which 
 naturally arises from the full and undivided exertion 
 
198 ON THE ADVANTAGES NO. 
 
 of its faculties. That listless inactivity, pernicious 
 alike to improvement and to happiness, is never more 
 effectually, and I may add successfully, combated, 
 than when the attention is fixed and absorbed, in 
 some literary disquisition. The little uneasinesses 
 that disquiet and harrass us, are forgotten amid those 
 delightful prospects which lie in the Republic of Let- 
 ters : and if, at any time, an overwhelming affliction un- 
 hinge our peace, even to this, desperate as it may be, 
 literature either brings a sovereign remedy, or teaches 
 us how to bear it. While the understanding is engross- 
 ed, the passions have not room to play. The attention 
 being exclusively turned to intellectual views, cannot 
 at once and without an effort, be drawn to those petty 
 anxieties which always invade the vacant mind, and 
 which fret and teaze only by occupying our thoughts. 
 Habits of reading and study are thus highly conducive 
 to that inward quiet, which forms the chief part of hu- 
 man happiness, and without which all other enjoyments 
 drawn from whatever source, will fail to yield lasting 
 and solid satisfaction. 
 
 Although literature were accompanied with no 
 other benefit, enough has been said to recommend it ; 
 but when to this, important as it must be confessed 
 to be, is added all that mental improvement, which is 
 its natural and genuine fruit, it is somewhat strange 
 that the bulk of mankind are not more eagerly and of- 
 tener engaged in its attainment. Need I particularize 
 all its advantages ; the capacity it gives to the under- 
 standing — the strength to the memory — the fire and 
 
XIX. OF LITERATURE. 199 
 
 activity it communicates to the fancy — the vastness to 
 the comprehension — the hints and inventions it furnish- 
 es to genius ? Or shall I unlock its storehouses and 
 ostentatiously display the magnificence and variety of 
 its treasure ? Shall I spread before the eye that im- 
 mense field where the imagination can ramble without 
 end, and cull those rare and beautiful flowers which 
 she afterwards assorts and compounds into an infinite 
 diversity of forms ? 
 
 Such to the enlightened few would be a needless 
 and unprofitable waste of description ; for they have 
 already appreciated the value of these advantages : and 
 to the many, on whose minds science has never beamed, 
 there are arguments of a coarser and more tangible 
 shape, better fitted to carry conviction, and more level 
 to their capacities. I shall rapidly sketch three of these, 
 and then detect and expose an error, connected with 
 this subject, which is fast gaining ground in this com- 
 mercial country, and particularly in this quarter. 
 
 First then, literature supplies an inexhaustible store 
 of topics for general conversation. 
 
 This may seem of trivial moment, considering the 
 great number of Newspapers, which issue from almost 
 every press, and are dispersed throughout the kingdom*; 
 and which may be supposed to place within the reach 
 of all ranks of men, abundant matter for discourse. 
 And as the intelligence contained in them, is both va- 
 ried and interesting, embracing at once whatever is 
 connected with our foreign relations, as well those ar- 
 ising from our colonies., as from other nations ; and aL 
 
200 0N THE ADVANTAGES NO. 
 
 so all our domestic policy, the contentions of our polit- 
 ical factions, the specimens of parliamentary eloquence, 
 and those numberless incidents, which occur within the 
 Empire ; it may be pretended, that nothing but an in- 
 satiable and unnatural thirst for knowledge, could lead 
 men to quit sources of information so salutary and co- 
 pious, and set out in quest of others, that can have lit- 
 tle to recommend them, besides their novelty. Although 
 it be granted that the daily prints abound with miscel- 
 laneous news well calculated for helps to conversation, 
 and so important as to be worth general attention, still 
 it must be owned, that when the parties are not heated 
 with political strife and animosity, they furnish only 
 meagre and exhausted topics, and can but seldom long 
 detain or amuse the sensible part of mankind. Every 
 event whether foreign or domestic, is detailed with 
 such minuteness, its causes pointed out, and its conse- 
 quences traced, that little else remains for conversation 
 than to put each other in mind of the circumstances. 
 All are possessed of exactly the same information, and 
 there can be but little pleasure and still less interest in 
 hearing others describe what we already know. The 
 philosophic and well-cultivated mind, hastens from 
 thence to expatiate in the fields of science, where it in- 
 hales a purer atmosphere, and meets with objects more 
 congenial to its taste. 
 
 But though the politics of the country may suffice 
 to furnish the male part of the species with topics of 
 discourse, the other half must be at some loss to hold 
 
 either with the men Cfcf 
 
OF LITERATURE 
 
 .201 
 
 with each other, since the authority of custom, founded 
 no doubt on the general opinion that delicacy and gentle- 
 ness form the first and most graceful ornaments of their 
 sex, has rigorously interdicted them from all political 
 discussion. That strife which is stirred up in this free 
 country by the liberty of speech indulged on all the 
 measures of Government, and the violence with which 
 the parties regard each other, spoil that placid regular- 
 ity of features, and that winning softness of expression, 
 which render beautiful women truly beautiful. To 
 them, literature holds out its tempting fruits. On the 
 tree of knowledge grow no apples endowed with poison- 
 ous qualities to cloud the understanding, and introduce 
 misery and disorder into the world, but such as are a- 
 dapted to console, to enlighten, and to exhilarate. 
 Were a taste for reading more generally diffused among 
 females, they would reap from it incalculable benefits 
 to themselves, and take a firmer and more rational hold 
 of the affections of the other sex. A face, though 
 brightened with pretty smiles, and formed with the ut- 
 most regularity, soon palls upon the sense, unless it be 
 lighted up with that intelligence which books alone can 
 inspire, and with that expressive animation which can 
 only be excited and upheld by an instructive and enter- 
 taining conversation. It is a pity to see the fairest part of 
 the creation, whom Providence obviously designed to 
 be our rational companions, aiming almost exclusively 
 at outward attractions, and pleasing by a display of 
 dazzling colours, like the gaudy, but worthless insects, 
 that sport in the sun-beam. The mind is capable of 
 vol. i. 2 c 
 
202 ON THE ADVANTAGES NO. 
 
 receiving a richer and more pleasing variety of orna- 
 ments than the body ; and the accomplishments of a 
 sound judgment and ready wit, are far more fascina- 
 ting than the gewgaws of the milliner, however well 
 adapted to the complexion and the features. , 
 
 In the next place, I observe, that literature affords 
 numberless maxims, and exhibits striking examples, 
 for our right conduct in life. 
 
 Our duty, it is said, is so well known and easily 
 understood, that our faults proceed in no instance from 
 ignorance, but either from culpable thoughtlessness, or 
 wilful intention. If we have a mind to correct our er- 
 rors, the remedy is within our power: we need not 
 have recourse to systems of ethics for rules, nor to the 
 records of history for examples ; we have only to mas- 
 ter our passions, restrain our appetites, and boldy seize 
 the path which leads to virtue. And are books not use- 
 ful, I had almost said, indispensably necessary, for those 
 very ends ? They paint the consequences of false in- 
 dulgence, and of the irregular exercise of the passions, 
 in so lively a manner as to admonish us of our danger, 
 and dispose us to sober and deliberate reflection. Even 
 that very calm of mind which is produced by reading 
 and meditation, is highly favourable to virtue, by stil- 
 ling all the rougher and more boisterous emotions. 
 Not to mention that there is scarce any production, 
 either in ancient or modern times, in a foreign or in 
 our own language, where human conduct and manners 
 are treated of, which does not lean to the side of mor- 
 ality, and furnish arguments to convince, as well as 
 
SIX. OF LITERATURE. 203 
 
 motives to persuade us, to the practice of it. Such 
 impressions, frequently repeated, must in the end mo- 
 derate the impetuosity and turbulence of the passions, 
 and induce that sedate and self-commanding temper, 
 which is the groundwork of whatever is noble, gener- 
 ous, and praise- worthy. In short, though a man's con- 
 duct, from the influence of education, or the greater 
 ascendancy of conscience, may in general be regular 
 and but little liable to reproach ; yet, unless his heart 
 be well seasoned with the maxims of wisdom, and his 
 views enlarged to take in the remote consequences of 
 things, his conduct must be wavering and unstable, and 
 his resolution will often yield at the approach of temp- 
 tation. 
 
 This reasoning may serve to explain why it hap- 
 pens, that the moral worth of the middling exceeds 
 that, both of the higher and lower classes of society. 
 The great and the opulent are engaged in such a con- 
 tinued round of pleasure, are encompassed with so 
 many dependents and flatterers, and have in such pro- 
 fusion wherewithal to pamper the appetites and inflame 
 the passions, that they have not leisure, and but seldom 
 inclination, for the calm pursuits of literature, even in 
 those cases where a liberal education was bestowed in 
 youth, and which might be supposed to engender habits 
 and a relish for study. 
 
 The poor and the ignoble, again, are forced to ; pro- 
 vide for themselves so early, and are doomed through 
 the whole of life to such incessant toil, that their minds 
 become brutish and obtuse, dead to all the finer feelings, 
 
 9. n 9 
 
204< ON THE ADVANTAGES NO, 
 
 and insensible in a great measure to the charms of mor- 
 al excellence. Their condition naturally' begets servil- 
 ity and low cunning, qualities most conspicuous in little 
 and narrow minds, and is unfavourable to the production 
 of dignified sentiments, of high and generous feeling, 
 and of manly and independent conduct. Their pro- 
 vince is to perform the low and vile drudgeries of life, 
 and these require a mind as low and as vile. Reading 
 and reflection among this class are extremely rare, and 
 such of them as can read, reap thence little profit from 
 an incapacity to seize and comprehend the views of the 
 author. Hence their time is divided between labour 
 and sluggish inaction. Their ideas are few, indistinct, 
 and perplexed. They follow rather the instincts arid 
 propensities of their nature, than guide themselves by 
 the maxims of reason, or the dictates of conscience. It 
 is lamentable to think that poverty has this tendency to 
 corrupt and degrade human nature. 
 
 In the middle station of life, virtue and orderly 
 conduct are most commonly to be met with. It is here 
 that the human character rises to its utmost height and 
 unfolds its loveliest blossoms. This state is not only 
 removed at an equal distance from the temptations in- 
 cident to poverty and wealth, but it fosters those habits 
 which enable us to resist them. This strength of mind 
 and self-control, are to be ascribed in a great meas- 
 ure to that portion of knowledge, which is shared a- 
 mong the individuals of this class. They are the most 
 enlightened, and therefore the most virtuous part of 
 the community. In this soil, all the graces that adorn 
 
XIX. OF LITERATURE. 205 
 
 and distinguish the human race, propagate with the 
 most ease, and vegetate with the most luxuriance. 
 Here they are indigenous plants, and need little culture, 
 besides clearing the ground of weeds, to give them 
 room to spread and ripen. Reading and reflection are 
 the refreshing dews, which fall into their bosom and 
 give them their richest fragrance and their finest tints. 
 
 In the last place, knowledge, the result of literature, 
 is the only quality, which in every stage of society gives 
 dignity and respectability to the character. 
 
 Nothing is more apt to raise our wonder than the 
 opposite qualities, which in different ages of the world 
 have procured the respect of mankind. These, howev- 
 er wide of each other in their nature, all agree in one 
 common character, to wit, their subserviency or useful- 
 ness to the existence and happiness of the community 
 in the state of improvement at which it had then arriv- 
 ed. In savage life, a fierce courage and unconquerable 
 patience under suffering, are the virtues most highly 
 commended, and to the cultivation of which all their 
 discipline is directed. As society advances, and is grad- 
 ually polished from this rudeness, the military virtues 
 are chiefly held in esteem, and almost engross the ad- 
 miration of the multitude. In the most flourishing pe- 
 riods of the Grecian history, this seems to have been 
 the point which the Society had reached. All the males 
 were bred to the use of arms: all their amusements and 
 exercises were subsidiary to the art of war. To fight 
 the battles of their country even in the lowest ranks, 
 so far from being accounted mean or ignoble, was deem- 
 
^206 ON THE ADVANTAGES KO, 
 
 ed the highest honour, and from this, except in cases 
 of the greatest emergency, all the slaves were excluded. 
 Riches, in this stage, were not sought after with avid- 
 ity, but on the contrary, poverty was courted as render- 
 ing men more independent of things external. In pro- 
 portion, however, as the arts which minister to luxury 
 are carried to perfection, this state of things passes 
 away, and a new sera arises, in which commerce engages 
 the attention, and calls forth all the energy of the com- 
 munity. Wealth then constitutes the principal char- 
 acter of distinction. Men, studious of their ease, de- 
 volve the duties of the soldier upon the meanest and 
 lowest of the people, and the ranks of the army become 
 the refuge of beggary and disappointment. Courage, 
 though still elevated among the virtues, holds only a 
 subordinate place, and wars are undertaken solely for 
 the acquisition of territory, or the extension of trade. 
 Wealth now forms the object of universal pursuit, and 
 in the attainment of it, every energy of mind and body 
 is strained. 
 
 It is curious to remark, that notwithstanding this 
 perpetual change in the leading qualities accounted 
 honourable among mankind, knowledge invariably con- 
 fers dignity and respect, not in all the stages to the 
 same extent, yet enough in each to make it an object 
 worth attaining. In that high state of cultivation in 
 which we now are, it sets forward juster pretensions to 
 deference than it could challenge in the earlier and ruder 
 ages, and these, from the general refinement, are more 
 readily acknowledged. No man can be truly respecta- 
 
XIX, OF LITERATURE. 207 
 
 ble now who is ignorant. Titles, rank, or opulence, 
 may throw a false and transient lustre round a charac- 
 ter in itself contemptible, and catch the inconstant 
 admiration of the silly crowd, but he who covets and re- 
 ceives the homage of the heart must possess intrinsic 
 qualities, a well informed judgment, and a penetrating 
 understanding. These at all times are estimable, and 
 lay the only sure basis of respectability. 
 
 After all this reasoning, one must think it won- 
 derful that in a country like this, an idea has sprung up, 
 anions not a few, that literature and a taste for reading- 
 are incompatible with the habits, and are a drawback 
 on the success of the Man of Business. 
 
 I will readily allow, that if he turn his attention 
 so exclusively to books, as to occupy in their perusal 
 that time which should be deemed sacred to the count- 
 ing-room ; or if, while in the counting-room, his 
 thoughts are wandering after philosophical subjects, and 
 not fixed and riveted on his affairs, such a taste, so 
 improperly and unseasonably indulged, must be ex- 
 tremely prejudicial to his interest, and merit the most 
 unqualified reprobation. His transactions must needs 
 be carelessly and hastily performed, his accounts will 
 be irregular and confused, and his whole business -want, 
 that arrangement and masterly skill, which alone can 
 command success. To call such a one a man of business 
 is a perversion of language, and were the prejudice, 
 which I am attacking, extended no farther, it should 
 meet with the most lenient castigation. 
 
 But a prejudice exists among some against reading 
 
^08 ON THE ADVANTAGES SO. 
 
 in general, and they would interdict the merchant from 
 holding any commerce with polite and elegant litera- 
 ture. This opinion goes in direct opposition to an es- 
 tablished, but trite remark ; that the powers of the 
 mind, as well as those of the body, acquire strength 
 from exercise. If the intellectual faculties be not cul- 
 tivated, and that too with constant and unwearied in- 
 dustry, in vain would we expect them to be active and 
 vigorous. The mind must remain in its natural state, 
 perhaps a strong and fertile soil, but impoverished and 
 deformed with the rank exuberance of weeds. Nothing 
 tends so much to call forth the native energies of the 
 soul, and to give them free and liberal scope as the pur- 
 suits of literature. A taste, then, for these pursuits, is 
 the best and most effectual means of opening and ex- 
 panding the mental powers, and ripening them to full 
 perfection. The question then is drawn within a nar- 
 row compass. Can the Man of Business, unimproved 
 by study, and unenlightened by general knowledge, 
 succeed better than he, who has been at pains to strength- 
 en his memory, to improve his capacity, and to enrich 
 himself with all the stores of ancient and modern learn- 
 ing? It is impossible. The first is necessarily ignor- 
 ant, narrow-minded, and incapable of embracing large 
 views of things. The second must, from his superior 
 knowledge, be able toavail himself of innumerable advan- 
 tages, and to seise all the contingent circumstances that 
 may, in any wise, advance his fortune. He can descry 
 evils at a greater distance, adopt more prudent and ef- 
 fectual precautions, discriminate with more nicety, and 
 
XIX. OF LITERATURE. 209 
 
 look forward to future events with a sagacity, that 
 seems more nearly allied to the foresight of inspiration, 
 than the deductions of the understanding. His con- 
 ceptions are vast and comprehensive ; and, disdaining to 
 follow the beaten track of ordinary mortals, he strikes 
 out a new path, prosecutes it with the ardour of genius, 
 and seizes the golden prize. There is, however, a 
 great and imminent risk attending all these extraordin- 
 ary efforts of first rate minds. Conceiving that every 
 thing can be accomplished by the mere dint of intellect, 
 and that talents can extricate from the most embarrassed 
 situations, they fearlessly rush into hazardous specula- 
 tions ; and, as no human ability can regulate and con- 
 trol the tide of events, they are not unfrequently 
 overwhelmed with disasters. This only proves, that 
 to insure success in business, other qualifications are 
 requisite than intellectual ability ; but it is still con- 
 tended, that intellectual ability, aided and accompan- 
 ied with the other proper qualifications, has a better 
 chance of succeeding, than the dulness of the uninform- 
 ed and plodding drudge, whose imagination never 
 strayed beyond his counter, and whose calculations 
 have been all along confined to pounds, shillings, and 
 pence. Reading, and the study of erudition, sharpen 
 all the capacities of the mind, and render them fitter 
 instruments in the hands of the merchant, for rearing 
 the structure of his fortune. The mental capacities 
 may here not unaptly be compared to the irons of ma- 
 sonry. To forward the work, and give it its highest 
 polish, these require a sharp edge, and how solicitous 
 
£10 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 soever the artificer may be to hasten on and adorn 
 the building, his cares and exertions will be inefficacious, 
 or at least less successful, if he be not provided with 
 the necessary and proper tools. So, in business, that 
 man will be found to succeed best, who is gifted with 
 the choicest parts, and who has bestowed due pains on 
 their improvement. L. A. 
 
 No. XX. 
 
 " Review them and adore I Hear the loud voice 
 " Of Wisdom sounding in her works ! Attend 
 " Ye sons of men! ye children of the dust, 
 " Be wise, — observe a Providence in all." 
 Dr Ogilvie's Providence, B. III. v. 1018-21-1069- 
 
 THE works of Nature are possessed of characters, 
 calculated to produce strong and various impressions on 
 the human mind. Their effect is not restricted to time, 
 or place ; but reaches to all ages past, present, and fu- 
 ture, and to all nations, however much diversified by 
 laws, institutions, or religious rites. They speak a 
 language universally understood, and distinctly audible 
 in the ear of Reason. By them we are led to that most 
 Important and first of all truths ; that a Divine Intelli- 
 gence must have forever existed, who disposed their 
 parts, and rendered them subservient to each other, 
 and who bestowed order and harmony on the whole. 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 211 
 
 To this conclusion we are conducted, neither by a chain 
 of argument, nor by the influence of early and imbib- 
 ed prepossessions, but by an irresistible necessity im- 
 pressed on our understanding by the hand of our Maker. 
 That every effect must have a cause, is one of those 
 self-evident and eternal axioms, which no reasoning- 
 can either establish or overturn, and which is readily 
 and promptly assented to, whenever the terms that ex- 
 press it, are clearly apprehended. It borrows no evi- 
 dence from any other quarter, but shines by its own 
 internal light. 
 
 There are also certain qualities belonging to the 
 material world, which strongly affect our Powers of 
 Taste, and which give rise to what is commonly called 
 the Pleasures of the Imagination. 
 
 The vault of heaven, the expansion and incontrol- 
 able swell of the ocean, the lofty precipice, the roar of 
 the cataract, of the storm, and of the thunder, excite in 
 us emotions of the sublime. The lustre of the sun, 
 the mellow light of the moon, and the glimmering of 
 the stars ; the soft music of birds, the brilliancy of their 
 colours and the elegance of their shapes ; the delicate 
 and graceful structure of flowers, with their rich and 
 inimitable tints ; all these conspire to delight us with 
 their beauty. Every object in nature, though possess- 
 ing no character that could entitle it to be classed with 
 the sublime or the beautiful, yet, if unknown, pleases 
 by its novelty. In this manner, the Author of Nature 
 has invested all his works with a splendid but simple 
 drapery to charm the eye of the beholder, and to make 
 
212 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 ail the senses inlets of pleasure. This is, perhaps, the 
 most conspicuous and incontrovertible mark of his 
 goodness, which is "exhibited in his workmanship. In 
 most other instances his beneficence seems directed to 
 some useful or necessary end : here it is gratuitous, and 
 exerted for no other purpose than to open up sources 
 of innocent and pure enjoyment to his sensible creatures. 
 
 While the Creation thus addresses the Understand- 
 ing and the powers of Taste, it holds a language no less 
 intelligible to our moral nature ; and it is in this view 
 only that I mean to consider it in the following specula- 
 tion. 
 
 That I may not lead the reader into too wide a field 
 of inquiry, I shall premise, that although the goodness, 
 the wisdom, the power, and the majesty of the Deity, 
 be written legibly throughout all, even the minutest and 
 most insignificant, of his works ; still these characters 
 may be traced in some, more visibly than in others, and 
 certain parts of the material world may be selected, as 
 affording the most decisive proofs of his benignity, of 
 his intelligence, or of his greatness. In conformity to 
 this general observation, it may be remarked, that the 
 demonstrations of the divine wisdom and goodness are 
 chiefly drawn from what is discoverable on our own 
 planet. It is there we see the wonderful adaptation of 
 means to ends, the profound and complex contrivances 
 which Nature resorts to, in order to bring about her 
 kind and beneficial purposes, and the unrivaled skill 
 she displays in the structure of animals, in fitting their 
 organs to their modes of life, and in the number and 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 213 
 
 variety of their propensities and instincts. A minute 
 analysis of the human body alone, lays open more art 
 and contrivance than do all the machines invented by 
 the united ingenuity of ages ; and, in consequence, fur- 
 nishes to our limited understanding the best and most 
 ample evidence of the wisdom of its Framer. It is also 
 from the earth that we are to gather the principal proofs 
 of his goodness. This is the proper sphere of our ob- 
 servation. We can mark the care he has taken to pre- 
 serve the different species of living creatures, the many 
 sources of pleasure he has prepared for them, the abun- 
 dant and liberal subsistence which he constantly furnishes 
 to gratify their appetites, and to supply their wants. 
 We feel also that goodness exerted in our own behalf; 
 in our pleasurable sensations, in the enjoyments of 
 society, and even in the gay and fantastic illusions of 
 hope. 
 
 But the omnipotence and majesty of the First Cause, 
 though perceptible on our Earth, in the ponderous 
 masses of rocks, in the howling of the tempest, and in 
 the stroke of the lightning, are better collected from 
 the contemplation of the Heavens. Astronomy unveils 
 such wonders about the distances, the magnitudes, the 
 revolutions of the Planets, and gives such magnificent 
 ideas relative to the immensity of space, and the remote- 
 ness of the fixed stars, that we are thrown into amaze- 
 ment, and feel ourselves impressed, as moral beings, with 
 the grandeur of the prospect. A survey of the Heav- 
 ens, as the mighty theatre where the majesty and 
 power of the Divinity are most strikingly exhibited. 
 
214 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 teaches us lessons friendly to the interests of virtue, 
 and which may be nearly all comprised under the four 
 following divisions. 
 
 First, we ought to regard the Framer of the uni- 
 verse with sentiments of the most profound awe and 
 veneration. When the soul turns towards the Deity 
 as an object of research, it strains all its capacities to 
 form some faint notion of his infinitude, but finds itself 
 unequal to the undertaking. The immensity of space in 
 which he resides, and the eternity of his duration, over- 
 whelm with astonishment, and require a vastness of com- 
 prehension, of which our faculties, limited and imper- 
 fect as they are in the present state, are incapable. We 
 become lost in the contemplation of a Being so supreme- 
 ly great, and return in despair, in order to recruit our 
 strength, which has been exhausted in the fruitless in- 
 quiry. But, if we be solicitous that our ideas should 
 rise and approximate as nearly as possible to the great 
 original, the study of the celestial phenomena will won- 
 derfully assist us. By reflecting on the mighty circles 
 which the planets describe, and the ages, which, accord- 
 ing to some, have been consumed in the transmission 
 of light from the remoter stars, the extent of the Crea- 
 tion bursts in upon the imagination, and inspires thoughts 
 of genuine sublimity. Musings of this kind, indulged 
 in the silence and darkness of the night, when the sens- 
 es are unsolicited by external objects, form an instruc- 
 tive and delightful entertainment. The mind, quitting 
 the body with which it is encumbered, mounts on the 
 wings of fancy into the fields of space. It looks down 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 215 
 
 upon the Earth which it has left, and sees its vast cir- 
 cumference shrinking gradually into a point. It follows 
 the wandering stars in their courses, or outflies them 
 at pleasure. It measures the zodiac with one wide 
 circuit. Leaving the planetary system behind : it shoots 
 into the regions of the stars. It surveys the opaque 
 bodies which revolve around them, and whose reflected 
 light has never traveled to human sight. It examines 
 their inhabitants, their functions, their manners of life, 
 their pursuits, their pleasures. Still soaring on a bold 
 pinion, it arrives at length on the confines of the Crea- 
 tion. It looks into the trackless, immeasurable void, 
 and involuntarily shudders. It passes the brink, and 
 adventures onward, wrapt in the thickness of darkness. 
 Here, however, it is soon bewildered ; and, retracing 
 its course, revisits the region illuminated by the glory 
 of the creation, After a slow and steep descent, it a- 
 lights on the terrestrial globe, improved and transport- 
 ed with the excursion. He, whose imagination can 
 carry him into so boundless and delightful a ramble, 
 naturally thinks on the majesty of that Being who cal- 
 led into existence these unnumbered worlds, and upholds 
 them in unerring order. It is at this moment that the 
 divine character rises in all its greatness and fills us 
 with reverential awe. How irresistible must be his 
 power, how diffusive his goodness, how inconceivable 
 his wisdom, who reared and sustains a structure so 
 splendid and glorious ! 
 
 I very much admire that article of the Jewish re- 
 ligion, which prohibited the use of this sacred and ador- 
 
216 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 able Name, even in their rites and devotions, and which 
 esteemed it too holy to be pronounced by the lips of 
 mortals. Such a restriction served very much to beget 
 that fear and devout respect, which I am recommending, 
 and which is so becoming in creatures dependent, as 
 we are, on his bounty, and removed at such an infinite 
 distance from his perfections. This peculiarity of that 
 ancient religion reflects a strong, and were our judg- 
 ments not warped by the prevalence of custom, a de- 
 served censure on the frequency with which that name 
 is used in all the theological tracts throughout Chris- 
 tendom. Sermons, controversial writings, catechisms, 
 and even spelling books, are crowded almost a^ profuse- 
 ly with it, as with the conjunctive particle and. I shall 
 not determine how far the indecent irreverence of this 
 practice has facilitated the progress of impiety, and given 
 rise to the modern vice of swearing, by early habituating 
 our ears to a sound, which certainly merits a more 
 solemn gravity of pronunciation. A child no sooner 
 begins to learn his syllables, than the name of the First 
 Cause, and all the perfections that belong to him, are 
 laid to his hand, as materials to further his advance- 
 ment, when terms of unimportant meaning would con- 
 fessedly answer the same purpose. Were a foreigner, ig- 
 norant of our manners, stationed at such a distance from 
 a country school-room, as that every word of a sentence 
 could not be distinctly heard, but only such as were 
 uttered with greater emphasis, this sacred appellation 
 would be so often repeated, that, joined with the con- 
 fusion and din. he would be at a loss to know whether 
 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 317 
 
 or not the voices proceeded from an assembly of de- 
 mons. I am aware that this is defended on the plea of 
 early inculcating the principles of our holy religion, but 
 it belongs to the guardians of the public morals to con- 
 sider how far this pious profanation is not the secret 
 cause of our ears being shocked in society so often with 
 oaths and imprecations. 
 
 There have been men no less distinguished for phi- 
 losophical research than for true piety, and whose lives 
 were an ornament to their country, who never allowed 
 themselves to make use of the name of God but in cases 
 of the utmost solemnity, and even then ushered it in 
 with a marked falling of the voice and a subsequent 
 visible pause : so much were they penetrated with a 
 sense of the reverential feeling due to their Creator. 
 
 'Such instances of piety should put to the blush the 
 daring effrontery of some who fear not on the most tri- 
 vial occasion, (if it may be permitted to borrow religious 
 phraseology) to take the name of God in vain. This 
 is an expedient usually resorted to, by fools and cox- 
 combs, to make the multitude and their inferiors stare, 
 and give to themselves a fancied importance. Little 
 and vain minds, who have nothing to elevate them a- 
 bove the crowd, that is valuable in itself or estimable 
 by mankind, torture their ingenuity to find out some- 
 thing by which they may attract notice and rise above 
 the common level ; and, as they despair of reaching 
 that enviable height in the direct path of honourable 
 exertion, they seek distinction from their vices and 
 profanity. Swearing, however, has of late become as 
 voi*. i. 2 s 
 
~18 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO, 
 
 unfashionable as it is impious, and it ha3 retired, in a 
 great measure, from the gay world and sought a hid- 
 ing-place among the worthless rabble. It would be a 
 fruitless labour to reason against this vice in an argu- 
 mentative form, because they who, in the paroxysms 
 of passion or under the influence of any sudden and 
 violent emotion, suffer the name of the Almighty to 
 escape their lips in an irreverent manner, condemn 
 themselves on the return of reflection ; and they again, 
 who habitually abuse it are so effectually entrenched 
 behind their ignorance as to be inaccessible to argument, 
 You may shame, but can never argue, such men out 
 of their impiety. 
 
 In the second place, it is matter of pious gratitude 
 and joy, that amidst the immensity of the works of God 
 we, the inhabitants of this planet, are neither forgotten 
 nor neglected by him. 
 
 Were it possible to train up a reasonable being till 
 he had reached the maturity of his faculties, without 
 making him acquainted with the first principles of na- 
 tural religion, and then, at once, lay before him the 
 stupendous greatness of the Universe, and inform him, 
 at the same time, that all these revolving worlds, with 
 their endless productions and animals, were under the 
 superintendence and management of one directing Mind, 
 who could so distribute his attention and his energy, 
 as to keep the magnificent machine in motion, without 
 disorder, confusion, or irregularity, he would listen 
 with an incredulous ear to a doctrine so sublime and 
 mysterious. Such an effort of intelligence fills the im- 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 219 
 
 agination with astonishment, as it so vastly transcends 
 the compass of the human mind, which can only turn 
 itself to one object at a time, and be occupied with one 
 train of ideas. It is from comparing the Divine mind 
 to the human, that we ever harbour a mistrust of Pro- 
 vidence : for the omniscience of God effectually secures 
 us from being disregarded amid the multitude of objects 
 which call for his protection. While it is our duty to 
 repress all such unbecoming suspicions of his paternal 
 care, we ought not to banish from our thoughts our en- 
 tire and perpetual dependence on him. We are too apt 
 io overlook all those blessings which result from the re- 
 gularity of the laws of nature ; and, forgetting the 
 First Cause, to satisfy ourselves with tracing the secon- 
 dary causes that produce them. We multiply experi- 
 ments without end, to discover the secret contrivances 
 which the Deity has adopted to work upon matter, and 
 the investigations are laudable and advantageous to the 
 progress of knowledge ; but we should go a step farther, 
 and indulge feelings of devotion to that incomprehensi- 
 ble Agent who has employed his power and his wisdom 
 in subserviency to his goodness. We should be espe- 
 cially thankful that the general comfort and convenience 
 of the inhabitants of this planet, which we partake of, 
 and which depend on its daily and annual motions, have 
 been consulted with a care and exactness which demon- 
 strate that the Divine attention is not distracted by the 
 multiplicity of its interests. 
 
 The vicissitude of day and night arises from what 
 is called the diurnal motion of our Earth. In the 
 
220 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 course of twenty-four hours, the sun illuminates and 
 cheers every part of its surface in regular succession by 
 its own simple turning round its axis. Thus one half 
 is alternately in the light, and the other in the shade. 
 The day time is the season of labour and activity, the 
 darkness invites to sleep and repose, by which our ex- 
 hausted powers are refreshed and invigorated. The 
 constitution of Man and the other animals is fitted for 
 this alternation of night and day. Neither we, nor they, 
 could support a long and uninterrupted series of exer- 
 tion, without impairing the strength and health of the 
 body, and when we attempt to urge nature beyond cer- 
 tain limits, she corrects us for the violence, first of all 
 by lassitude, and should we not relax, she increases the 
 pain of further efforts till it become intolerable. This 
 constitutes a natural check to the eagerness of human 
 passions, and it is seconded by the periodical return of 
 darkness, which necessarily interrupts the bustle of busi- 
 ness, and produces that stillness which entices to rest. 
 Nature here acts the part of a kind and indulgent nurse, 
 to her children. She extinguishes the light of day, 
 that all external objects may be shut out which allure 
 the senses, and then imposes silence on the Creation 
 that their sleep may be spund and undisturbed ; thus 
 drawing, as it were, the curtains of night around their 
 retirements. 
 
 The expedient fallen upon, to promote vegetation 
 and to provide food for man and beast, is not less won- 
 derful, and is effected by another motion of this Planet 
 around the Sun. This by means of the obliquity and 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 221 
 
 parallelism of its axis, causes the seasons in that unde- 
 viating order which they have observed since the origin 
 of things. While the northern hemisphere is enjoying 
 the influences of summer, winter reigns in the southern, 
 and when the latter, in its turn, is visited by the gen- 
 ial heats, the former languishes and decays. By this 
 means, vegetation and consequent plenty, travel from 
 the one pole to the other, and furnish subsistence, to all 
 the tribes of animals. 
 
 These two motions go on so steadily, that the at- 
 tention is never drawn either to themselves, or to the 
 benefits we derive from them. The interchanges of 
 day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, are 
 phenomena, so familiar to us from our earliest infancy, 
 and so incorporated and blended with all our ideas, that 
 our gratitude seldom rises to the First Cause for estab- 
 lishing these beneficent appointments, and for preserv- 
 ing them without the smallest irregularity. Were they, 
 however, disturbed, the confusion they would occasion, 
 would be incalculable ; and were they discontinued, all 
 living creatures must perish. 
 
 I further remark, that the contemplation of the 
 Heavens naturally leads to humility, and suggests views 
 which, when justly apprehended, kill in us the seeds of 
 vanity and self-conceit- 
 
 When man compares himself with the lower animals 
 in the acuteness of his sagacity, in the number of his 
 inventions, or in the compass and strength of his powers, 
 he must be sensible of his superiority, and perceive that 
 many gifts and endowments are conferred upon him, 
 
222 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 which exalt his nature above theirs. And when he car- 
 ries on the comparison between himself and many of 
 his own species, he cannot often shut his eyes against 
 a similar conclusion ; especially, if he should happen to 
 possess intrinsic qualities, or the adventitious circum- 
 stances of birth and fortune to which they have no just 
 title. Such views, in a well informed and regulated 
 mind, beget only a proper sense of its own dignity and 
 merit, feelings nowise incongruous with virtue ; but in 
 others, they foster a groundless and insufferable elation 
 of spirit which appears in every word and action. This 
 passion, which is named pride, or vanity, according to 
 the objects on which it rests, is always the failing of 
 little and contracted souls, who are incapable of stretch- 
 ing their thoughts to those wider and higher inquiries 
 that teach us our proper station in the scale of being. 
 " O Man," says an Eastern sage, " if thou wantest an 
 •*' antidote against pride, raise thine eyes to the Firma- 
 " ment. Compare thyself with the angels who surround 
 « the throne of God, and learn how little thou art. 
 « Thy understanding is dark and limited, ever falling 
 ** into errors, the least of which is not surely this high 
 " opinion of thyself. Thy body, which thou deckest 
 " with every ornament thy fancy can invent, what is it ? 
 ^ The instrument, but also the incumberance of thy no- 
 " bier part, which, before thou canst reach the skies, 
 " must be dropt and thrown aside, to putrify and moul- 
 " der in the earth from which it sprung. The wealth 
 " of which thou boastest, is foreign to thee. It be- 
 '-' longed to others before it was thine, and will again 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 223 
 
 " pass into other hands. Practise then humility, for it 
 « becomes thy state. Pride was not made for man." 
 
 I am very much of the same way of thinking, with 
 this philosopher, that a survey of the Heavens, and 
 more particularly as they are illustrated by modern dis- 
 covery, is wonderfully calculated for the purpose of 
 rooting out vanity and self-importance, and am satisfied 
 that any one who turns his attention to these studies, 
 sees the littleness of man, and the insignificancy of his 
 grandeur in a much stronger light than they ever ap- 
 peared to him from any other reflections. The human 
 intellect, which embraces so great a range of ideas, and 
 can investigate so many profound subjects, labours un- 
 der an acknowledged incapacity in most of the inquiries 
 connected with the celestial phenomena. Newton first 
 opened the path into these regions, which have sincebeen 
 successfully trodden by many of his illustrious followers ; 
 and the discoveries, which have been brought to light by 
 their joint efforts, have exceeded all reasonable belief : 
 yet much still remains unaccomplished, and must neces- 
 sarily remain so from the imperfection of human pow- 
 ers. Astronomy opens a prospect so vast, that the eye 
 while it examines minutely whatever is within the 
 sphere of its vision, discerns in the spacious circumfe- 
 rence around it, objects fading in the distance, which it 
 can never explore. 
 
 If the pride of understanding be humbled by these 
 inquiries, they no less effectually repress that conse- 
 quence which we are so apt to assume, from our pos- 
 sessions in money or lands. To a superior intelligence 
 
224 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 all our contentions about wealth, must appear as frivo- 
 lous as the struggles of these diminutive creatures, 
 the ants do to us, about a grain of barley. And when 
 the soul, in a future and more advanced stage of her 
 progress, looks back upon the cares and anxieties, which 
 occupied and vexed her in the present world, she will 
 feel humiliation at their emptiness not unlike that of 
 the sage, who, in the manhood of his powers, cannot 
 without a blush recollect his marbles and playthings. 
 The importance of worldly things depend entirely on 
 their proximity. They press upon our vision, and their 
 proportions seem vast and gigantic, just as the small 
 particle of dust, which obstructs the progress of an in- 
 sect, is magnified by its microscopic eye into a mountain. 
 Remove them only to a sufficient distance, contem- 
 plate them from an exalted station in the heavens, and 
 our mansions, our cities, our private property, and our 
 national territory, dwindle into nothing, and are scarce 
 perceptible on the surface of the earth. Elevate the eye 
 still higher, and the earth itself appears only a luminous 
 point shining among the stars. I know not where 
 these thoughts are better illustrated than in the dream 
 of Scipio, handed down to us by the Roman Orator. 
 P. Cornelius Scipio, having been carried in a vision to 
 the Heavens, met with Africanus, who lifted to him 
 the veil of futurity, and shewed him the principal e- 
 vents of his life. These, notwithstanding their splen- 
 dor, were to be attended with much personal danger 
 from the impious hands of hi« relatives. In order to 
 inspire him with fortitude to meet the consummation 
 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 225 
 
 of his fate, his heavenly instructor addresses him ; 
 *< But that you may be, O Seipio ! the more eager to 
 Xl save the Republic, know, that a certain place in hea- 
 " ven, where the good enjoy everlasting life, is allotted 
 " to all those, who preserve, assist, or aggrandize their 
 " country. For societies of men bound together by 
 " laws are a pleasing object to the Divinity, whose tem- 
 " pie you now behold. Practise justice and piety, 
 " therefore, that you may, after death, open a path 
 4i hither for yourself, and be admitted into the company 
 *< of those, who inhabit this region. 1 ' It was, says Sei- 
 pio relating his dream, a belt of the most splendid 
 whiteness, called, according to the Greeks, the Milky 
 Way, from which all other celestial things appeared in 
 my sight very bright and wonderful. I saw stars, not 
 discernible from the earth ; and the magnitudes of all 
 the heavenly bodies exceeded my conjecture. That 
 satellite which is farthest from heaven, and nearest 
 to earth, and which shines by a borrowed light, was 
 least of them all. From this height, " the Earth itself 
 ** seemed to me so small, that I blushed for the insigni- 
 « ficant extent of the Roman Empire, which touched 
 * ( its surface as a mere point." 
 
 Such suggestions evince the madness and folly of 
 ambition, and teach us, that to be elevated above mea- 
 sure with our own paltry possessions, or our national 
 grandeur, can only be the weakness of a mind, which 
 cannot enlarge its views, to take in the Universe at a 
 glance. We are by no means, the big consequential 
 beings, that we so often figure in our own imaginations. 
 vol. i. 2 P 
 
226 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 Neither we ourselves, nor our mightiest works, are per- 
 ceptible to a spectator placed in any of the stars ; and 
 the pyramids of Egypt no more affect the rotundity of 
 the Earth, than the minutest atom, visible in the solar 
 ray, would that of a common terrestrial globe. If 
 I recollect right, it was, after looking up to the hea- 
 vens framed by the fingers, and ordained by the power 
 of the Almighty, that David breaks out into this noble 
 and energetic strain of interrogation. " What is man 
 that thou art mindful of him ? or the son of man that 
 thou shouldst visit him ?" 
 
 Lastly, the contemplation of the Heavens, furnish- 
 es a twofold argument in behalf of immortality ; first, 
 from the extent of the human powers, and next, from 
 the immensity of the creation ; and consequently adds 
 a powerful sanction to all the laws of virtue. 
 
 Were we to see a plant growing in a certain cli- 
 mate, or soil, which bore evident symptoms of being in 
 an unfavourable situation for coming to maturity, we 
 would naturally inquire, whether these symptoms were 
 peculiar to this, as an individual, or were common to 
 the class under which it was arranged. If we should 
 find, that this was a single instance, we would at once 
 conclude that the defect lay in the culture, and could 
 be remedied by skilful management ; but on the con- 
 trary, should we learn that all the plants of that tribe 
 were equally sickly, and that with the utmost care in 
 the rearing of them, they could not be brought to per- 
 fect their fruit, we would draw a widely different con- 
 clusion, and believe it to be an exotic, which required a 
 
*X. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 227 
 
 more propitious atmosphere, and a warmer sun. This 
 conclusion would be established beyond doubt, were we to 
 discover that part of the earth where it naturally flour- 
 ished in luxuriant vigour. The whole of this argument 
 rests on experience ; for, so wisely has nature conducted 
 all her operations in the vegetable kingdom, that she 
 has formed no plant without allowing it a friendly 
 region ; and, on the other hand, no region without 
 beautifying and filling it with suitable plants. So firm- 
 ly do we hold this opinion, that were we even to alight 
 upon any herb or flower, which could not be brought to 
 perfection in any climate, yet visited by man, we would 
 seek for a solution of the difficulty, rather in the imper- 
 fection of our knowledge, than in the suspicion that Na- 
 ture had made aught in vain. The strength of this rea- 
 soning will apply equally well to the animal as to the 
 vegetable kingdom ; for, were any creature exhibit- 
 ed, which refused every kind of food, and languish- 
 ed under every tried mode of treatment, we would, 
 notwithstanding, think, that the Universal Parent had, 
 somewhere or other, provided it proper nourishment, 
 and that in some latitude, it could exercise all its func- 
 tions, and attain its full health and vigour. 
 
 This mode of reasoning may be extended by analo- 
 gy to the human soul. In the present state it cannot 
 fully gratify its appetite for knowledge, nor exert all 
 its powers, for two obvious reasons. The first is, the 
 shortness of its existence, and the second, its distance 
 from the objects which it ardently covets to explore, 
 3y the time that the mind of man begins to feel and 
 
 2f2 
 
~28 ON THE MORAL EFFECT OF NO. 
 
 exult in its capacities, and to direct them to varied and 
 beneficial acquirements, he is interrupted in the midst 
 of his progress, and hurried oft' the stage. But put the 
 case, that he were even immortal, yet chained to this 
 earth, still he could not investigate with advantage the 
 works of the Creation, as they lie beyond his reach. 
 From the motion of the great masses of matter, which 
 revolve around him, he can find out the mechanical laws 
 which guide them, their celerities, their magnitudes, 
 the periods of their circuits, yet how scanty and imper- 
 fect are these attainments, compared with what he could 
 acquire, were he released from the body, which confines 
 him as in a prison, and enabled to wing his way to the 
 ethereal world. If a future life be not reserved for him, 
 his intellectual capacity is an useless and unmeaning gift 
 — an extravagant profusion of intellect ; for here he has 
 neither time nor opportunity to store it with that unlim- 
 ited variety of information, which can be collected from 
 the universe, and which it is capable of containing. 
 
 The same remark applies with equal force to hie 
 moral powers. In childhood and youth, he is hurried 
 on by the ardour and vehemence of his passions. He 
 has not experienced their fatal consequences, nor acquir- 
 ed that self-government, which results no less from dis- 
 appointment in pleasure than from the high and posi- 
 tive injunctions of morality. Before he can have fully 
 seen and weighed the emptiness of earthly things, or 
 fortified his virtue against temptation, his body fails, 
 and hastens to dissolution. 
 
 As our present condition, then, is unfitted for the full 
 
XX. CONTEMPLATING THE HEAVENS. 229 
 
 opening alike of our intellectual and moral powers, 
 shall we not conclude, that the soul is a celestial plant, 
 which here can neither strike its roots so deep and 
 wide, nor shoot up to such a stately and commanding 
 height, as is promised by the vigour of its germ ? It 
 rises only to be a flowering shrub, dispensing, no doubt, 
 the sweetest scents, and fair to the eye ; yet stunted in 
 its growth, and marred in its beauty, by the boister- 
 ousness of the elements that surround it. It most as- 
 suredly shall be transplanted into a more fertile soil, 
 and placed in a happier clime, that it may enjoy a seas- 
 on long enough, to call forth all its beauties and ripen 
 all its fruits. Yes : we know, that soil to be the uni- 
 verse, and that season, eternity. With such a prospect 
 its internal structure is developed, and it forms another 
 confirmation of the wisdom, that pervades the divine 
 handiwork. Its understanding is susceptible of endless 
 progression in knowledge, and the universe can supply 
 endless materials for inquiry. Here then is the same 
 admirable adaptation of means to ends, which strike 
 the eye on every survey of final causes. But were it 
 not destined for immortality, its unblown and imma- 
 ture faculties would be an enigma, that would foil ev- 
 ery solution and must be accounted anomalous efforts 
 of creative energy : a doctrine, too repugnant to unbi- 
 ased reason, and derogatory from the perfection of the 
 First Cause, to be ever generally or firmly received. 
 Since Man, then, is made for immortality, he should 
 cultivate every virtue that exalts his moral nature, and 
 prepares him for this expected existence. J. M. 
 
230 ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY 
 
 No. XXI. 
 
 " Father, there's an auld man on the green, 
 The fellest fortune-teller e'er was seen : 
 He tents our loofs, an' syne whips out a book, 
 Turns o'er the leaves, and gi'es our brows a look ; 
 Syne tells the oddest tales that e'er ye heard ; 
 His head is grey, and lang and grey his beard." 
 
 Gentle Shepherd, Act III. Scene II. Jenny loq. 
 
 THERE are few desires in the human breast so ar- 
 dent, and, in general, so ill-directed, as that of looking 
 into futurity. Our hopes on the one hand, crowd the 
 distant prospect with so many pleasing and interesting 
 figures ; and our fears, on the other, conjure up such 
 frightful and disagreeable objects, that we are natural- 
 ly solicitous t» know, whether any, or all, of these 
 illusions shall be realized. We are conscious of possess- 
 ing in ourselves no first principles to regulate our con- 
 jectures; and, without farther thought, surrender our 
 judgments to the ghostly guidance of those, who are 
 interested in deceiving and misleading us. The slight- 
 est share of common sense might teach any man, that 
 as he himself cannot foresee the event of the next mo- 
 ment, all pretensions to instruct him, and draw aside the 
 mysterious and impenetrable curtain, with which it is 
 covered, must proceed either from knavery, or a dis- 
 ordered imagination. So strongly, however, does this 
 desire operate, that every pretender to the art is sure 
 
XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 231 
 
 of meeting with encouragement, and collecting around 
 him an ignorant, and eager multitude, who believe, 
 and liberally pay for, his predictions. In looking over 
 the history of the human race with an eye to this sub- 
 ject, it is curious to remark, upon what different foun- 
 dations the different systems of Divination have been 
 constructed. In one age and country, men studied the 
 planets, their motions, their conjunctions, their aspects ; 
 and, from these, pretended to foretell the prosperous, or 
 adverse events, which would arise in the course of one's 
 life. These observations on the Heavens were carried 
 to such a length, that they grew up into a science, 
 and obtained credit with the wise and learned, a cir- 
 cumstance that reflects no great honour on the boasted 
 perfection of human reason. 
 
 In the two most polished and enlightened nations 
 of antiquity this folly broke out in a different direction ; 
 and an order of priesthood was established to attend at 
 the slaying of victims, and take the first holy look of 
 their entrails. From the appearance of these, expedi- 
 tions were undertaken, battles fought, war and peace 
 determined on ; and, in a word, all important political 
 measures were regulated, not by the calculations of 
 prudence, but by the chances of a blind superstition. 
 
 It is a very decisive proof of the advancement of 
 the present age in real and useful knowledge, that none, 
 who have gotten the benefit of a good education, are 
 weak enough to countenance or credit such fooleries. 
 All these have evanished along with the religions, which 
 begat them, just as the vile vermin perish, when the 
 
232 ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY No, 
 
 putrid mass that bred and fostered them is removed. 
 Among the vulgar in this country, however, there is still 
 some little remnant of divination. There are pretenders, 
 who give out, that, from the natural lines in a man's 
 hand, or from the accidental arrangement of tea-leaves 
 in a cup, they are able to dive into futurity ,- and there 
 are people so grossly ignorant as to believe them. 
 
 The Gipsies, who traveled over the whole of this 
 island, and even over Europe, were accounted the most 
 skilful adepts in the first of these arts, known by the 
 name of palmistry. They subsisted partly by begging, 
 and pilfering, but chiefly by telling fortunes. With a 
 sly sagacious look they minutely examined the palm of 
 the hand, then studied the features of the face, that 
 they might catch the secret workings of the heart ; and, 
 according as they wished to operate on the fears or 
 hopes of their auditors, gave either a melancholy signi- 
 ficant shake of the head, or burst into a loud broad 
 laugh, before they opened the book of fate. Demos- 
 thenes, amid all the lightnings of his eloquence, could 
 not wield the passions of an Athenian assembly with 
 half the dexterity, which this wretched vagrant crew 
 exercised over those of the common people. This re- 
 lic of ancient ignorance is now nearly put down from 
 the extension of knowledge, and the juster views, that 
 prevail every where. Even the race, that lived by it, 
 is become extinct in this quarter, by betaking them- 
 selves to useful employments, and being blended with 
 the great mass of the population. A wandering beggar, 
 indeed, is still now and then to be found, who, possessing 
 
XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 233 
 
 more than ordinary penetration, and insight into human 
 nature, sets up for a conjurer in his passing through 
 some remote village, and lays open the secrets of all the 
 inhabitants, who apply to him. 
 
 This species of fortune-telling, however, is more rare- 
 ly to be met with than that of readingcups. In every town 
 and village throughout the country there are women of 
 shrewd and sagacious minds, who earn a livelihood by 
 this wretched trade, and keep a whole neighbourhood 
 under contribution, by flattering and deceiving the 
 maid-servants. No sooner is a simple girl drawn with- 
 in this magic circle, than her fidelity to her master 
 must be sacrificed to supply the demands, and gratify 
 the avarice of one of those beldams. She is encouraged 
 to purloin whatever articles she can most conveniently 
 Say her hands upon, and they are all received from her, 
 as the price of unfolding her future fortune. 
 
 My ear was struck, a few nights ago, as I entered 
 the lobby, with a very earnest conversation, carried on 
 between two of the maids, relative to this subject. My 
 curiosity was awakened, and I overheard such a tale 
 of knavery, as few will believe could take place in this 
 city. In a narrow lane towards the west end of the 
 town, there lives, it seems, one of these old hags, vul- 
 garly called spae-wives, who from her superior sagacity, 
 or more extensive practice, has acquired a kind of fame 
 in this. line. Her house is resorted to, by all silly girls, 
 who either have sweet-hearts, or ardently wish forthenL 
 She has an old tea-pot always ready, standing by the 
 side of the fire, from the contents of which she q&k 
 
SSi ON THE MISCHIEVOUS TENDENCY NO. 
 
 foretell every thing, that can arise in the course of a 
 long courtship. If a young fellow become cross to his 
 mistress, she can tame and soften him ; if cold, she can 
 revive the flame. Her province even takes a wider 
 range. When any thing is stolen or is amissing, she 
 can give a description of the thief, or tell whereabouts 
 it may be found. For these predictions or discoveries, 
 she takes, I learned, no fees in money, but only such 
 presents of apparel or food as every girl, that is dishon- 
 est, can easily pilfer in her service. One of the maids., 
 Betty, it seems, had been in the practice of consulting 
 this sorceress, ever since she had become acquainted with 
 a journeyman lad who paid his addresses to her. Of 
 late he had become less frequent in his visits, and less 
 particular in his attentions, and her jealousy had taken 
 fire. The tea-leaves had long ago joined them as man 
 and wife, and promised much domestic happiness, and 
 a large and flourishing family. But unfortunately last 
 night a rival appeared among them, and disturbed their 
 usually lucky arrangements, who, she was told, would 
 supplant her for a while in her lover's affections, unless 
 some dextrous expedient was fallen upon to prevent it. 
 This information confirmed all her suspicions and ex- 
 cited all her hatred. The only thing awanting, and 
 which Betty had very much at heart, was the name of 
 this unknown fair one. The old hag refused this disco- 
 very, until she should be presented with a stiver tea- 
 spoon. This was an act of flagrant atrocity which the 
 remains of Betty's good principles would not allow her 
 to commit, and she was complaining to her confidant, of 
 
XXI. OF FORTUNE-TELLING. 235 
 
 the cruelty of this requisition. It was now, I thought, 
 high time for me to step forward and interpose. I for- 
 tified her good resolutions, and endeavoured to unde- 
 ceive her. She shed a flood of tears and expressed the 
 deepest contrition. I learned the street and house 
 where these unhallowed rites were practised, and urged 
 on, perhaps by a blamable curiosity, I communicated 
 the principal circumstances to a friend, and set out along 
 with him in quest of adventures. As we approached 
 the door, I observed, by the light of the lamps, three 
 young women entering in company with each other. 
 O pudor ! O audacia ! we could not resist the temp- 
 tation of looking in, and listening at the window. Al- 
 though obtained by stealth, the scene is worth descrip- 
 tion. The beldam herself was seated at the corner of 
 the fireside with her eyes towards the door, and her tea- 
 pot, the instrument of so many charms, stood near her. 
 She appeared to be turned of seventy, with a quick keen 
 eye, but hard and withered features. Her customers 
 she received with a civil motion of her hand, and beck- 
 oning them to take chairs, she examined them with an 
 inquisitive look. Two of them she addressed by name ; 
 the third was a stranger, who had come to consult her 
 on a very nice point in the management of her lover. 
 Each drew out from their pockets the presents they had 
 brought along with them for her reception. We saw her 
 get a napkin, a piece of roast beef, and last of all the re- 
 mains of a cold fowl. The tea-pot was now stirred and 
 emptied partly into a cup. Unluckily I could not all 
 this time perceive the faces of the girls, for their backs 
 
 2 c 2 
 
236 ON THE MISCHIEF OF FORTUNE-TELLING. NO. 
 
 were turned towards me, and thus lost the better ha.W 
 of the pleasure, which this novel scene was capable of 
 affording. When the cup was put in motion* they all 
 bent forward, and eyed it with mute and deep attention. 
 I could not distinctly hear the language which this in- 
 famous woman used in addressing these infatuated fe- 
 males, but I heard enough to rouse my utmost indig- 
 nation, and to convince me that such places are proper 
 subjects for the interference of the police. They are 
 the nurseries of petty frauds, of criminal stratagems* 
 and of a degrading superstition. 
 
 It is distressing to think, that a human being can 
 be found in this enlightened age so low in intellect, as 
 to be imposed upon by such arts. What virtue can 
 steeped tea-leaves possess to instruct us in futurity ? Will 
 the Almighty unveil the next moment, and discover fu- 
 ture contingencies to an old wicked worthless woman, 
 when he has hidden them from the best and wisest of 
 men ! I will not waste an argument on this head ; but 
 I would caution all mistresses to keep a watchful eye 
 over their servants, and, if possible, save them from 
 such ruinous and corrupting debasement. 
 
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