/ 
 
 
 \ 
 
Zrwravcd by C.Bcath. 
 
 BORTST MAY 1720 _ D LED JANUARY 9, 1770 
 
 Fromi a Portrait in the pafseisioii 
 of the late lvf s Elizabeth Carter. 
 
 Pwbh/ked June 8*1811. bv F.C.k J. M \ 
 
THE 
 
 WORK 
 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 1..COLL. 
 
 MISS CATHARINE TAL&O.T, 
 
 FIRST PUBLISHED BY THE LATE 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER; 
 
 AND NOW REPUBLISHED WITH 
 
 SOME FEW ADDITIONAL PAPERS 
 
 TOGETHlJRWITH 
 
 X. 
 
 AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 AND 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. MONTAGU PENNINGTON, A. M 
 
 Vicar of Northbourn in Kent ; Executor to Mrs. Carter, 
 
 THE NINTH EDITION. 
 
 ilonfrm : 
 
 PRINTED FOR F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON, 
 
 no. 62, ST. Paul's church-yard ; 
 
 AND NO. 3, WATERLOO PLACE, PALL-MALL, 
 
 1819. 
 

 In £■>,*% 
 
 Printed by R. Gilbert, 
 St. John's Square, London. 
 
X 
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE SEVEN DAYS OF THE 
 WEEK. 
 
 On Sunday. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 Wednesday. 
 
 Thursday, 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 page 
 
 The Omnipresence of God, and the 
 
 Practical Inferences from it 1 
 
 The Improvement of Time and Self- 
 
 Examination 5 
 
 The Duty of constant Employment. . 12 
 
 On the humble and religious Enjoy^ 
 
 ment of the Blessings of Life . , . . 17 
 
 The Duty and Manner of being Use- 
 ful in Society 24 
 
 On the Happiness of the present State, 
 
 and the Self-Denial required in it S\ 
 
 The Importance of Time in relation 
 
 to Eternity , , . . . . 42 
 
 ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 
 
 I. On the Employment of Time in the different 
 
 Situations in Society 49 
 
 II . On True Politeness ; ♦ . 5$ 
 
 «*S£ 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 III. On the Accommodation of the Temper to 
 
 Circumstances 69 
 
 IV. On Delicacy of Feeling 77 
 
 V. On the Employment of Wealth 84 
 
 VI. On the Importance of Riches 92 
 
 VII. On Literary Composition 98 
 
 VIII. On Prior's Henry and Emma 103 
 
 IX. On the Separation of Friends by Death , 111 
 
 X. On Self-Love 117 
 
 XI. On the Principle of Self-interest as applied to 
 
 Education 123 
 
 XII. On the Distinction between Cunning and Pru- 
 dence 130 
 
 XIII. On the Necessity of encouraging Hope 13T 
 
 XIV. On the Moral Uses of Geography 142 
 
 XV. On Consistency of Character 148 
 
 XVI. On the Art of Pleasing in Society , 154 
 
 XVII. On the Power and Necessity of Confidence .... 160 
 
 XVIII. On true Friendship 165 
 
 XIX. On our Passage through Life ; a Reverie 170 
 
 XX. On our Capacity for Pleasure 179 
 
 XXI. On Reflection as the Source of Cheerfulness . . 186 
 
 XXIL On the Employments of Life 190 
 
 XXIII. On Resignation to the Will of Providence. ... 194 
 
 XXIV. On the Happiness derived from Society* ..... ]98 
 XXV. On Trust in Providence 205 
 
 XXVI. On the Necessity of Innocent Amusement • • • • 210 
 
 -LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON A FUTURE STATE, IN THE 
 CHAHACTEU OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 I. 217 
 
 II. 220 
 
 III. 324 
 
COiS TEXTS. 
 
 DIALOGUES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Description of a Moral but not gloomy Retire- 
 ment 231 
 
 II. Enquiry how far Practice has kept Pace with In- 
 
 tention 235 
 
 III. Danger of too much Prosperity without the Assist- 
 
 ance of real Friends 242 
 
 IV. Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of Vanity 245 
 
 V. On the Nature of Human Happiness 25S 
 
 Occasional Thougpits . . . * 263 
 
 PROSE PASTORALS. 
 
 I. Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of a 
 
 Shepherd's Life 271 
 
 II. On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty 278 
 
 III. The Happiness of a religious Hope 283 
 
 A Fairy Tale — Education 288 
 
 IMITATIONS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 1 317 
 
 II 319 
 
 III 322 
 
 ALLEGORIES. 
 
 I. Life compared to a Play 327 
 
 II. The Danger of indulging the Imagination 33^? 
 
 9 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 POETRY 
 
 rAGJs 
 
 To Laura •••?••"• •.;.*- ...... ... * . • » . 343 
 
 On Reading the Love Elegies, 1742 345 
 
 Written on New Year's Eve while the Bells were ringing 
 
 out the Old Year S48 
 
 To Cheerfulness * 350 
 
 Moral Stanzas . . . . 354 
 
 Lines written in the Country towards the end of Autumn 356 
 
 Elegy .........= , 359 
 
 i-Q&e » * . . » 9 • . .•»«** . ? . . .60... ...... . . ««...« . e . o 36X 
 
PREFACE* 
 
 The demand of this little volume having been so 
 great as to make a new impression of it necessary, 
 the Editor has been earnestly requested to prefix to 
 it some account of the amiable and excellent Author. 
 To this no reasonable objection could be made, but 
 the want of any other materials than such as are 
 already published, as contained in the Memoirs of 
 Mrs. Carter, and the Series of Letters between her 
 and Miss Talbot. But as some persons may pur- 
 chase these Essays who are not in possession of 
 those larger and more expensive works, it was 
 thought that to collect from them for this edition, 
 some of the most striking particulars of the Life of 
 Miss Talbot could not be considered an improper 
 repetition. The reader will, however, no doubt 
 join with the present Editor, in lamenting that the 
 task should have devolved on one so unable to per- 
 form it properly, instead of having been executed by 
 her who first collected and arranged these scattered 
 remains ; who was acquainted with every particular 
 of her friend's life ; whose high esteem and warm 
 affection would have engaged her heart in it ; and 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 whose abilities would have done ample justice to the 
 subject. 
 
 What prevented Mrs. Carter from adding to her 
 beloved friend's works, her own testimony to her 
 character and her conduct through life ; whether it 
 was by the request of Mrs. Talbot who was then 
 living, or whether such a desire had been expressed 
 by the deceased lady, cannot now be known. What- 
 ever the cause might be, it could have no operation 
 beyond her life ; and it seems to be fulfilling a duty 
 to society, to shew that the virtues of her character 
 were not inferior to the excellencies of her writings ; 
 that there was no discord between her conduct and 
 her opinions; and that the strict attention to the 
 duties of the Gospel which she so strongly recom- 
 mended to others, was not less enforced and adorned 
 by her own example. 
 
SOME 
 
 ACCOUNT 
 
 LIFE OF MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 Catharine Talbot was born in the month of 
 May, 1720. She was the only child, and born five 
 months after her father's decease, of Edward Talbot, 
 second son to William, Bishop of Salisbury, and 
 afterwards of Durham, and younger brother to 
 Charles, first Lord Talbot. Her mother was 
 daughter to the Rev. George Marty n, Prebendary of 
 Lincoln. 
 
 It does not appear that Mr. Edward Talbot was 
 brought up to any profession, unless he was either in 
 the Church, or designed for it*; which an expression 
 in the Bishop of London's life of Archbishop 
 Seeker rather seems to intimate, If however this 
 was the case, he had certainly no considerable pre- 
 ferment ; and dying so early, having only attained 
 the age of twenty-nine years, and being a younger 
 
 * He was Archdeacon of Berks, 
 a % 
 
Vlll ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 brother, he left his widow in a situation very inade- 
 quate to his rank in life. She had been married to 
 him only a few months, and was left in a state of 
 pregnancy. Happily for her the kind attentions of 
 a dear and intimate friend were not wanting at that 
 critical period. Catharine, sister to Mr. Benson, 
 afterwards Bishop of Gloucester, who had been the 
 companion of her early youth, and whose brother 
 was upon an equally intimate footing with Mr. 
 Talbot, was residing with her at the time of his 
 death. She was her great support in that heavy 
 affliction, and when her infant was born, who came 
 into the world with a very weak and delicate con- 
 stitution,- it was supposed that she could not have 
 been reared without the assistance of her care and 
 tenderness. 
 
 These endearing circumstances naturally formed 
 a still closer bond of intimacy between the two 
 ladies ; and they continued to live together, and to 
 bestow all their joint attention upon the infant Ca- 
 tharine. But before she was five years of age, this 
 establishment was broken up by the marriage of 
 Miss Benson to Mr. Seeker, afterwards Archbishop 
 of Canterbury, but then Rector of the valuable liv- 
 ing of Hooghton-le-sprjng in Durham. 
 
 For this preferment however, and others still 
 greater which followed it, Mr. Seeker was indebted 
 to the friendship of Mr. Edward Talbot, who on his 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. IX 
 
 death-bed had recommended him to his father the 
 bishop. Mr. Seeker's grateful heart was never un- 
 mindful of this obligation, which naturally induced 
 him to pay great attention to his benefactor's widow 
 and child. 
 
 When therefore he married Miss Benson from 
 her house, he immediately joined his wife in the 
 request that Mrs. and Miss Talbot would from that 
 time become a part of his family. The offer was 
 accepted, and they never afterwards separated ; and 
 upon Mrs. Seeker's death, which took place in the 
 year 1748, they still continued with him, and took 
 the management of bis domestic concerns. 
 
 There is feason to suppose that Mr. Seeker paid 
 considerable attention to Miss Talbot's education; 
 for when she and her mother went to reside with 
 him, she was under five years of age ; and as Mr. 
 Seeker had no children, he always treated her as 
 his daughter, and took the same pride and pleasure 
 in her dawning genius, as if she had in reality been 
 such. From her mother it does not appear proba- 
 ble that she could acquire much either of literature 
 or accomplishment; but to her she owed what was 
 of much greater consequence, strictly religious and 
 virtuous principles, so well grounded, and on a foun« 
 dation so solid, that they were never afterwards 
 shaken in any situation of life. For though Mrs. 
 Talbot was not a woman of brilliant parts, and h«r 
 
X ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 own education seems to have been rather neglected, 
 yet was her mind strong, her judgment sound, her 
 manners amiable, and her piety fervent as well as 
 rational. 
 
 But besides her mother's instructions, Miss Talbot 
 enjoyed the benefit of a constant intercourse with 
 the eminent Divine with whom they lived ; and his 
 enlightened mind soon discovered the extent of her 
 early genius, and was delighted to assist in its im- 
 provement Hence, although she never studied the 
 learned languages, unless perhaps a little Latin, she 
 reaped all the advantages of Mr. Seeker's deep and 
 extensive learning, of his accurate knowledge of the 
 Scriptures, and of his critical and unwearied research 
 into the sciences and languages more immediately 
 connected with that important study. 
 
 Yet though so much attention was bestowed on 
 serious pursuits, the lighter and more ornamental 
 parts of female education were not neglected. For 
 the acquirement of these there was abundant oppor- 
 tunity in the different situations in which Mr. 
 Seeker's rapid progress in the Church placed him*. 
 In 1727 he became a Prebendary of Durham, and 
 for the two following years lived chiefly in that city. 
 Not long af.er this, he was appointed King's Chap- 
 
 * Several of these particulars, both relating to Archbishop 
 Seeker and to Mrs. and Miss Talbot, are taken from the 
 Bishop of London's Life of that Prelate. 
 
 9 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XI 
 
 lain ; and in 1733 became Rector of the Parish of 
 St. James in Piccadilly ; which preferment he held 
 for upwards of seventeen years, during which he 
 always resided for at least half the year in his par- 
 sonage house. In 1734 he was promoted to the 
 Bishoprick of Bristol ; to that of Oxford in 1737 ; to 
 the Deanery of St. Paul's in 17o0; and to the Arch- 
 bishoprick of Canterbury in 1758. 
 
 From the time therefore that Miss Talbot was 
 seven years of age, she lived almost constantly in, 
 or near, large cities ; and was consequently enabled 
 to acquire every useful branch of education, and all 
 those elegant accomplishments which add so much 
 grace to beauty and virtue. She learnt music, .but 
 without acquiring any considerable proficiency in it, 
 or bestowing upon it much time ; but she was ex- 
 tremely fond of Church music, and when Dr. 
 Seeker was Dean of St. Paul's, bestowed great 
 attention upon the choir of that cathedral*. In 
 drawing, and painting in water colours, she made a 
 much greater progress ; and as some or her Letters 
 shew that her knowledge of these sciences was by no 
 means superficial, so some of her performances, still 
 remaining, prove that her execution would not have 
 
 * For the service of that church she requested her friend 
 Mrs. Carter to alter the Anthem of " Lo, He comes with 
 clouds descending ;" the whole of which she composed, except 
 the first stanza. See the Series of their Letters, 4to. p. 333, 
 vol. i. 
 
xii ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 disgraced even a professional artist. She particu- 
 larly excelled in painting flowers from nature, and 
 in landscapes ; of which some beautiful specimens 
 are in her present Editor's possession. 
 
 While this attention was bestowed on Miss Talbot's 
 accomplishments, it may readily be supposed that 
 the sciences and modern languages were not neg- 
 lected. She had a complete knowledge of French 
 and Italian, and late in life she taught herself Ger- 
 man, with a view at first of being merely able to 
 read the " Death of Abel" in the original. She 
 appears also to have had some small acquaintance 
 with Latin ; but of Greek she knew nothing, and 
 often lamented her ignorance of that language, 
 especially while her friend Mrs. Carter was engaged 
 in the arduous task of translating Epictetus. She 
 studied also Geography and Astronomy with much 
 care and attention : and with respect to the latter 
 of these sciences, she had the advantage of being 
 instructed by Mr. Wright, an Astronomer of no 
 small reputation at that time, and an ingenious 
 though visionary man. He was also acquainted with 
 Mrs. Carter, who was about three years older than 
 Miss Talbot, and was already well known in the 
 world. The high opinion which Mr. Wright enter- 
 tained of both his young friends, naturally made 
 him desirous that they should become acquainted ; 
 and the reputation which each of them was rapidly 
 acquiring, was an inducement also to them to unite 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. Xlll 
 
 ki the same wish. For though Miss Talbot had 
 published nothing, yet her character for piety y 
 virtue, talents, and accomplishments, began already 
 to attract notice, and to be held iu very high and 
 general estimation. For she was moving in a dis- 
 tinguished sphere of life; her noble birth, great con- 
 nections, and residence in the family of so eminent 
 a Prelate as Dr. Seeker was, added great lustre to 
 her merit, and set it otf with every advantage. 
 She was also admired for her personal charms, as 
 may be seen by the verses addressed to her, which 
 are inserted in the Preface to the Letters between 
 her and Mrs. Carter, and she possessed all the graces 
 of the most polished manners, and the most fasci- 
 nating and winning address. 
 
 But, besides Mr. Wright, the ladies possessed a 
 mutual friend in the Honourable Mrs. Ifcooke, 
 daughter to John, Lord Ward, and widow of George 
 Rooke, Esq. who resided in the old mansion-house 
 of St. Laurence, near Canterbury. There she was 
 occasionally visited by them both ; but they never 
 met till February, 1741, though they had once 
 previously seen each other in St. James's church ; 
 a circumstance which, though trivial, they were ac- 
 customed to recollect with much pleasure, and to 
 which sometimes they alluded in their Letters *. 
 
 * Thus Mrs, Carter says, in one of her early Letter?:, 4 to, 
 vol, i. p. 9. 
 
XIV ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 From this time, as may be seen in their corres- 
 pondence, an intimacy took place between the two 
 ladies, which soon ripened into the most warm and 
 intimate friendship ; and this never decreased to the 
 hour of Miss Talbot's death, nor was ever damped 
 by the most trifling disagreement or estrangement 
 whatsoever. The esteem as well as the affection 
 were mutual ; it was in the truest sense a religious 
 friendship, and they strictly realized the beautiful 
 idea of the Psalmist, which has afforded the motto to 
 the collection of their Letters, they took sweet coun- 
 sel together, and walked in the house of God as 
 friends. 
 
 But the warm affections of Miss Talbot's heart 
 were not confined to Mrs. Carter only. She pos- 
 sessed also the intimate friendship of several 
 ladies equally distinguished by their rank and cha- 
 racter. Among these, one of the first in both re- 
 spects, was the celebrated Countess of Hertford, 
 afterwards Duchess of Somerset, with whom she 
 passed occasionally a good deal of her time, and 
 kept up a constant correspondence ; and she often 
 speaks of her in her Letters to Mrs. Carter, in terms 
 
 " Benedetto sia il giorno, e'l mese, e'l anno 
 E la stagione, e'l tempo, e'l hora, e'l punto ; 
 and St. James's Church and Mr. Wright, and the particles yes 
 and no, and every other circumstance, and every other person 
 that contrihuted to make me happy in the sight and conversa- 
 tion of Miss Talbot. '* 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XV 
 
 of the highest respect and regard. She was also on 
 terms of particular intimacy with all the female 
 branches of the family of Yorke ; especially Mar- 
 chioness Grey and Lady Anson. From this last- 
 mentioned lady, however, some circumstances not 
 explained in her Letters, occasioned a temporary 
 alienation, or rather coolness. But before her death 
 this had ceased, to the gratification of both parties, 
 and Lord Anson constantly after that event shewed 
 Miss Talbot the most marked and flattering at- 
 tention. 
 
 At what age she began to compose does not 
 appear ; but certainly it was early in life, for her 
 Poem on reading Hammond's Elegies, was written 
 when she was not more than 22 years of age ; and 
 though it is by no means one of the best of them, 
 it evidently shews a hand which had been used to 
 composition, and powers of mind which had been 
 accustomed to exertion. It is much to be wished 
 that Mrs. Carter had endeavoured to assign their 
 proper dates to her different productions, which 
 probably she could have done, but which it is in 
 vain now to attempt. For no part of the Memoirs 
 of genius is more interesting than that which shews 
 the developement of mind ; the opening and progress 
 of imagination ; and the difference of sentiment and 
 opinion (if any such there be) in the various periods 
 of life. 
 
XVI ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 From this omission then, if it really was an omission 
 and not unavoidable, it has happened that the Essays 
 and other prose pieces, as well as the Poems, do 
 not follow each other in any chronological order, or 
 regular arrangement. They appear to be exactly 
 as Mrs. Carter took them out of what is frequently 
 spoken of by both ladies in their Letters, under the 
 name of the Green-hook ; a kind of common-place- 
 book, in which Miss Talbot seems to have written 
 both prose and verse, finished and unfinished, 
 sketches and fragments; just as her health, spirits, 
 and occupations permitted. For all Mrs. Carter's 
 influence could never prevail upon her friend either 
 to arrange her papers properly, or to publish them 
 herself; though it was what she earnestly desired, 
 and had even succeeded so far as to obtain a pro- 
 mise * from her that she would endeavour to do. 
 
 * " What shall I answer to your enquiries," says Miss Talbot in 
 a Letter to Mrs. Carter, 4to. vol. i. p. 344, " about the green - 
 book ? I have remembered my promise faithfully, but am just 
 as far from performing it as I was last year. I have read it 
 carefully, but can find no order, no connection in it. It wants 
 an introduction — so it is returned to the considering drawer 
 with many of its ancestors. — The other papers, yours and all, 
 ]ie in the same hopeless condition. But if I gain great strength, 
 spirits, courage, and diligence in this happy retreat {Percy 
 Lodge) from every care and every interruption, you may pos- 
 sibly hear a better account of me and them." To this Mrs- 
 Carter replies by complaining of H the vexatious neglect of my 
 favourite point the green-book: but it is really intolerable of 
 you not to let the world be somewhat the better for you." 
 
SIRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XVII 
 
 But however sincerely Miss Talbot designed to 
 perform that promise when she made it, ill health, 
 and weakness of spirits its usual attendant, formed 
 an insuperable bar to its completion. And when 
 she grew better, the exercise necessary for her re- 
 covery, and the various engagements which her 
 situation in life made indispensable, occupied too 
 much time to allow her to correct and arrange her 
 papers. 
 
 Add to this her domestic employments in the care 
 of a large establishment, and her constant personal 
 attention to the neighbouring poor both in town and 
 country, and it will excite but little surprize that she 
 should so frequently complain, when in health, of 
 want of time* 
 
 Unfortunately indeed this was not very often the 
 case, for the seeds of the fatal malady which at last 
 conducted her to the tomb, seem to have been very 
 early planted in her constitution. Hence probably 
 proceeded the listlessness and languor which op- 
 pressed her so cruelly, even when she had no formed 
 complaint ; and hence also the disorder which was 
 mistaken for consumption, and for which Mrs. 
 Carter accompanied her to Bristol, about ten years 
 before her death. Her stay there appeared 
 to have the desired effect, but she never re- 
 covered her health ; and from that time, when she 
 was about 40 years of age ; when perhaps the 
 
XV11I ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 powers of the mind and the soundness of the judg* 
 ment are at their height, she became a confirmed 
 invalid. 
 
 These circumstances may account for her having 
 written so little, considering her love of study, the 
 desire of being useful to the world, and the quick- 
 ness of her parts. For composition seems in her 
 to have been attended with little labour ; her thoughts 
 flowed as fast as her pen could write, and there are 
 probably not many instances of a style so chaste 
 and easy, and obviously formed with so little care 
 and study. The correctness of her language, the 
 strength of her arguments, and the justness of her 
 reasoning, are equally the objects of admiration ; 
 and these are set off by a vividness of fancy, and 
 glow of imagination, which seem to be the peculiar 
 property of a poetic genius. And such in truth was 
 her's ; for many of the images, illustrations, and 
 similes, even in her gravest prose writings, are really 
 poetry, and require nothing but the mechanical aid 
 of rhyme and arrangement to make them such also 
 in appearance* 
 
 Indeed the world has been sufficiently inclined to 
 do justice to Miss Talbot's talents; and few books 
 
 * See for examples of this assertion, among many others, 
 the close of Essays ix. xiii. xviii. xxii. and xxvi ; the passage in 
 Essay V. concerning the Historical Glass ; several in the Pas- 
 torals ; and the Third Imitation of Ossian. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XIX 
 
 of more moral and religious instruction have had 
 a greater sale, and gone through more editions than 
 the little posthumous volume of her miscellaneous 
 works. Of the " Reflections on the Days of the 
 Week," published separately, upwards of twenty- 
 five thousand copies have beeu sold ; and of the 
 collection of her works, the present is the ninth 
 edition. This is a circumstance not less creditable 
 to the age, than it is to the Author ; and it also 
 proves the correctness of her friend's judgment into 
 whose hands they were put by Mrs. Talbot. She 
 published them upon her own account and at her own 
 hazard. " I do not believe*," says she, in a Letter 
 to Mrs. Talbot, " that I shall be a loser : and I have 
 a better opinion both of the sense and virtue of the 
 world, than to think it in the least degree probable, 
 but that such a work will meet with the approbation 
 it so justly deserves." The event shewed that she 
 was right; and the excellence of her motives for 
 wishing them to be published, appears very evident 
 from the following paragraph in another Letter to 
 Mrs. Talbot. " I imagine by this time a good part 
 of a third Edition (of the Reflections on the Days 
 of the Week) is sold off. What a comfort it is to 
 think on the diffusive good which that dear angel 
 has communicated to the world, of which she is now 
 enjoying the reward ! What a blessed change to 
 herself from the suffering state of the last sad year i' r 
 
 * See Mrs, Carter's Memoirs, 4to» p. 281, 1st. edit. 
 
XX ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 This was written in December, 1770, when Miss 
 Talbot had not been dead more than eleven months. 
 
 But this excellent as well as amiable young woman 
 ought not to be considered by posterity merely as an 
 author. Great as her talents, and brilliant as her 
 accomplishments were, she possessed qualities of 
 infinitely more importance both to herself and so- 
 ciety. Her piety was regular, constant, fervent, 
 but not enthusiastic. It was the spring of all her 
 actions, as its reward was the object of all her hopes. 
 Her charity, including the whole meaning of the 
 word in its apostolical sense, was extended to all her 
 acquaintance, rich as well as poor ; and to the latter 
 she gave, not only such relief as her circumstances 
 would allow (for she was never rich) but what was 
 infinitely more valuable to her, no small portion of 
 her time. 
 
 It is impossible to read her Letters, especially 
 those from Cuddesden, without perceiving how much 
 of that precious time, of which she so bitterly la- 
 mented the want, she bestowed on the necessities of 
 her poor neighbours. She examined, instructed, 
 and rewarded the children; she gave her advice to 
 all who wished for it, and from those who were in 
 want of pecuniary assistance her liberality was never 
 withheld. In this last respect there is reason to 
 believe that she was often Dr. Seeker's almoner : 
 lor there can be no doubt that be, who when he 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXI 
 
 became Archbishop of Canterbury, constantly be- 
 stowed in charity upwards of two thousand pounds 
 a year *, had been equally bountiful before in pro- 
 portion to his income. 
 
 Highly accomplished, and admired as Miss Talbot 
 was in her youth, it does not appear that she ever 
 turned her thoughts to matrimony. If she had, 
 circumstanced as she was, opportunities for her 
 forming an advantageous and honourable connection 
 could not have been wanting. Her birth and situa- 
 tion in life, the sweetness of her manners, and the 
 reputation of her talents, made her the object of 
 general attention and admiration wherever she 
 went. Yet there is no reason to believe that she 
 ever had any wish or intention of entering into 
 that state, or had ever formed any such attach- 
 ment as to induce her to desire it. At least 
 this appears certainly to have been the case after 
 her acquaintance with Mrs. Carter commenced, 
 which was in her % 1st year ; though there is in one 
 of her Letters a dark hint, as if previously to that 
 time there had once been a scheme of that nature in 
 agitation. And this, from the manner in which it 
 is alluded to, seems rather to have been contrary 
 
 * This is a fact which the Editor has frequently heard from 
 the late Mrs. Carter. It is also confirmed by the testimony of 
 the late Bishop of London, (Porteus) who was then his Chaplain, 
 in his " Review of the Life and Character of Archbishop 
 Seeker." 
 
 b 
 
34X11 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OJT 
 
 to her own wishes, and to have been given up in 
 compliance with them, Her health, as has been 
 observed before, was always delicate, and early in 
 life even became infirm ; and there are passages in 
 her Letters to Mrs. Carter, which may imply that 
 she had very soon formed a resolution against mar- 
 riage. But if this was the case, she was too pru- 
 dent, and had too much good sense ever to avow it 
 publicly, 
 
 Miss Talbot's studies were very general and de- 
 sultory : this was probably occasioned by the state 
 of her health, which was such as often to oblige her 
 to read for mere amusement. But her opinions 
 were invariably formed upon the best and truest 
 principles, those of the Gospel, Hence her judg- 
 ment, whenever morality was concerned, seldom if 
 ever erred. Possibly in the case of Mrs. Carter'9 
 Translation of Epictetus*, her fears or her scru- 
 ples may appear to some to have been needless, or 
 to have been carried too far. But if this was the 
 case, it was at least an error on the safe side. It 
 could do no harm ; it might be, and indeed it ac- 
 tually was, productive of good ; for to it was owing 
 the Introduction and Notes with which Mrs. Carter 
 enriched that translation. With respect to other books, 
 the passages in her Letters which relate to the Ram- 
 bler, the Adventurer, and Sir Charles Grandison, will 
 
 * See Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 109, &c. 1st. edit. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXlll 
 
 probably be read with considerable interest. She 
 was very anxious for their success, and particularly 
 desirous that the moral parts and narratives in them 
 should be such as might improve as well as delight 
 the age. For this purpose it appears by the Letters, 
 that both she and Mrs, Carter lent their assistance 
 to the two last-mentioned Works by various hints, 
 and plans, as well of characters as of stories. For 
 both ladies were upon intimate terms of acquaint- 
 ance with the amiable and respectable author of 
 Sir Charles Grandison, and with some of the gen- 
 tlemen who wrote occasionally in the Adventurer. 
 In particular it appears from a Letter of Mrs. 
 Carter * that Miss Talbot had revised and corrected 
 Sir Charles Grandison before it was printed ; a task, 
 it might be supposed, too long and tedious for her 
 weak health, and fully-employed time. 
 
 Miss Talbot's Life affords little scope for narra- 
 tive : it passed on in a smooth equable tenor, with- 
 out dangers or adventures ; and equally exempt upon 
 the whole from any remarkable instances of good or 
 bad fortune. This was a blessing of which her 
 pious mind was deeply sensible ; and like her friend 
 Mrs. Carter, she was always " thankful for days 
 not marked by calamity, nor blackened by the horrors 
 of guilt." She was never separated for any long 
 time from her friend, and indeed second father f , 
 
 * See p. 342, vol. i. 4to of the Series of Letters, 
 t It may be proper here just to notice an idle and absurd 
 report raised after her own and the Archbishop's decease, that 
 
 b<2 
 
XXIV ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 Archbishop Seeker. In his various removals to and 
 from his different preferments, she and her mother 
 always accompanied him, and they had no other 
 home but his. While he resided as Bishop of Ox- 
 ford at Cuddesden, they entered into all the society 
 of that neighbourhood • and when they lived in 
 London they had there a large and very respectable 
 acquaintance, and many friends. The deaths of 
 some of these were almost the only misfortunes, her 
 want of health excepted, which Mies Talbot ever 
 experienced. The first of them was the decease of 
 Mrs. Seeker, which took place in the year 1748. 
 She was her mother's dear and intimate friend, and 
 they had lived together for several years before her 
 marriage with the Archbishop, then Mrs. Seeker, 
 took place. To her care, in her mother's deep 
 distress for the loss of her husband and the long 
 illness which followed it, Miss Talbot had probably 
 been indebted for the preservation of her infant 
 life, and certainly for a long series of maternal 
 kindness and attention afterwards. And how deep 
 an impression these had made upon her affectionate 
 heart, appears from the Letter which she wrote to 
 Mrs. Carter upon the death of Bishop Benson, 
 Airs. Seeker's brother, about four years afterwards. 
 
 they had been privately married. Had this been the case, it 
 could hardly have been kept secret in that large family ; but all 
 their most intimate friends are fully persuaded that there was 
 not the smallest foundation for such an idea ; and that neither 
 of them ever thought of standing in any other relation to each 
 ether but that of father and daughter. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXV 
 
 u Once before," says she, ' ; your company was a 
 great relief to me in a melancholy time. I had then 
 just lost the dearest and best of friends, the excellent 
 sister of this last departed saint *. You knew her 
 not, and I could not talk of her with you : of him 
 we might talk by the hour; for who that ever saw 
 him as you have done, could ever be weary of the 
 pleasing subject? Pleasing it is to know by one's own 
 happy experience, that there are such beings in 
 human nature, such amiable and benevolent spirits, 
 so fitted for a higher state of existence." When 
 Miss Talbot lost tins dear friend, she was about 
 twenty-eight years of age. 
 
 A few weeks only before the death of the Bishop 
 of Gloucester, the event so feelingly referred to in 
 the preceding extract, Di\ Butler, Bishop of Dur- 
 ham, the celebrated Author of the " Analogy f," 
 
 * Whoever knows any thing of the character of that excellent 
 man, will not think this epithet improperly applied This 
 Letter is printed in the Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 89, 
 1st. edition, and the character is there by mistake referred to 
 Bishop Butler ; which error is corrected in the second edition. 
 
 + The " Analogy of Religion to Nature" Perhaps the most 
 clear, convincing, and powerful chain of argument of the 
 necessity j propriety, and actual existence of revealed religion, 
 ever offered to the world. The absence of all fanciful and 
 unsupported theory, the precision with which its data, or first 
 principles, are defined, and the perfect fairness with which 
 every proposition is examined in that admirable work, make it 
 a treasure to every man who wishes to give a reason of the hope 
 that is in him. For it proves how well and advantageously 
 reason may be applied to the service of religion. 
 
XXVI -ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 also died. In him Miss Talbot lost one of her 
 earliest and most respected friends. " He was/* 
 says she in a Letter to Mrs. Carter *, " my father's 
 friend. I could almost say my remembrance of him 
 goes back some years before I was born, from the 
 lively imagery which the conversations I used to 
 hear in my earliest years have imprinted on my 
 mind. But from the first of my real remembrance, 
 I have ever known in him the kind affectionate 
 friend, the faithful adviser, which he would conde- 
 scend to when I was quite a child, and the most de- 
 lightful companion, from a delicacy of thinking, an 
 extreme politeness, a vast knowledge of the world, 
 and a something peculiar, to be met with in nobody 
 else. And all this in a man whose sanctity of 
 manners, and sublimity of genius, gave him one of 
 the first ranks among men." 
 
 But Miss Talbot lived to experience a still severer 
 affliction, though she did not long survive it, in the 
 death of Archbishop Seeker. This event, which 
 took place in July, 1/68, was extremely distressing, 
 upon many accounts, both to her and her mother. 
 They lost the sincere and affectionate friend, with 
 whom they had now resided for forty- three years, 
 without the most trifling disagreement, or the least 
 diminution of kindness. They had to seek another 
 home, when the advanced age of the mother, and 
 
 * See Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p. 87, 1st. edition, 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALEOT. XXV31 
 
 the ill health of the daughter, made the necessity of 
 exertion painful and distressing, and rendered them 
 but little able to struggle with the world. For to 
 increase their sorrows upon this melancholy occasion, 
 even the fear of comparative poverty was not wanting. 
 The Archbishop's will was not found till three 
 months after his decease, and they had the prospect 
 of quitting the large establishment and the affluence 
 of Lambeth Palace, for a precarious state of depen- 
 dence on a relation, or the occupation of a house to 
 themselves on the smallest scale. 
 
 Yet still the balm of religious conversation was 
 theirs; and in patient submission to the will of God, 
 they found both relief and reward. The language 
 of Miss Talbot to her friend was this*; " In so 
 great a calamity it will somewhat comfort you to hear 
 that my mother and I are well ; composed and 
 resigned." And again a few days after, " Circum- 
 stances of the greatest distress have been mixed with 
 our heavy affliction, and I more than ever see cause 
 for thankfulness to an over-ruling Providence. God 
 be thanked, our minds are supported in comfort, 
 and our healths wonderfully preserved." 
 
 But this circumstance, which caused them so 
 much uneasiness at the time, was productive of the 
 great advantage of enabling them to know their real 
 
 * See Correspondence, 4to, vol. ii. p* 57, 
 
XXVI11 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 friends. These were many, and highly respectable ; 
 nor indeed does it appear, and for the credit of the 
 world it ought to be mentioned, that any of those 
 persons who had lived on terms of intimacy with 
 them, in their prosperity, deserted them in their 
 apparent adversity. Mrs. Carter went to them 
 immediately, and remained with them till they re- 
 moved from Lambeth, and was, as Miss Talbot 
 says, " a balm and cordial" to their spirits. All 
 the Archbishop's particular friends vied with each 
 other in attention to them ; and a younger brother 
 of Mrs. Talbot's husband, Mr. Talbot of Chart, near 
 Dorking, took them to his own house, as soon as 
 they could leave the Palace, and treated them with 
 every mark of affection and regard. While they 
 were there, the long sought-for will was found, and 
 they became entitled under it, for their lives jointly 
 and separately, to the interest of thirteen thousand 
 pounds in the three per cent, annuities. 
 
 This bequest, which added to ther small fortune, 
 near four hundred pounds a year, a much better 
 income in those days than it would now appear to 
 be, enabled Mrs. Talbot to take a comfortable and 
 convenient house in Grosvenor Street. To this they 
 removed in the December following; and here they 
 remained till the end of June, when Miss Talbot's 
 increasing complaints obliged them to leave London 
 for a cooler and better air. Their kind and constant 
 friend, the late Marchioness Grey, lent them for this 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT- XXIX 
 
 purpose her house at Richmond, together with 
 " every thing she could think of to contribute to 
 their comfort or amusement," and at the same time 
 recommended them to ail her intimate acquaintance 
 in that neighbourhood. 
 
 • From this delightful retreat Miss Talbot only 
 returned in time to breathe her last in her mother's 
 house in town. She was with great difficulty con- 
 veyed thither fro.n Richmond in November, and 
 though she thought herself better for the first few 
 days, she was never afterwards able to quit her 
 own apartment. Her chief disorder, but added to a 
 very weak and now completely worn-out constitution, 
 was a cancer. 
 
 This fatal complaint, which had now for three 
 years been preying upon her enfeebled frame, had 
 been kept a profound secret from all her friends, 
 except the Archbishop, Mrs. Carter, her own maid, 
 and her medical attendants. From motives of kind- 
 ness to her mother, it had been concealed even from 
 her, till a few weeks only before her death. The 
 Letters which relate to her last illness are added to 
 the close of the Correspondence between her and 
 Mrs. Carter, and are therefore not repeated here. 
 Her dissolution took place on the 9th day of January, 
 1770, in the 49th year of her age, and was not 
 attended by severe pain, or any peculiarly distressing 
 circumstances. To her, like the Apostle, to die was 
 
XXX ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 gain. Her whole life had been a preparation for 
 death ; and her last hours were therefore not likely 
 to be disturbed by the horrors of a wounded consci- 
 ence, or the agonies of mental disquietude. On the 
 contrary this is the account given of her by a lady * 
 who was with her when her death was hourly ex- 
 pected. " Her -resignation and patience through 
 all her sufferings you are well acquainted with ; it 
 exceeds all description ; cheerfulness does not ex- 
 press her countenance or manner, (I mean on 
 Sunday last) there was a joy I never shall forget, 
 and founded, I am certain, on the very few hours 
 she hoped to remain here : and she told me she had 
 that feel within her, that spoke her happiness nearv 
 — -I am thankful I have known her, and have some- 
 times hopes I may be the better all my life, for 
 some. conversations passed in this last illness." 
 
 Mrs. Carter had the comfort of passing a few days 
 with her beloved friend, before her death dissolved 
 that close and endearing intimacy, founded in the 
 most perfect esteem, which had now existed almost 
 thirty years between them. The account which she 
 gives of this afflicting event, and the short but com- 
 prehensive character which she adds of Miss Talbot, 
 in a letter to Mrs. Vesey, is so superior to any 
 thins; which the author of this slight sketch could sav 
 upon the subject, that he hopes he shall be pardoned 
 
 * Miss Jeffreys to Mrs. Carter; Letters, 4to. Tol. ii. p. 75. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXXI 
 
 for adding an extract from it, as the conclusion of 
 this Memoir, although it has been published before. 
 
 " Two or three days before her death she was 
 seized with a sudden hoarseness and cough, which 
 seemed the effect of a cold, and from which bleeding 
 relieved her; but there remained an oppression from 
 phlegm which was extremely troublesome to her. 
 On the ninth (of January) this symptom increased, 
 and she appeared heavy and sleepy, which was at- 
 tributed to an opiate the night before. I staid with 
 her till she went to bed, with an intention of going 
 afterwards into her room, but was told she was 
 asleep. I went away about nine, and in less than an 
 hour afterwards she waked ; and after the struggle 
 of scarcely a minute, it pleased God to remove her 
 spotless soul from its mortal sufferings to that heaven 
 for which her whole life had been an uninterrupted 
 preparation. Never surely was there a more perfect 
 pattern of evangelical goodness, decorated by all the 
 ornaments of a highly improved understanding, and 
 recommended by a sweetness of temper, and an 
 elegance and politeness of manners, of a peculiar 
 and more engaging kind than in any other character 
 I ever knew. — Little alas ! infinitely too little have 
 I yet profited by the blessing of such an example, 
 God grant that her memory, which I hope will ever 
 survive in my heart, may produce a happier effect. 
 
 c Adieu, my dear friend, God bless you, and 
 4 
 
XXxii ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE, &C 
 
 conduct us both to that happy assembly, where the 
 spirits of the just shall dread no future separation ! 
 And may we both remember that awful truth, that 
 we can hope to die the death of the righteous only 
 by resembling their lives." 
 
 Mrs. Talbot, although she was then upwards of 
 eighty years of age, bore the loss of her daughter 
 with the most pious fortitude and resignation. She 
 died in her ninety-third year of a paralytic attack, 
 and was able to continue her Correspondence with 
 Mrs. Carter till within a very few weeks of her 
 death. 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 The Omnipresence of God, and the practical 
 Inferences from it. 
 
 " O Lord, thou hast searched me out, 
 " and known me : thou knowest my down- 
 " sitting and mine up-rising : thou art about 
 " my path and about my bed, and spiest out 
 " all my ways." 
 
 How true, how astonishing is this thought ! 
 Almighty God, my Maker, is ever present with 
 me. He is infinite in being, and therefore 
 must be every where. He is infinite in 
 knowledge* and therefore every thing must be 
 known to Him. No creature is too incon- 
 siderable for his notice, who is the Maker of 
 all, and cc careth for all alike." The friends, 
 the relations, and acquaintance, whom I see 
 and converse with every day, know not half 
 
 B 
 
2 Reflections on Sunday. 
 
 so much of my conduct as He docs, nor are 
 half so attentive to it. How hourly careful 
 should I be, then, to approve myself to Him ! 
 Among my relations and friends there are 
 some whom I regard more than the rest, 
 either out of greater affection for their good- 
 ness and kindness ; or out of reverence for 
 their greater wisdom and dignity ; or out of 
 interest, as being capable of doing me more 
 good or hurt. All these motives of the highest 
 regard are joined in Him. His excellence is 
 more than thought can conceive : whatever is 
 beautiful, or good, or amiable in the world, 
 flows from Him as its source. In Him is all 
 greatness and majesty, all wisdom and know- 
 ledge: every thing that is glorious, awful, 
 venerable. My hourly dependence is upon 
 Him, and all my expectations through an 
 eternity to come. From Him I have received 
 my life, my being, every power and faculty 
 of soul and body. Every innocent delight I 
 enjoy, is His gift : in every danger, He is my 
 present help. No power but his could guide 
 me safely through the intricate mazes of life. 
 Hitherto His providence has carefully watched 
 over me, and His right hand has held me up : 
 and through all my future life, He, who is 
 truth itself, has promised never to fail me nor 
 
Reflections on Sunday. 3 
 
 forsake me, if, on my part, I will but serve 
 Him faithfully, as in my baptismal vow I have 
 promised to do. That blessed covenant I am 
 going to renew, by partaking of the holy Sa- 
 crament. Had not our blessed Saviour died 
 to redeem mankind, we must all have ap- 
 peared before an all-seeing God, of infinite 
 justice and holiness, without security of being 
 considered otherwise than as objects of dis- 
 pleasure. But we know, that He looks 
 upon us now as objects of the tenderest mercy. 
 He invites us to " pour out our hearts before 
 " Him," at all times : (C to call upon Him in 
 " the time of trouble :" " to look unto Him, 
 and be saved." O my soul, in all thy ways 
 acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy 
 paths. 
 
 Let me then ask myself, as in His sights 
 what is the general turn of my temper, and 
 disposition of my mind ? My most trifling 
 words and actions are observed by Him : and 
 every thought is naked to His eye. Could I 
 suppose the king, or any the greatest person 
 I have any knowledge of, were within reach/ 
 of observing my common daily behaviour, 
 though unseen by me, should I not be very 
 particularly careful to preserve it, in every 
 respect, decent and becoming ? Should I allow 
 
 b2 
 
4 Reflections on Sunday* 
 
 myself in any little froward humours ? Should 
 I not be ashamed to appear peevish and ill- 
 natured ? Should I use so much as one harsh 
 or unhandsome expression even to my equal, or 
 my meanest inferior, even were I ever so much 
 provoked ? Much less should I behave irre- 
 verently to my parents or superiors. This 
 awful Being, in whom I live and move, and 
 from whom no obscurity can hide me, by 
 whom the very hairs of my head are all num- 
 bered, He knows the obligations of every rela- 
 tion in life. He sees in their full light the 
 reciprocal duties of parents and children, of 
 husbands and wives, of neighbours and fellow- 
 servants. He knows the aggravated guilt of 
 every offence against these ties of society, 
 however we may be disposed to treat them as 
 trifles: and every piece of stubbornness and 
 pride, of ill-humour and passion, of anger and 
 resentment, of sullenness and perverseness, 
 exposes us to His just indignation* 
 
 ■^■■■IMHH 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 MONDAY. 
 
 The Improvement of Time, and Self-exami- 
 nation. 
 
 " Blessed are they that do hunger and 
 " thirst after righteousness." — Our Lord and 
 Saviour has pronounced this blessedness, and 
 through his grace, I hope to partake of it. 
 Hunger and thirst naturally prompt us to seek, 
 without delay, the means of satisfying them. 
 What then is the food of the mind ? Whole- 
 some instruction and religious meditation. If 
 then I sincerely do hunger and thirst after 
 righteousness, I shall be frequently feeding 
 my mind with pious books and thoughts, I 
 shall make the returns of these meals as regular 
 as I can, and seldom shall I find any necessity 
 strong enough to make me miss them a whole 
 day together. — But then it ought to be remem- 
 bered too, that even these, the best hours of 
 my life, ought never to encroach upon the 
 duties and employments of my station, what- 
 ever they may be. Am I in a superior station 
 
6 Reflections on Monday. 
 
 of life? My duty then probably takes in a 
 large compass: and I am accountable to my 
 Maker for all those talents entrusted with me 
 by Him, for the benefit of my fellow-creatures. 
 I must not think of living to myself alone, or 
 devoting that time to imitate the employment 
 of angels, which was given me for the service 
 of men*. Religion must be my chief end, 
 and my best delight : it must regulate all I 
 think, or do; but whatever my station is, I 
 must fulfil all its duties. Have I leisure and 
 genius ? I must give a due portion of my time 
 to the elegant improvements of life : to the 
 study of those sciences that are an ornament 
 to human nature : to such things as may make 
 me amiable, and engaging to all whom I 
 converse with, that by any means -f I may win 
 them over to religion and goodness. For if I 
 am always shut up in my closet, and spend my 
 time in nothing but exercises of devotion, I 
 shall be looked upon as morose and hypocriti- 
 cal, and be disregarded as useless in the 
 world. When this life is ended, we have a 
 
 * How much is it to be wished that those whose dispo- 
 sition is inclined towards enthusiasm, would consider this 
 admirable sketch of religious employment ! 
 
 f 1 am made all things to all men, that I might by all 
 means save some. 1 Cor. ix, 22. 
 
Reflections on Monday. 7 
 
 whole eternity before us to spend in those 
 noblest employments, and highest delights. 
 But man, in this low state of mortality, pays 
 the most acceptable obedience to God, by 
 serving his fellow-creatures. 
 
 Perhaps all these considerations are wide 
 from my case. So far from having leisure 
 upon my hands, I have scarce a moment free 
 from the necessary engagements of business 
 and bodily labour. While I am working hard 
 for bread for myself and my family, or attend- 
 ing diligently the commands of a strict master, 
 to whom I am justly accountable for every 
 hour I have, how can I find frequent oppor- 
 tunities for studying the Word of God, or 
 much time to spend in devout meditation? 
 Why, happily, much is not required, provided 
 I make the best use of what little I have. 
 Some time I must needs have on Sundays, 
 and this I may improve. I may diligently 
 attend to what I hear at Church: I may 
 examine whether my own practice is confor- 
 mable to what I am there taught : and I may 
 spend some hours in that day, either in good 
 discourse, with such as are able to instruct 
 me, or in reading such religious books as are 
 put into my hands. Still enough will be left 
 for chearful conversation, and pleasant walks. 
 
8 Reflections on Monday. 
 
 Why should either of them be the less chear- 
 ful, for a mixture of religious thoughts ? What 
 indeed is there so gladdening as they are ? Be 
 my state ever so mean and toilsome, as a 
 Christian, if indeed I behave like one, I am 
 equal to the greatest monarch upon earth. 
 Be my misfortunes and sorrows never so 
 severe, as a Christian, I can look beyond 
 death to an eternity of happiness, of happiness 
 certain, and unspeakable. These thoughts, 
 therefore, I should keep upon my mind, 
 through the whole week : they should be the 
 amusement of my labour, and the relief of my 
 weariness : and when my heart is thus ready, 
 I shall gladly take every opportunity to sing 
 and give praise. I shall awake early to wor- 
 ship that God, who is my defence and my 
 delight ; and I shall close every evening with 
 prayer and thanksgiving to Him, whose 
 u ways are ways of pleasantness, and all 
 " whose paths are peace." Whenever I can 
 have a quarter of an hour to spare from the 
 necessary business, and the (at fit times) as 
 necessary relaxations of life, which while they 
 are innocent, moderate, and reasonable, will 
 never be disapproved by that good God, who 
 has created every thing that is comely and 
 pleasant in the world, and invites us to rejoice, 
 
 5 
 
 ■MMI^Ml 
 
Reflections on Monday. 9 
 
 and do good, all the days of our life : when I 
 have any spare time, I shall gladly spend it in 
 reading, with reverence and attention, some 
 portions of the Bible. In all my common 
 conversation, I shall have my eye continually 
 up to Him, wiio alone can direct my paths 
 to happiness and improvement, and crown all 
 my endeavours with the best success. I shall 
 try to be something the better for every scene 
 of life I am engaged in : to be something the 
 wiser for every day's conversation and experi- 
 ence. And let me not fear, but that if I 
 daily thus faithfully strive to grow in holiness 
 and goodness, be my growth at the present 
 never so imperceptible, I " shall in due time 
 " arrive at the measure of the fulness of stature 
 " in Christ." 
 
 That I may be better for the last twenty-four 
 hours, let me examine a little what temper I 
 have been in all that time. In general, per- 
 haps, I can recollect nothing much amiss in 
 it : but let me descend to particulars. Things 
 are often very faulty, that appear at first sight 
 very trifling. Perhaps I have so fond a con- 
 ceit of myself, as to think, that I can never be 
 in the wrong. Has any uneasiness happened 
 in the family this last day ? Perhaps I think 
 
10 Reflections on Monday. 
 
 the fault was wholly in others, and the right 
 entirely on my side. But ought I not to 
 remember, that in all disputes, there is gene- 
 rally some fault on both sides ? Perhaps they 
 begun: — but did not I carry it on? — They 
 gave the provocation : — but did not I take it ? 
 — Am not I too apt to imagine, that it would 
 be mean entirely to let a quarrel drop, when 
 I have a fair opportunity to reason, and argue, 
 and reproach, to vindicate my injured merit, 
 and assert my right ? Yet, is this agreeable to 
 the precepts and example of Him, who, when 
 " he was reviled, reviled not again?" Is it 
 agreeable to His commands, who has charged 
 me, if my brother trespass against me, to 
 forgive him, not seven times only, but seventy 
 times seven ? It is agreeable to that Christian 
 doctrine, which exhorts us, not to think of 
 ourselves highly, but soberly, as we ought to 
 think ; and that in lowliness of mind, every 
 one should think others better than himself? 
 And alas, how often do I think this disrespect, 
 though a slight one, provoking to me ? This 
 situation, though a happy one, not good 
 enough for me f How often have I had in my 
 mouth that wise maxim, that a worm, if it is 
 «rod upon, will turn again! Wretch that I 
 
Reflections on Monday. 1 1 
 
 am, shall I plead the example of a vile worm 
 of the earth for disobeying the commands of 
 my Saviour, with whom I hope hereafter to 
 sit in heavenly places * ? 
 
 * It is proper to observe, that this excellent illustration 
 of these unchristian passions, though expressed in the first 
 person, conveys no sort of idea of the mild and humble 
 disposition of the writer herself. 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 TUESDAY. 
 
 The Duty of constant Employment. 
 
 " I must work the work of Him who sent 
 " me, while it is day." — If our blessed Saviour, 
 infinitely great and excellent, was, when he 
 assumed human nature, so far from being 
 exempted from the general law of nature 
 imposed on our first father and all his race ; 
 who is there amongst men, that shall plead an 
 exemption ? The duty of employment is two- 
 fold. First, as we are active and spiritual 
 beings, ill would it become us to sit wrapt in 
 indolence, and sleep away an useless life. 
 Constant activity, and extensive usefulness, is 
 the perfection of a spiritual Being. The great 
 God himself is infinitely active. " My Father 
 " worketh hitherto, (saith our Saviour,) and I 
 " work." In their various degrees, all the or- 
 ders of angels are " ministring spirits." In the 
 happy worlds above, all is life and activity. 
 And shall man, who is so fond of life, lose his 
 little portion of it in a lazy, slothful, half state? 
 
Reflections on Tuesday. 13 
 
 Shall he quench those sparks of immortality, 
 that glow in his bosom, and content himself 
 with being, for three parts of his time, little 
 better than a lump of organized clay ? Inno- 
 cent man in Paradise, was not made for idle- 
 ness. But guilty fallen man is peculiarly born 
 to labour, and to trouble. Equally just and 
 merciful was the doom pronounced to Adam; 
 " in the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat 
 " bread." Human nature, corrupted and 
 depraved by the fall of our first parents, would 
 be incapable of employing ease and leisure to 
 any happy purposes. Greatly do we need 
 constant employment, to keep us out of the 
 reach of those temptations from within and 
 from without, that in idleness particularly 
 assault us. Greatly do we need to have much 
 of our minds taken up with perpetual attention 
 to necessary business, and hourly duty, that 
 they may not prey too much upon themselves. 
 Labour and pain are the necessary, though 
 unpalatable, medicine of our souls. Shall we 
 refuse to follow the prescription of that 
 heavenly Physician, who drank the bitterest 
 cup for us r Toil and trouble are the just 
 punishments of guilty human nature : shall we 
 rebel against our awful Judge ? Activity and 
 employment are the law of our being ; and 
 
i4 Reflections on Tuesday. 
 
 shall we not obey our sovereign Ruler, our 
 great and good Creator ? 
 
 What then is my proper business and em- 
 ployment, that I may set diligently to it ? In 
 most stations of life, this is too evident to be 
 asked. And it is equally certain, that every 
 station, even the very highest, has its proper 
 work and labour, which whoever performs 
 not to the utmost of their power, is a wicked 
 and slothful servant, for we have all a Master 
 in Heaven. 
 
 Come, then, my heart, let us chearfully set 
 about our business. Be it study and improve- 
 ment of the mind, toil of the body, or industry 
 of the hands : be it care of our families and 
 domestic affairs : be it care of the public, and 
 distribution of justice: be it care of our neigh- 
 bours, and charity to the poor: be it education 
 of children, instruction of the ignorant, attend- 
 ance on the sick, culture of the ground, de- 
 fence of our country : whatever it be, let us 
 do it diligently and heartily as unto the Lord, 
 and not unto men. As subjects, children, 
 servants, let us obey our rulers, parents, 
 masters. And if it be the will of Providence 
 to disable us, for the present, from all active 
 service, by confining us in chambers of sick- 
 ness, in a weak and useless state; let us set 
 
Reflections on Tuesday. 15 
 
 the example of an uncomplaining submission, 
 and chearful resignation : and let patience, at 
 least, " have its perfect work." 
 
 This submissive, this humble, this obedient 
 disposition, is poverty of spirit. We ought to 
 think nothing beneath us ; nor to desire any 
 thing but what is allotted to us. We ought to 
 imagine nothing our own, and surely there- 
 fore not our time ! yet how apt we are to think 
 it quite a hardship put upon us, if any small 
 portion of it is to be spent disagreeably, and 
 if we have not hours, and days, and years, 
 to indulge in careless idleness, and giddy 
 pleasure. 
 
 Among other works, that of reforming my 
 temper is surely a most necessary one. Let 
 me therefore take mvself a little to task. How 
 have I behaved the last day? 
 
 I have not, perhaps, been positively out of 
 humour; but have I guarded my disposition 
 against every failing ? Have I not indulged a 
 nice fancy, in taking some disgust at any of 
 those that I converse with ; which, trifling as 
 it seems at present, may, in time, quite alie- 
 nate our minds from one another ? A disagree- 
 able look, or manner, too often gives a preju- 
 dice against persons, who are really deserving. 
 — Let me be upon my guard against such 
 
16 Reflection^ on Tuesday. 
 
 prejudices. Let me overlook all trifling 
 infirmities in others ; but let me spare them 
 the pain and difficulty of having many such 
 to overlook in me. Let me observe in every 
 thing a perfect cleanliness and neatness : for 
 nothing is so disgustful as the contrary. Let 
 me be mild and civil, moderate and discreet 
 in all my ways of speaking : let my behaviour 
 always be easy and obliging, natural and 
 unaffected. Let me always preserve, as much 
 as I can, even under severe trials, a chearful, 
 pleasing countenance : and, among other 
 things, let me try to avoid, as much as possible, 
 falling into those little foolish tricks and pecu- 
 liarities, which every body is so apt to acquire, 
 without even perceiving it. I cannot help 
 seeing in others, how disagreeable they are, 
 though in them, I ought as little as possible to 
 attend to it. But let me watch myself a little, 
 and discover, in order to reform, whatever I 
 may have in me that makes me less agreeable, 
 and therefore less useful, in society. 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 WEDNESDAY, 
 
 On the humble and religious 'Enjoyment of 
 the Blessings of Life. 
 
 " And God saw every thing that He had 
 u made, and behold it was very good." 
 
 Such was the face of tilings at the creation. 
 Every view, that could be taken, was a view 
 of order and beauty, of happiness and pleasure. 
 Too soon, by the frailty and by the guilt of 
 man, this happy state was changed; and 
 through sin, death and misery entered into 
 the world. Every part of our world was 
 affected by the general disorder. The earth 
 produced thorns and thistles. The seasons 
 became unfavourable. The beasts grew wild 
 and savage : and hence sprung a necessity of 
 labour and self-defence. Toil and weariness 
 must be ils natural consequence to bodies now 
 become mortal and corruptible. Pain and 
 sickness, the infirmities of old age, the fear 
 of death and sufferings both for ourselves and 
 our friends, with all that variety of evils that 
 
18 Reflections on Wednesday. 
 
 burthen human life : all are the sad effects of 
 sin. The disorder of our minds, the vehe- 
 mence of our passions, the dimness of our 
 understandings, those tendencies to evil, which 
 even the best people, at some times, must feel 
 strongly working in their bosoms, are the 
 bitter fruits of the original corruption of human 
 nature in the first of men, our common parent. 
 Hence surely we should draw the strongest 
 motives of humility, and throw ourselves 
 down in the deepest abasement of soul, before 
 that God of holiness, in whose " sight the 
 " Heavens are not pure ; and who chargeth 
 " his angels with folly." " How much more 
 " man which is a worm, and the son of man, 
 " which is a worm ?" Unassisted human 
 nature could not be in a more perfect state 
 than our first parents were created : infinitely 
 superior certainly to whatever we can imagine 
 of good or excellent among ourselves. If they 
 were such frail, such wretched creatures, and 
 so soon forfeited their very beings — Good 
 God ! then what is the very best of us ! " Let 
 " our confusion be ever before us :" Let the 
 " shame of our face cover us." 
 
 Strange it may seem, after these considera- 
 tions to mention a happy and chearful enjoy- 
 ment of our beings, as a serious and important 
 
Reflections on Wednesday. 19 
 
 duty. Many good persons, who have deeply 
 dwelt on this dark view of our mortal state^ 
 have represented it as utterly unfit and sinful 
 for such creatures, in such a world, to think 
 of any thing but suffering and mourning* 
 But as sure as our heavenly Father is good to 
 all, and peculiarly so to us, his helpless new- 
 adopted children, so surely they are widely 
 mistaken *. The blessed promise of our re- 
 demption was uttered in the same moment 
 with the doom of our mortality, and from that 
 moment all was good again. Pain, and 
 suffering, ' and sorrow, became remedies to 
 cure our corrupted nature : temptations, but a 
 purifying fire to prove and to refine our virtue : 
 and death, a kind release from toil, a happy 
 admission into a better paradise. Through 
 our blessed Saviour, we have obtained the 
 grace of God to guide us in all our ways, and 
 to support us under all our distresses. Through 
 Him, in Him, we have every thing that can 
 make us happy, unless we wilfully destroy 
 ourselves. " Rejoice then, in the Lord, all 
 " ye righteous, be thankful all ye who are 
 " true of heart." 
 
 * See this idea expanded, and its consequences shewn, 
 in the Rambler, No. xliv, by Mrs. Carter; from which 
 perhaps Miss Talbot took the hint. 
 
 c2 
 
20 Reflections on Wednesday. 
 
 Serious and careful indeed we ought to be, 
 watchful and diligent, humble and submis- 
 sive; reflecting deeply on the frailty and vile- 
 ness of our nature, and the important, the 
 eternal interest, that depends on this our short 
 and very uncertain time of trial here. In this 
 sense, we ought to " work out our salvation 
 " with fear and trembling," and even to " re- 
 " joice before the Lord w r ith reverence.'' 
 But while we " keep innocence, and take 
 '• heed to the thing that is right," let our 
 chearful hearts and looks confess the goodness 
 of our gracious Master, who " gives us rain 
 " from Heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling 
 " our hearts with food and gladness." Of 
 Him, who has made every thing good and 
 pleasant : who has the tenderest consideration 
 for all our infirmities, and has provided every 
 support, and every relief that can make our 
 passage through this world tolerable and 
 comfortable to us. With joyful gratitude let 
 us accept and improve these his mercies, and 
 indulgencies. Let us make this world as 
 happy as we can to ourselves and one another: 
 to do this, we need only be good Christians. 
 Our w r ills being perfectly resigned, will 
 acquiesce, without pain, in whatever dispo- 
 sals Providence may see fit to make of us, and 
 
Reflections on Wednesday. 21 
 
 ours : and taking " no thought for to-morrow," 
 we shall neither be tormented with vain 
 schemes, nor anxious fears, Our desires 
 being moderate, we shall pass easily and 
 quietly through life : and no unruly passions or 
 vehement wishes, will discompose our peace. 
 Being free from private interests and selfish 
 views, we shall have no rivalries nor contests 
 with our neighbours. Being in perfect cha- 
 rity with all men, we shall w 7 ith all be easy, 
 chearful, friendly : in every thing studying 
 to promote their good and happiness : and in 
 our turn receiving from many of them offices 
 of kindness : and from such as are ungrateful, 
 receiving the greatest benefit of all, a noble 
 opportunity to exercise those duties, on which 
 God's forgiveness of ourselves depends. With 
 pleasure and complacence our heavenly Fa- 
 ther looks down on every society of his chil- 
 dren united in brotherly affection, and gives 
 his blessing to every set of friends, and neigh- 
 bours, and relations, that perform their mutual 
 relative duties, as they ought, and love and 
 delight in one another. Every innocent en- 
 tertainment^ that keeps up the chearfulness 
 and kindness of society, He approves. " The 
 voice of joy and health is in the dwellings of 
 the righteous." Our health can alone be 
 
22 Reflections on Wednesday. 
 
 preserved by temperance, calmness, and in- 
 dustry. Industry too makes the world look 
 beautiful around us. It turns the barren 
 wilderness into a fertile pleasant land : and 
 for thorns and thistles plants the rose-tree and 
 the vine : or sows the tender grass and useful 
 corn. Industry preserves us from inclemen- 
 cies of weather, and finds some means to sup- 
 ply every want. It procures us wherewith 
 to give alms to the poor, and thereby enables 
 us to lay up a treasure in Heaven. 
 
 Happiness, then, a great degree of it, is in 
 our power, even at present. But fools that 
 we are, we forfeit even present happiness, for 
 the indulgence of every peevish, froward 
 humour. Let me examine myself a little on 
 this. As much as I condemn it, am I not 
 often guilty of this unaccountable folly ? Am 
 I not readier to cherish unkind suspicions of 
 those I live amongst, than to put a fair, and 
 favourable interpretation upon every disagree- 
 able incident? Am I not almost upon the 
 watch to take offence at every trifling disre- 
 gard ? Do I not think it beneath me ever to 
 take the first step towards a reconciliation ? 
 Do I not make it a point of honour to keep up 
 resentment, even though it pains me ? How 
 much happier are they, who go through the 
 
Reflections on Wednesday. 23 
 
 world with an easy good humour ! Never 
 suspecting that any body means them ill, who 
 does not really and seriously hurt them : pas- 
 sing over every trifle: and by placing them- 
 selves above all such peevish follies, main- 
 taining more real dignity, than those who are 
 the proudest. 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 THURSDAY, 
 
 The Duty and Manner of being useful in 
 Society, 
 
 " Blessed are the merciful, for they shall 
 w obtain mercy.' 5 How greatly do we all of 
 us need this blessing ; poor guilty creatures, 
 who are every day offending infinite goodness, 
 and provoking almighty power, and perfect 
 justice ! How then shall we be merciful as 
 we ought ? Can this duty be practised by any 
 but the great, or the injured ? — In relieving 
 the distrest, or in pardoning offenders ? Yes ; 
 every one of us may practise it every day we 
 live- It is a great mistake to think there is no 
 superiority, but that, which rank and fortune 
 give. Every one of us may in something or 
 other assist or instruct some of his fellow-crea- 
 tures : for the best of human race is poor and 
 needy, and all have a mutual dependence on 
 one another : there is no body that cannot do 
 some good : and every body is bound to do 
 diligently all the good they can. It is by no 
 
Reflections on Thursday. 25 
 
 means enough to be rightly disposed, to be 
 serious, and religious in our closets : we must 
 be useful too, and take care, that as we all 
 reap numberless benefits from society, society 
 may be the better for every one of us. It is a 
 false, a faulty, and an indolent humility, that 
 makes people sit still and do nothing, because 
 they will not believe that they are capable of 
 doing much ; for every body can do some- 
 thing. Every body can set a good example, 
 be it to many, or to few. Every body can in 
 some degree encourage virtue and religion, 
 and discountenance vice and folly. Every 
 body has some one or other whom they can 
 advise, or instruct, or in some way help to 
 guide through life. Those who are too poor 
 to give alms, can yet give their time, their 
 trouble, their assistance in preparing or for- 
 warding the gifts of others: in considering, 
 and representing distrest cases to those, who 
 can relieve them : in visiting and comforting 
 the sick and afflicted. Every body can offer 
 up their prayers for those who need them: 
 which, if they do reverently and sincerely, 
 they will never be wanting in giving them 
 every other assistance, that it should please 
 God to put in their power. Even those 
 whose poor and toilsome life can admit of 
 
26 Reflections on Thursday. 
 
 their giving no other help to society, can by 
 their frugality, and industry, at least keep 
 themselves, in a great measure, from being 
 burthensome to the public. A penny thus 
 saved, is a penny given. Dreadful state of 
 those idle creatures, who, dragging on a 
 wretched, profligate life, in laziness and rags, 
 draw to themselves those charities, that ought 
 to support the helpless, and really disabled 
 poor! Severely, I fear, shall they be account- 
 able for it at the last day : and every one in 
 proportion, who lives a useless and burthen- 
 some drone in society. It is our duty to pre- 
 vent poverty, as well as to relieve it. It is 
 our duty to relieve every other kind of distress, 
 as well as the distress of poverty. People 
 who are always innocently chearful, and 
 good-humoured, are very useful in the world. 
 They maintain peace and happiness, and 
 spread a thankful temper among all that live 
 around them. 
 
 Thus far in general : but it is well worth 
 considering in particular my own duties and 
 obligations. Who are the people that I ought 
 especially to study to make happy ? Are they 
 parents ? — What a debt of gratitude do I owe 
 them, for all their care of me, and for me, in 
 my helpless years ? How kindly did they bear 
 
Reflections on Thursday* 27 
 
 with the froward infirmities of my childhood : 
 and shall not I with most affectionate tender- 
 ness support and relieve all those, which years 
 and cares bring upon them ? My more active 
 strength and vigour, my younger spirits and 
 clearer thoughts, may now make me, in my 
 turn, very helpful to them. If they are good 
 people and good parents, I am sure this is my 
 duty : if otherwise, I owe them one of still 
 higher importance. I owe them the most 
 earnest endeavours I can use for the reforma- 
 tion of their faults, or instruction of their ig- 
 norance. This duty extends to all my rela- 
 tions : and to all from whom I have ever re- 
 ceived any benefit, or any offices of friendship. 
 If it is my misfortune that any of them should 
 be bad people, though they have been good to 
 me ; or if any of those who are related to me, 
 are engaged in a wrong course of life, ought 
 I to fly from them, and leave them to ruin ? 
 No : gratitude and affection forbid it. Ought 
 I then to encourage vice, and flatter folly, if it 
 happens among those that I love ? This my 
 higher duty to Almighty God, to truth and 
 virtue, absolutely forbid. What then is to be 
 done r To preserve the tenderest affection for 
 their persons, and keep up and declare openly 
 the strongest abhorrence of their faults. To 
 
28 Reflections on Thursday. 
 
 avoid every degree and every instance of ease 
 and familiarity, that may seem to give the 
 least countenance to their vices ; and at the 
 same time to employ every art, and every 
 earnest endeavour, that can have the least 
 chance of reclaiming them. To pray for, 
 and pity them : to reprove, and advise them : 
 to please and oblige them, in every thing J 
 innocently can.-* — -But if, upon the whole, 
 I find them irreclaimable, and myself in the 
 least possible danger of being infected by their 
 example,— then to fly them, as I would the 
 plague; then to cut off a right hand, and 
 pluck out a right eye *, and break through 
 every fondness, and every attachment, that 
 would destroy my highest, my eternal interest. 
 No ties that subsist among human creatures, 
 can be so strong, can be so dear, or ought to 
 be so indissoluble, as those which for ever 
 bind us to our Creator and Redeemer. 
 
 Next to the bonds of nature, are those of 
 choice. Married persons are bound to the 
 observance of very sacred vows, and ought 
 therefore often to recollect them, and examine 
 
 * That is, rather to submit to every misery and mis- 
 fortune that might befall me from the want of the support 
 and assistance of my parents, than to endanger my salva* 
 tkn. 
 
Reflections on Thursday, 29 
 
 their conduct by them. Among other things, 
 tliey should carefully consider, whether they 
 have so strict a guard upon their temper as 
 they ought, now the happiness of another 
 person is made so greatly to depend on their 
 easy good humour and chearfulness. Whe- 
 ther they assist and improve one another: and 
 whether they are ready to receive assistance 
 and advice as kindly as to give it. Whether 
 they preserve a delicacy of behaviour, a neat- 
 ness of appearance, a gentleness of manner, a 
 mildness of speech. Whether they enter 
 kindly and affectionately into one another's 
 interests and concerns. 
 
 Friends should consider what engagements 
 they are entered into with each other, how 
 strictly they are bound diligently to promote 
 each other's welfare : to think of one another 
 candidly and kindly : to overlook little offen- 
 ces, to bear infirmities: to repay kindnesses a 
 thousand fold : to be watchful over each 
 other's conduct : to be true, sincere, faithful, 
 obliging, open, constant : and to have the 
 generous courage of reproving and opposing 
 each other's follies and faults. 
 
 All persons should consider to whom they 
 are accountable for their time, their labour, 
 the superfluity of their fortune : to masters, to 
 
30 Reflections on Thursday. 
 
 friends, to society in general, to the deserving, 
 or the helpless poor. Rich persons owe a due 
 portion of their riches to works of charity and 
 to the public : the great owe their protection 
 to merit : and all people owe it to themselves, 
 to improve every moment, and every opportu- 
 nity, this life affords them. 
 
 Surely, while I am making these reflections, 
 I cannot omit more literal debts, and more 
 immediate duties. Do I owe money, I am 
 not able to pay? Let me retrench every su- 
 perfluous expence, till my real debts are paid. 
 Let me work and labour indefatigably, till I 
 am enabled to be honest : and let me not be 
 one moment easy, while I unjustly live on the 
 expence of other people, and am hurtful to 
 the society, that ought to be the better for me. 
 
 It is worth considering, too, what promises I 
 have made. Were they ever so rash, if they 
 engaged me in nothing contrary to innocence, 
 it is my duty to fulfil them. Happy if it 
 teaches me the wisdom, to be more cautious 
 for the future. 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 FRIDAY. 
 
 On the Happiness of the present State, and 
 the Self-denial required in it. 
 
 " Blessed are they that mourn, for they 
 " shall be comforted." Alas! does it not seem 
 from this, and many other passages of Scrip- 
 ture, worthy of all observance, and of all ac- 
 ceptation, as if it was our bounden duty in 
 this world to lead a melancholy, wretched, 
 uncomfortable life? And can this indeed be 
 the will of him who delighteth in mercy? 
 Who filleth our hearts with food and gladness, 
 and has, in not a few places, expressly com- 
 manded us to " rejoice evermore?" Is there 
 then, an inconsistency in the duties of reli- 
 gion? God forbid! Yet short-sighted men, 
 capable of taking into one view, but a part of 
 the vast and perfectly consistent scheme of 
 duty, and guided too generally by passion or 
 weakness, are perpetually acting as if this 
 was the case. Some free spirits there are, 
 
 who throw off all lawful restraint, and fully 
 
 5 
 
32 Reflections on Friday. 
 
 satisfied with themselves if they keep within 
 the widest bounds of what is just allowable, 
 indulge without caution in every thing they 
 think so. Their whole time is given up to 
 mirth and jollity: their whole fortunes perhaps 
 are spent upon themselves, without any regard 
 to the calls of charity or duty. Jollily they 
 go on in life, till some unforeseen misfortune 
 stops them short, and throws a deep gloom 
 over their sunny landscape. 
 
 Another sort of people, much to be es- 
 teemed, and greatly to be pitied, are scru- 
 pulous about every thing; and, frighted by 
 misapprehensions of some alarming texts, 
 dare not allow themselves in the most inno- 
 cent conveniences, and most harmless, and, 
 on many accounts, useful and commendable 
 pleasure. Their minds are so truly pious, 
 that they are far from deliberately thinking 
 of the infinitely great and good God, as a hard 
 and rigid master; but they act with such a 
 slavish fear, as must needs make those, who 
 are less well-disposed, frame such horridly 
 false imaginations of Him : and their well- 
 meant strictness has the most dangerous ten- 
 dency in the world. 
 
 Between these two extremes, undoubtedly- 
 lies the plain path of dutv: the narrow, but 
 
 4 
 
Reflections on Friday. 33 
 
 hot thorny road^ that leads through the truest 
 comfort this life can afford, to everlasting 
 happiness in a belter. 
 
 The natural enjoyments of life are dispensed 
 to us by a gracious Providence, to mitigate 
 its natural evils, and make our passage 
 through it not only supportable, but at fit 
 times and seasons, so far pleasant, as to make 
 us go on with vigour, chearfulness, and 
 gratitude : and to give us some kind of earnest of 
 what we are bid to hope hereafter, some kind of 
 faint notion what happiness is : some sensible 
 assurances, that there really is such a thing, 
 though not to be, in any high degree, enjoyed 
 on this side of the grave. — Still it is a yet 
 more merciful dispensation of the same fatherly 
 care, that pain and imperfection, satiety and 
 disappointment, should be so mixed up with 
 all our best enjoyments in this low state of 
 being, as to turn our chief aim and desire to- 
 wards heaven. And let us not fear, unless 
 we wilfully and madly throw ourselves into a 
 giddy round of pleasures, on purpose to be 
 intoxicated by them, Providence will merci- 
 fully interpose in the fullest tide of innocent 
 prosperity, and make us, by some means or 
 other, feel an emptiness and dissatisfaction, in 
 
34 Reflections on Friday. 
 
 the best, this world can give : especially may 
 this be hoped by those, who take care to keep 
 their minds always open to such serious 
 thoughts and right impressions, as will per- 
 petually present themselves, if not rejected : 
 and who reserve some leisure time in every 
 day, for reading and reflecting. 
 
 Our Maker knows so well the weakness of 
 our frame, that he hath not left it to us, to 
 inflict upon ourselves, merely by way of 
 punishment, such sufferings as He sees it 
 necessary for us to undergo. That task would 
 be so hard a one, that He would by no means 
 impose it upon us. No: He will take care 
 himself, that we shall unavoidably feel and 
 experience a great deal of that evil which sin 
 introduced into the world : and all He require* 
 of us, is to support it as we ought. He re- 
 quires nothing contrary to reason, and the 
 innocent inclinations of nature: if any of his 
 laws appear harsh and difficult, it is from 
 their opposition to our acquired habits, our 
 prejudices and corruptions. To forgive inju- 
 ries, to return good for evil, to live peaceably 
 with all men, to be always mild, obliging, 
 and good-humoured, to be kind and patient, 
 charitable and industrious, temperate, sober, 
 and modest ; these are no grievous laws to a 
 
Reflections on Friday. 35 
 
 pure, and well -timed mind: nor can its 
 genuine dictates be better complied with, than 
 by observing them. Still, they will be a very 
 grievous restraint on the licentiousness of our 
 corrupted wills, our heightened passions, and 
 indulged imaginations. To be continually 
 attentive to our conduct in every minute in- 
 stance, to set a watch before our mouth, and 
 keep the door of our lips, to set scourges over 
 our thoughts, and the discipline of wisdom 
 over our hearts, requires a soberness of mind, 
 a diligence, a resolute adherence to duty, that 
 may undoubtedly deserve the name of self- 
 denial^ and mortification : though in effect 
 nothing so certainly ensures our happiness, 
 both here and hereafter. To think we can 
 do this by our own strength, would be pre- 
 sumptuous and vain. Tell a man, helpless 
 with the palsy, that perfect health is his 
 natural and eligible state ; convince him ever 
 so clearly how happy it would be for him to 
 become active and industrious — your eloquence 
 is mockery, and will not help him to the use 
 of a single limb. But though we daily con- 
 fess that we have " no health in us," He who 
 did actually say to the sick of the palsy, 
 " Arise, take up thy bed, and walk," and was 
 immediately obeyed, can effectually relieve our 
 
 x>2 
 
36 Reflections on Friday. 
 
 still more helpless state. To this sovereign 
 physician we can apply for help, and by the 
 aid He imparts, are enabled to follow the 
 regimen He enjoins ; and thus to a go on from 
 " strength to strength, till unto the God of 
 " gods shall appear every one in Sion." 
 
 Though our comfortable passage through 
 this life, and the attainment of unspeakable 
 blessedness in another, are the allowed, the 
 necessary, the enjoined objects of our pursuit, 
 yet still, in a great degree, we are to renounce 
 ourselves. By sincere humility we are to con- 
 sider the vileness and wretchedness of our na- 
 tural state : we are to acknowledge, that of 
 ourselves we are able to do nothing as we 
 ought ; and, far from indulging any thoughts 
 of vanity or self-complacence, we are, when 
 we have done our very best, to confess, with 
 unfeigned lowliness, that we are unprofitable 
 servants. We are to trust and hope alone in 
 the merits and intercession of our blessed Re- 
 deemer ; and to own ourselves " less than the 
 6C least of God's mercies." As his creatures, 
 we are to direct all our thoughts and actions 
 to his honour and service. " Whether we 
 €C eat or drink, or whatever we do, we are to 
 " do all to the glory of God." In every 
 thing we are to consider carefully the rule of 
 
Reflections on Friday. 37 
 
 duty : not scrupulously or superstitiously, for 
 that tends to the dishonour of God and reli- 
 gion, as well as our own discomfort. We are 
 never to do any thing for so low an end, as 
 merely to gratify our own childish humour ; 
 but in all cases, to moderate and guide our- 
 selves by the rules of reason and reiigion. 
 Thus, even in using the necessary refresh- 
 ments, the easy amusements, and innocent 
 pleasures of life, we are to behave with a due 
 sense of that God, who is every where present 
 We are to look up to Him with thankfulness, 
 as the bountiful bestower of all good, and 
 chearfully accept these indulgences for the 
 ends to which he has appointed them. Food, 
 to restore our strength wasted in active ser- 
 vice, to preserve our health and ease: sleep, 
 to renew our wearied spirits : pleasure, to 
 gladden our hearts, and fill them with pious 
 gratitude and filial love. This cuts off at. 
 once all that intemperance that crosses those 
 good purposes, destroys our health, distresses 
 our hearts, makes our lives sluggish and use- 
 less, and dissipates or corrupts our minds. 
 Riches and honours also are to be received 
 with thanksgiving, by whomsoever Providence 
 allots them to ; but then they are to be dili- 
 gently, and carefully, and generously employed 
 
3S Reflections on Friday. 
 
 in the best purposes: and even the richest and 
 the greatest ought to deny themselves all in- 
 dulgences of mere humour and fancy, how 
 well soever they may seem able to afford it, 
 and kindly and faithfully consider the more 
 pressing wants of their distressed fellow-crea- 
 tures. To answer the purposes of charity the 
 rich must be frugal, and the poor industrious ; 
 and all give freely and discreetly, as proper 
 calls require- Every body, in their turns, to 
 maintain the peace of society and Christian 
 concord, must repress the little risings of tem- 
 per, and fretf ulness of humour ; must be ready 
 to forgive and forget, to indulge and overlook. 
 It is endless to go on enumerating instances, 
 in which the just, the necessary adherence to 
 our duty, requires us to deny our sinful selves. 
 Our cowardice, our false shame, our vanity, 
 our weakness and irresolution, our fondness 
 and partial affection, our indolence and love 
 of ease ; these, and numberless infirmities 
 more, must be struggled with and conquered, 
 when we are called out to encounter dangers ; 
 to confess our Saviour before men: to with^ 
 stand the strong torrent of custom and 
 fashion, of importunity and ill example: to 
 turn a deaf ear to flattery, or candidly acknow- 
 ledge our errors : to resist solicitations : to give 
 
Reflections on Friday. 39 
 
 righteous judgment: to forget all our private 
 relations and attachments, where justice or 
 public good are concerned : to resign our 
 dearest enjoyments, when it is the will of God 
 we should: to check our sorrows in their 
 fullest flow; and to go on indefatigably im- 
 proving ourselves, and doing good to others, 
 tiil the night overtakes us, " in which no man 
 (( can work." 
 
 The sufferings which it shall please Al- 
 mighty God to inflict upon us, we are to ac- 
 cept with humble resignation ; acknowledging 
 his justice, and submitting to it without a mur- 
 mur. Thus patiently also we are to receive 
 all the lesser crosses He sees fit to lay upon us ; 
 nor ever suffer ourselves to fret or repine at 
 the various infirmities of human nature, m 
 ourselves or others. All these we must look 
 upon as parts of that penalty justly inflicted on 
 our first parents guilt; and heartily thank 
 Him, that He does not, according to the ter- 
 rifying notions of popery, either expeqt us to 
 inflict them on ourselves, or give us the 
 dreadful alternative of a purgatory after death. 
 Uncommanded severities, that are ot'noappa^ 
 rent use, but to torment ourselves, aod sour 
 our natures, and shorten our lives, can never 
 
40 Reflections on Friday. 
 
 be acceptable to our gracious Maker *. Our 
 blessed Saviour, when He mentions fasting as 
 *i duty, along with prayer and alms-giving, 
 leaves the frequency and strictness of it to our 
 pwn discretion ; and only insists upon one 
 circumstance, which is, that we should avoid 
 in it all hypocrisy and ostentation; and be 
 careful to keep up all ease, good humour, and 
 agreeableness of behaviour. There are very 
 proper occasions for exercising this duty, 
 without the least superstition or moroseness, 
 ^nd where it may tend to the best purposes. 
 Public calamities, private distresses or temp- 
 tations, perplexities and difficulties, times of 
 peculiarly solemn devotion, and of resolutely 
 endeavouring to conquer such obstinate faults 
 and ill habits, as, like the dumb spirit in the 
 Gospel, can " come out only by prayer and 
 * f fasting." But where it makes us appear 
 stiff and disagreeable, interferes with the inno- 
 
 * Vengeance is mine ; J will repay, saith the Lord, 
 Romans xii. 20. Surely then it must follow that we have 
 no more right to revenge, or punish our own offences upon 
 ourselves, than as private individuals we have upon our 
 offending neighbour. In both cases it must be left to 
 God ; for as we are unable to judge of the extent of the 
 wrong doing, so neither can we of the proper measure of 
 the deserved punishment. 
 
Reflections on Friday. 41 
 
 cent chearfulness of society, or may influence 
 our health or temper in any wrong way, in 
 such cases it becomes a hurtful superstition, 
 and as such unallowable. To observe the 
 public fasts appointed by authority, in a man- 
 ner suited to every person's strength and abi- 
 lity, with decency and reverence, can have 
 none of these evil consequences: and the 
 practice of this duty, at fit times, and in a rea- 
 sonable degree, is an excellent remembrancer 
 of the wretchedness of being attached to any 
 sensual gratifications, and the easiness as well 
 gs necessity, at fit times, to forbear them. 
 
REFLECTONS 
 
 ON 
 
 SATURDAY. 
 
 The Importance of Time in relation to 
 Eternity. 
 
 Another week is past ; another of those 
 little limited portions of time, which number 
 out my life. Let me stop a little here, before 
 I enter upon a new one, and consider what 
 this life is, which is thus imperceptibly steal- 
 ing away, and whither it is conducting me? 
 "What is its end and aim, its good and its evil, 
 its use and improvement ? What place does 
 it fill in the universe? What proportion does 
 it bear to eternity ? 
 
 This mortal life is the beginning of exist- 
 ence to beings made for immortality, and 
 graciously designed, unless by wilful guilt 
 they forfeit it, for everlasting happiness. 
 Compared with eternity, its longest duration 
 is less than a moment: therefore its good and 
 evil, considered without a regard to the influ- 
 ence they may have on an eternity to come, 
 must be trifling to a degree below contempt. 
 
Reflections on Saturday. 43 
 
 The short scene begun in birth, and closed 
 by death, is acted over millions of mcs, in 
 every age ; and all the little concerns of mor- 
 tality are pursued, transacted, and forgotten, 
 like the labours of a bee-hive, or the bustle of 
 an ant-hill. " The thing which hath been, 
 " it is that which shall be, and that which is 
 " done, is that which shall be done : and 
 < c there is no new thing under the sun." 
 Our wisdom, therefore, is to pass through 
 this busy dream as calmly as we can ; and 
 not suffer ourselves to be more deeply attach- 
 ed to any of those transitory things, than the 
 momentariness and unimportance of them 
 deserves. 
 
 But considering this short life as a proba- 
 tion for eternity, as a trial whosfe issue is to 
 determine our everlasting state, its import- 
 ance to ourselves appears beyond expression 
 great, and fills a right mind with equal awe 
 and transport. The important day will 
 come, when there shall be a new thing in- 
 deed, but not " under the sun :" for " heaven 
 " and earth shall pass away:" but the words 
 of Him, who created them, " shall not pass 
 " away." 
 
 What then is the good or the evil of life, 
 but as it has a tendency to prepare, or unfit 
 
 7 
 
44 Reflections on Saturday. 
 
 us for that decisive day, when " the Son 
 " of man shall come in the clouds witli great 
 " power and great glory, and shall send his 
 " angels, and shall gather together his elect 
 " from the four winds." That Son of man 
 who is the Son of God, " blessed for evermore," 
 and once before came down from heaven, and 
 took upon him this our mortal nature, with 
 all its innocent infirmities and sufferings ; and 
 subjected himself even to the death of the 
 cross, that he might redeem us from all our 
 sins, and obtain the gift of everlasting life for 
 all, who should not wilfully frustrate this last 
 and greatest effort of divine mercy. 
 
 What then have we to do, but with love 
 and gratitude unutterable to embrace the 
 offers of salvation ; and henceforth become in 
 every thing His true and faithful disciples? 
 To whom should we live, but to Him, who 
 died for us ? To whom should we give up 
 ourselves, but to Him who gave up himself 
 for us? whose " yoke is easy, and his burden 
 light." In whom should we trust, but in 
 eternal truth ? In whom should we chearfully 
 hope, but in infinite goodness? Whom should 
 we copy, but him, who was made like unto us 
 in all things, sin only excepted, and has left 
 us an example that we should " follow his 
 
 6 
 
Reflections on Saturday. 45 
 
 steps?" Which if we do faithfully to the ut- 
 most of our power, his grace shall so assist us 
 that in the end we shall be where he is, to be- 
 hold his glory, and partake his bliss. 
 
 Let me think then, and think deeply, how 
 I have employed this week past. Have I ad- 
 vanced in, or deviated from the path that leads 
 to life ? Has my time been improved or lost, 
 or worse than lost, misspent ? If the last, let 
 me use double diligence to redeem it. Have 
 I spent a due portion of my time in acts of de- 
 votion and piety, both private, public, and 
 domestic ? And have they been sincere, and 
 free from all mixture of superstition, mo- 
 roseness, or weak scrupulosity ? Have I, in 
 society, been kind and helpful, mild, peaceable 
 and obliging? Have I been charitable, 
 friendly, discreet ? Have I had a due regard, 
 without vanity or ostentation, to set a good 
 example ? Have I been equally ready to give 
 and receive instruction, and proper advice ? 
 Careful to give no offence, and patient to take 
 every thing, in good part? Have I been 
 honest, upright and disinterested? Have I, 
 in my way, and according to my station and 
 calling, been diligent, frugal, generous, and 
 industrious to do good ? Have I, in all my be- 
 haviour, consulted the happiness and ease of 
 
46 Reflections on Saturday. 
 
 those I live with, and of all who have any 
 dependence upon me ? Have I preserved my 
 understanding clear, my temper calm, my 
 spirits chearful, my body temperate and 
 healthy, and my heart in a right frame ? If to 
 all these questions I can humbly, yet confi- 
 dently answer, that I have done my best : If 
 I have truly repented all the faulty past, and 
 made humble, yet firm, and vigorous, and 
 deliberate resolutions for the future, poor as it 
 is, the honest endeavour will be graciously 
 accepted : And I may to-morrow, gladly and 
 securely approach the sacred table, and par- 
 take that bread of life, which our blessed Sa- 
 viour gave, to nourish to all goodness those 
 who receive it worthily, and to be not only 
 the means of grace, but the pledge of glory. 
 Amen ! 
 
ESSAYS 
 
 ON 
 
 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 
 
ESSAY I* 
 
 On the Employment of Time in the different 
 Situations in Society. 
 
 One scarce ever walked, with any set of 
 company, by a neat cottage, but somebody or 
 other has expressed their envy of the pastoral 
 inhabitant. It is quite common, among peo- 
 ple of easy and affluent circumstances to ima- 
 gine, in a splenetic moment, every laborious 
 situation happier than their own : and to wish 
 an exchange with the plough-man, the shep- 
 herd, or the mechanic. I have sometimes 
 thought this an affectation : and a very false 
 sentiment it surely is. For if all made the im- 
 provement they ought of their own way of 
 life, there can be little doubt, but the higher, 
 and more leisurable stations would be, upon 
 the whole, the happiest. That they rarely 
 prove so in fact, is the fault of the possessors : 
 who unable to avoid their necessary cares, 
 and unindustrious to seek out their true 
 
50 Essay /. 
 
 advantages, sink under a weight, that they 
 might easily balance, so as not to feel it. 
 
 What is generally called the spleen, is no 
 other than the uneasy consciousness and dis- 
 satisfaction of a mind formed for nobler pur- 
 suits and better purposes, than it is ever put 
 upon. Mere pleasure is an end too unworthy 
 for a rational being to make its only aim* 
 Yet persons, unconstrained by necessity, are 
 so apt to be allured by indolence and amus#| 
 merit, that their better faculties are seldom 
 exercised as they ought to be : though every 
 employment that serves no other purpose than 
 merely to while away the present moment, 
 gives the mind a painful sensation, that whe- 
 ther distinctly attended to, or not, makes up, 
 when frequently repeated, the sum of that 
 satiety and tediousness so often lamented, in 
 prosperous life. 
 
 There is, doubtless, to many persons a real 
 difficulty in making the choice of an employ- 
 ment, when they are let perfectly at liberty, 
 to chuse what they will. Necessity is perhaps 
 the most satisfactory guide : and, for that rea- 
 son alone, the artificer, the shepherd, and the 
 farmer, are happier than their affluent neigh- 
 bours. The poor man must either work or 
 starve : so he makes the best of his lot ; works 
 
Essay i. 51 
 
 ehearfully, and enjoys the fruit of his honest 
 labour. The rich, the easy, the indolent, have a 
 task as necessary, but not so obvious. There is 
 room for some doubt, and uncertainty as to 
 the way of setting about it. A life of sublime 
 speculation is too high for the present state : 
 a life of soft pleasure is too low. The right 
 medium is a life busied in the exercise of 
 duty: and duties there are peculiar to every 
 ^uation, and an enquiry into these is the 
 leading one *. 
 
 I was drawn into this speculation by having 
 indulged, last summer, a whole week of idle- 
 ness in a visit I made to an old acquaintance 
 in the country. I, too, took it into my head 
 one afternoon, to envy a poor man, who was 
 hard at work for his livelihood mending the 
 roof of a church, where he had some danger, 
 as well as toil. I, who had been seeking 
 out the coolest shade, and reclining on the 
 greenest turf, amid the fragrance of a thousand 
 flowers : I, who had leisure to attend to the 
 warbling of birds around me, or in peace and 
 safety might amuse myself with the liveliest 
 
 * This is rather obscurely expressed. The meaning- 
 seems to be, that an enquiry into each person's peculiar 
 situation is his leading duty ; i.e. that duty, without pro- 
 per attention to which he cannot practise the rest. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 Essay r. 
 
 wit and eloquence of Greece and Rome— 
 would have resigned all these delights with 
 joy, to sit whistling at the top of a high ladder 
 suffering both heat and hunger. 
 
 After ruminating much on so odd a phe- 
 nomenon, I could find no better way of ac- 
 counting for it, than from the preferableness 
 of any allotted employment, to an inactive 
 indulgence of selfish pleasure. It would 
 therefore be worth while for all of us to consi- 
 der what is our allotted employment, and sit- 
 ting down contented with that, all might be 
 more than tolerably happy, and no such great 
 inequalities in the world, as are usually com- 
 plained of. 
 
 Not that all amusement and indulgence 
 should be severely banished. When pro- 
 perly and proportionably mixed with the more 
 serious purposes of life, they become a part of 
 duty. Rest and relaxation are necessary to 
 health: the elegant arts refine our imagina- 
 tions * : and the most trifling gaieties serve to 
 cherish our good humour and innocent alacrity 
 of heart. The enjoyment of proper delights 
 fills us with gratitude to their all-bountiful 
 dispenser, and adds to the bands of society a 
 
 # — ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 
 Emollit mores.— Ovid. 
 
 4 
 
Essay /. 53 
 
 flowery chain of no small strength, and does 
 justice to a fair world, that is full of them. 
 The number of them varies according to num- 
 berless circumstances: but, in no circumstance, 
 are mere amusement and relaxation to be con- 
 sidered as the business of life, or to be substi- 
 tuted for that real task, which, in some in- 
 stance or other, is allotted to every state. 
 
 Let then the shepherd enjoy his peace, his 
 meadows, and his oaten pipe^. Let the 
 honest artificer pursue his trade with chearful 
 industry, and rejoice that the weight of states 
 and kingdoms does not lie upon his shoulders. 
 Let the man of a middle slation know his 
 happiness, in possessing with quiet obscurity, 
 all the comforts of society and domestic life, 
 with leisure, and advantage for making the 
 noblest improvements of the mind. Let the 
 rich and great still look higher, and instead of 
 repining at 
 
 " Ceremony, the Idol Ceremony P" 
 
 which debars them of those free and humble 
 joys, delight themselves with their extensive 
 power of doing good, and diffusing happiness 
 around them, 
 
 * Had Dr. Johnson reviewed tjiis Essay, all its moral 
 worth would not have induced him to pass over the oaten 
 pipe, without severe animadversion. 
 
54 Essay i. 
 
 What an alternative is put into the choice 
 of man ! By employment or misuse of the fa- 
 culties assigned him, he may rise to what dig- 
 nity, or sink to what baseness he will, in the 
 class of moral beings. Human existence is an 
 inestimable gem, capable of receiving what- 
 ever polish we will please to give it : and if 
 heightened with the diligence it ought, will 
 shine in due time, with a lustre more dazzling 
 than the stars *. 
 
 It would not be fantastical (for its founda- 
 tion is in truth and reality) to form a scale of 
 nobility *f very different from the common 
 distinction of birth, titles, and fortune ; and 
 wholly according to that figure, persons 
 make in the moral world, and according 
 to their various degrees of improvement and 
 usefulness. The change would not be total. 
 
 * Is not this the very circumstance in which the true 
 dignity of human nature consists ; the power inherent in 
 each individual of exalting it to the highest degree of 
 happiness with the capability of retaining that happiness 
 even to eternity ? 
 
 f This was humourously attempted in a late periodical 
 publication, (probably either the Mirror or the Lounger) 
 in a manner more remotely connected with morality ; in 
 which bodily health is made the criterion of greatness ; 
 and a man is said to deserve more or less respect, in pro- 
 portion to the strength or weakness of his constitution. 
 
Essay i. 55 
 
 Many, who are now high in life, would con- 
 tinue so* : but not a few would be strangely 
 degraded. 
 
 Of what account indeed in the true system 
 of life is he (be he what he will in greatness) 
 who sleeps away his being in indolent amuse- 
 ment ? Whose hours hang heavy on his hands, 
 without the gaming-table, the bottle, the buf- 
 foon, or the taylor? And whose mind amidst 
 them all, is perpetually clouded with a splenetic 
 discontent, the inevitable rust of unused fa- 
 culties ? Uncomfortable to himself, and unim- 
 portant to his fellow-creatures, whatever were 
 his advantages of nature and fortune, he has 
 degraded himself from them all. A day- 
 labourer, who does his utmost at the plough 
 and the cart, is a much more respectable 
 being. 
 
 In this scale, the miser's plea of poverty 
 would be readily admitted, as witnessed by 
 his anxious look and sordid life: while the 
 frank heart and open countenance should be 
 set down for the merit of a plum. 
 
 Even the miser himself has a class of infe- 
 
 * Miss Talbot's own character, as lias been observed in 
 the Preface to the Letters between her and Mrs. Carter, 
 forcibly illustrates this observation. Happily for the 
 world there are still many instances of it. 
 
56 Essay /. 
 
 riors, and that, without speaking of the dowiw 
 right vicious, who come under another kind of 
 consideration. These are the oyster-livers : 
 such as lose the very use of their limbs from 
 mere laziness, and waste year after year fixed 
 to one uncomfortable spot; where they eat 
 and drink, sleep and grumble on : while the 
 duty of their situation properly attended to, 
 would make them happy in themselves, and 
 a happiness to others. Were the pearl taken 
 ont of that unsightly shell, what a circulation 
 of riches and ornaments might it make to so- 
 ciety ! But while these poor animals can fatten 
 on their barren rock, it matters not to them. 
 
 If cowardice sinks persons lower than all 
 other vices, beneath even these will come in 
 the poor slaves of false shame, the mean de- 
 serters of their duty. How many, that now 
 pass for men of honour and spirit, would ap- 
 pear more weak and timorous than female 
 fear. Some not daring to refuse a challenge % : 
 others drinking against inclination, or affront- 
 ing religion against their own consciences : or 
 prodigal of health and fortune, from merely 
 
 * This was a favourite idea with Miss Talbot. See it 
 farther illustrated in the Letters between her and Mrs. 
 Carter, vol. i. p. 327, &c. which produced the story of 
 Eugenio in the Adventurer. 
 
Essay i. 57 
 
 wanting strength to resist the vain current of 
 fashion. No black slave sold in a market is 
 so far from liberty, as every one of these. 
 
 In numberless such ways, does the bewil- 
 dered race of man deviate from the paths of 
 felicity and glory, and childishly squander 
 away inestimable advantages. For just in 
 proportion to the improvement of those facul- 
 ties, with which heaven has intrusted us, our 
 beings are ennobled, and our happiness 
 heightened. The enjoyments of a mere ani- 
 mal existence are flat and low. The com- 
 forts of plain ordinary life, in those who have 
 some feelings of the connexions of society, but 
 no idea of any thing higher, rise in the next 
 degree. The pleasures of an improved ima- 
 gination take in a circle vastly wider and more 
 fair. The joys of a benevolent heart animated 
 by an active diligent spirit, refined sentiments, 
 and affections justly warm, exceed the most 
 gay imagination. The strong sense, and 
 genuine love of truth and goodness 3 with all 
 those noblest dispositions, that fill a mind 
 effected and penetrated, as it ought to be, with 
 a sense of religion, and practising every part 
 of Christian duty, ascends still higher, and 
 raises humanity to that point, from which it 
 begins to claim a near alliance with superior 
 natures. 
 
ESSAY IL 
 
 On true Politeness. 
 
 Politeness is the most agreeable band of 
 society, and I cannot help attributing more ill 
 consequences to the general disregard of it, 
 than people, at present, are apt to attend 
 to. Perhaps it may be so entirely laid aside, 
 by the time that this manuscript comes into 
 any body's hand*, that the page, which 
 preserves some faint outlines of its resemblance, 
 may be thought no unuseful one ; or at least 
 by the lovers of antiquity, may be read with 
 pleasure, as containing some curious remains 
 of an elegant art : an art, that humanized the 
 world, for many years, till the fine spirits of 
 the present age thought fit to throw it off, as 
 a narrow restraint, and a mean prejudice of 
 education. 
 
 * That time seems now to have arrived, when freedom 
 has so generally usurped the place of politeness, and even 
 gallant attention to the weaker sex has given way to ease 
 not unfrequently degenerating into rudeness itself. If 
 Miss Talbot's age deserved the censure contained in the 
 text, what must be thought of the present. 
 
Essay if. 59 
 
 Politeness is the just medium between form 
 and rudeness. It is the consequence of a be- 
 nevolent nature, which shows itself, to general 
 acquaintance, in an obliging, unconstrained 
 civility, as it does, to more particular ones, in 
 distinguished acts of kindness. This good 
 nature must be directed by a justness of senee, 
 and a quickness of discernment, that knows 
 how r to use every opportunity of exercising it, 
 and to proportion the instances of it, to every 
 character and situation. It is a restraint laid 
 by reason and benevolence, upon every irre- 
 gularity of the temper, which, in obedience 
 to them, is forced to accommodate itself even 
 to the fantastic laws, which custom and 
 fashion have established, if, by that means it 
 can procure, in any degree, the satisfaction, 
 or good opinion of any part oi mankind. Thus 
 paying an obliging deference to their judg- 
 ment, so far as it is not inconsistent with 
 the higher obligations of virtue and religion. 
 
 This must be accompanied with an elegance 
 of taste, and a delicacy observant of the least 
 trifles, which tend to please or to oblige : i id 
 though its foundation must be rooted in tue 
 heart, it can scarce be perfected without a 
 complete knowledge of the world. 
 
60 Essay n. 
 
 In society, it is the medium, that blends all 
 different tempers, into the most pleasing har- 
 mony, while it imposes silence on the loqua- 
 cious, and inclines the most reserved to furnish 
 their share of the conversation, it represses the 
 ambition of shining alone, and increases the 
 desire of being mutually agreeable. It takes 
 off the edge of raillery, and gives delicacy to 
 wit. It preserves a proper subordination 
 amongst all ranks of people, and can reconcile 
 a perfect ease, with the most exact pro- 
 priety. 
 
 To superiors it appears in a respectful 
 freedom ; no greatness can awe it into servi- 
 lity, and no intimacy can sink it into a re- 
 gardless familiarity. 
 
 To inferiors it shews itself in an unassuming 
 good nature. Its aim is to raise them to you, 
 
 not to let vou down to them. It at once 
 
 */ 
 
 maintains the dignity of your station, and ex- 
 presses the goodness of your heart. 
 
 To equals it is every tiling that is charming. 
 It studies their inclinations, prevents their 
 desires, attends to every little exactness of 
 behaviour, and all the time appears perfectly 
 disengaged and careless. 
 
 Such, and so amiable is true politeness, by 
 people of wrong heads and unworthy hearts 
 
Essay it. 61 
 
 disgraced in its two extremes : And, by the 
 generality of mankind, confined within the 
 narrow bounds of mere good breeding, which, 
 in truth, is only one instance of it* 
 
 There is a kind of character, which does 
 not in the least deserve to be reckoned polite, 
 though it is exact in every punctilio of beha- 
 viour. Such as would not for the world omit 
 paying you the civility of a bow, or fail in the 
 least circumstance of decorum : But then these 
 people do this so merely for their own sake, 
 that whether you are pleased or embarrassed 
 with it, is little of their care. They have 
 performed their own parts, and are satisfied. 
 One there is, who says more civil things than 
 half mankind besides, and yet, is " So obliging 
 " that he never obliged." For while he is 
 paying the highest court to some one person 
 of the company, he must of course neglect the 
 rest, which is ill made up, by a forced recol- 
 lection at last, and some lame civility, which, 
 however it may be worded, does in effect 
 express only this, " I protest I had quite forgot 
 " you : but as insignificant as you are, I must 
 " not, for my own sake, let you go home out 
 " of humour." Thus every one in their turn, 
 finding his civility to be just as variable as his 
 
62 Essay ir. 
 
 interest, no one thinks himself obliged to him 
 for it. 
 
 This then is a proof, that true politeness, 
 whose great end is giving real pleasure, can 
 have its source only in a virtuous and benevo- 
 lent heart. Yet this is not all: it must ob- 
 serve propriety too. There is a character of 
 perfect good nature, that loves to have every 
 thing about it happy or merry. This is a 
 character greatly to be beloved, but has little 
 claim to the title of politeness. Such persons 
 have no notion of freedom without noise and 
 tumult: and by taking off every proper 
 restraint, and sinking themselves to the level 
 of their companions, even lessen the pleasure 
 these would have in the company of their 
 superiors. 
 
 Cleanthes too loved to have every body 
 about him pleased and easy. But in his 
 family, freedom went hand in hand, with 
 order ; while his experience of the world, in 
 an age of more real accomplishments, pre- 
 served his whole behaviour agreeable to his 
 company, and becoming his station. 
 
 Certainly this regard to the different stations 
 of life is too much neglected by all ranks of 
 people. A few reflections will show this but 
 
 9 
 
Essay it. 63 
 
 too plainly. That the government of states 
 and kingdoms should be placed in a few hands 
 was, in the earliest ages of the world, found 
 necessary to the well-being of society. Power 
 gave a kind of sanction to the persons in 
 whose hands it was vested; and when the 
 peoples' minds were awed into obedience, 
 there was the less need of punishments to re- 
 strain their actions. Each various rank of 
 them viewed, with profound respect, that 
 which was most regularly beautiful : and the 
 pile of government rose, in due proportion, 
 with harmony in all its parts *• 
 
 Very different is the present scene, where 
 all sorts of people put themselves upon a level: 
 where the meanest and most ignorant censure 
 without reserve, the greatest and the wisest: 
 where the sublimest subjects are scanned 
 without reverence, the softest treated without 
 delicacy. 
 
 There was a time, when from this principle 
 of politeness, our sex received a thousand de- 
 licate distinctions, which made us as it were 
 amends for our exclusion from the more 
 shining and tumultuous scenes of life. Per- 
 
 * If Mr. Burke never read these Essays, it is a curious 
 circumstance that he should have made use of this same 
 metaphor (though much more highly ornamented) in his 
 admired work on the French He volution. 
 
64 Essay if. 
 
 haps it is a good deal our own fault, that 
 within some years, the manner of treating us 
 has been entirely altered. When the fine 
 lady becomes a hoyden, no wonder if the fine 
 gentleman behaves to her like a clown. When 
 people go out of their own proper character, 
 it is like what silly folks imagine about going 
 out of the conjurer's circle : beyond those li- 
 mits you must expect no mercy* 
 
 It would be endless to reckon up the various 
 errors on each side of true politeness, which 
 form humourists and flatterers, characters of 
 blunt or ceremonious impertinence. But that 
 I may give as true a standard of the thing it- 
 self, as I am capable of doing, I will conclude 
 my paper with the character of Cynthio, from 
 whose conversation and behaviour I have pos- 
 sibly collected most of the hints which form it. 
 
 " Cynthio * has added to Ins natural sense 
 a a thorough knowledge of the world : by 
 
 # In one of Mrs. Talbot's Letters to Mrs. Carter, she 
 says that she believes the character of Cynthio to have 
 been meant by her daughter for Dr. Gregory; but she 
 adds, that in her opinion the character flatters him very 
 much. Dr. Gregory was a Canon of Christ-church, and 
 had married Lady Mary Grey, with all the branches of 
 which family Mrs. and Miss Talbot were very intimately 
 acquainted. It is probable that Miss Talbot was a better 
 judge of the minute and delicate circumstances on which 
 true politeness so much depends, than her mother was. 
 
Essay it. 65 
 
 " which he has attained that masterly ease in 
 " behaviour, and that graceful carelessness 
 u of manner, that no body, I know, possesses 
 " in so high a degree. You may see, that 
 " his politeness flows from something superior 
 " to the little forms of custom, from a humane 
 " and benevolent heart, directed by a judg- 
 " ment, that always seizes what is just and 
 " proper ; and formed into such an habitual 
 " good breeding, that no forced attention 
 " even puts you in mind, at the time, that 
 u Cynthio is taking pains to entertain you, 
 " though upon recollection you find him to 
 " be, for that very reason, a man of the com- 
 " pleatest politeness. 
 
 " His conversation is alwavs suited to the 
 " company he is in, yet so as never to depart 
 " from the propriety of his own character. 
 " As he is naturally indolent, he is generally 
 " the least talkative of the set : but he makes 
 " up for this, by expressing more in a few 
 " words, than the generality of people do in 
 Cf a great many sentences. He is formed in- 
 " deed for making conversation agreeable; 
 " since he has good nature, which makes him 
 " place every thing that can have a share in 
 " it, in the most favourable light that it is 
 " capable of: and a turn of humour, that can 
 
 F 
 
66 Essay ir. 
 
 €: put the most trifling subject in some amusing 
 " point of view. 
 
 " In a large company, Cyntlrio was never 
 " known to engross the whole attention to 
 " some one favourite subject, which could 
 " suit with only a part of it; or to dictate, 
 " even in a small one. With a very quick 
 " discernment, to avoid speaking or thinking 
 u severely of the many faults and follies this 
 li world abounds with, is a proof of an excel- 
 " lent temper too, which can be no way con- 
 ? stantly supported, and made in its effects, 
 €: consistent with itself, but upon the basis of 
 " serious principles. 
 
 " This then is the support of Cynthio's 
 t( character, and this it is, that regulates his 
 " actions, even where his natural inclination 
 u would direct him differently. Thus, when 
 " the welfare of the public is concerned, he 
 CJ can assume a strictness, that carries great 
 " awe with it, and a severity, that a mere 
 H constitutional good nature would be hurt 
 " by, though it answers the most valuable 
 " ends of true humanity. Thus his natural 
 <c indolence is allowed to show itself, only in 
 " things of trifling consequence, or such as 
 " he thinks so, because they regard only 
 " himself: but whenever he has any opportu- 
 
Essay n. 67 
 
 " nity of serving a friend, or doing a worthy 
 " action, no body is so ready, so vigilant, so 
 " active, so constant in the pursuit ; which is 
 cc seldom unsuccessful, because he has a use- 
 <c ful good sense, that directs him to the pro- 
 " perest methods of proceeding. Upon such 
 " an occasion, not the longest journey, or 
 " most tedious solicitation, no appearance of 
 " trouble or of clanger can discourage him. 
 
 " Sincerity is so essential a part of friend- 
 " ship, that no one so perfect, in its other 
 " branches, can be wanting in that. But 
 " how, you will say, can this be reconciled 
 " with politeness? How can that, whose ut- 
 " most care is never to offend, ever venture 
 " upoii telling a disagreeable truth ? Why 
 u this is one of the wonders, which a good 
 " and a right intention, well directed* can 
 u perform : and Cynthio can even oblige 
 " people, by telling them very plainly of their 
 « faults.' 1 
 
 I perceive, I have wandered from my first 
 intention, which was only to give a general 
 sketch of this character, as influenced bv that 
 humanity, whose consequence is such a desire 
 of pleasing, as is the source of politeness. 
 But before I have done with it, I must add 
 this one distinguishing stroke, that though 
 
 f 2 
 
68 Essay u. 
 
 .many people may excel in separate good' 
 qualities and accomplishments, more than 
 Cynthio, yet I never saw them so equally pro- 
 portioned, or so agreeably blended as in him, 
 to form that whole behaviour that makes him 
 the fittest example for an Essay on this sub- 
 ject 
 
ESSAY III. 
 
 On the Accommodation of the Temper to 
 Circumstances. 
 
 Let me be allowed to make a new word, 
 and let that word be accommodableness. 
 
 The disposition of mind, I mean by that 
 word to express, is of such constant and uni- 
 versal use, that it is certainly worth while to 
 distinguish it by a name of its own. We 
 English have not much of it in our nature, 
 and therefore it is no wonder we have not an 
 expression to suit it. It is such a flexibility 
 of mind, as hinders the least struggle between 
 reason and temper. It is the very height and 
 perfection of good humour, shown as well in 
 an instantaneous transition from mirth to 
 seriousness, when that is best suited to the 
 place and people, as it is in the liveliest flashes 
 of gaiety. It is an art of sitting so loose from 
 our own humours and designs, that the mere 
 having expected, or intended, or wished a 
 thing to be otherwise than it is, shall not, for 
 a moment, ruffle our brows, or discompose 
 
70 Essay m. 
 
 our thoughts. It is an art, for it requires 
 time and pains to perfect it. 
 
 All this is indeed included in what has been 
 said of politeness, but it is worth dwelling 
 upon in a new light. It is the means of 
 making every trifling occurrence in life, of 
 some use to us. For want of it, liking and 
 luck are ever at cross purposes. To-day we 
 are sad ; and then if we fall into a jovial com- 
 pany, all their mirth seems displaced, and but 
 grates upon our fancy. To-morrow, we are 
 as whimsically determined to be merry : and 
 then, how unsuited is our temper, to the 
 scenes of sad improvement, we so often meet 
 with ! How unfit are we then to commiserate 
 the wretched, or to draw just considerations 
 from the melancholy side of life ! 
 
 This body, by some accident or other, we 
 look upon in a light of prejudice : a foolish 
 £tory told of them, or perhaps a disagreeable 
 look, or a peculiar trick, makes us lose all the 
 advantage, that might be had, by attending 
 to their more valuable qualifications: for 
 every body has some. — Another we despise, 
 merely for our own ignorance of their worth. 
 We look upon persons in a light of burlesque, 
 from some ridiculous circumstance; when, 
 perhaps, their serious character has something 
 
Essay in. 71 
 
 really good in it, that is quite past over. I 
 have felt it myself often : and that makes me 
 dwell upon the subject, for I think, one al- 
 ways talks best from experience. 
 
 I have read somewhere a Fairy story, in 
 which a princess is described, born under 
 such a charm, that till she came to a certain 
 age it was impossible she should ever enjoy 
 any lasting satisfaction. The happiness of 
 her ensuing life depended upon the observing 
 this condition : and for that reason those 
 Fairies, who had the care of her education, 
 were most exact in their attention to it. Did 
 she begin to take pleasure in any employment? 
 It was immediately changed, and her appli- 
 cation was called off to some new one. As 
 soon as she had got over the difficulties of 
 that, she was engaged in a third : and so on, 
 year after year, till she was quite grown up. 
 If any amusement was proposed, if she began 
 to taste the least delight, in the splendour of 
 a public show, or the gaiety of a rural land« 
 scape, the scene was immediately shifted, and 
 a dull solitude took the place of what had 
 charmed her. 
 
 Such is our situation in this world. In 
 such a case, all the poor princess had for it, 
 was to shift her inclinations, as fast as the 
 
72 Essay in. 
 
 Fairies could her amusements : and when she 
 had learned to do this, I think indeed, one 
 might answer for it, that the rest of her life 
 could not fail to be happy. 
 
 Our humours and dispositions are certainly 
 as various, as the accidents that happen to 
 exercise them : but then, the misfortune is, 
 that they are frequently misplaced. I have 
 often been in a humour for moralizing and 
 improving, when my fancy had much more 
 properly been filled with gay images of an 
 assembly : then, that idleness might not lose 
 its due, how frequently have my thoughts 
 wandered from a philosophical lecture, to a 
 crowded park, nay sometimes from a sermon, 
 to a ball-room ? 
 
 To continue always in the same turn of 
 humour, be it ever so graceful on some occa-* 
 sions, is nothing better than dancing smoothly 
 out of time. Some people have such an eter- 
 nal simper upon their face, that they will tell 
 you the most melancholy story, or express the 
 most pathetic concern, with a smile. Others 
 have such an earnest attention, that they will 
 listen to a gossip's tale with the gravity of a 
 philosopher. 
 
 All have some good qualities, something or 
 other, in their character or conversation, that 
 
Essay in. 73 
 
 rightly attended to, we may be the better for. 
 When in company with people of mere good 
 humour, we should waken all the mirthful 
 faculties of our mind, and take this time for 
 unbending our more serious thoughts. We 
 are not to consider whether one is of a proper 
 rank, or another of an agreeable aspect, or 
 whether we might not be better employed in 
 our closets, or better engaged in company 
 elsewhere: but accommodate ourselves to the 
 present situation, and make the best of it. 
 Be the company ever so dull, they are human 
 creatures at leasts capable of feeling pleasure, 
 or uneasiness, in some degree, of being ob- 
 liged or disobliged : and therefore, if we are 
 ever so dissatisfied ourselves, if we may con- 
 tribute any way to the satisfaction of our 
 stupid companions, good nature will find it 
 jio disagreeable employment, and it may well 
 enough be put in the balance, against most of 
 those, we are so angry to be interrupted in. 
 
 Had I set my heart on such a favourite 
 scheme ? and am I disappointed ? This is 
 what children well educated can bear with 
 great good humour, and are rewarded with 
 sugar-plums. Shall people then, who have 
 the use of reason, and the pleasure of reflec- 
 tion upon reasonable actions, be more childish 
 
7i Essay nr. 
 
 than they, and add one disagreeable thing to 
 another, by tying ill-humour to the heels of 
 disappointment ? 
 
 The mind, that is absolutely wedded to its 
 own opinions, will cherish them to a degree 
 of folly and obstinacy that would be incon- 
 ceivable but for frequent instances: very fre- 
 quent ihdeed in this country, which is reck- 
 oned, I believe justly, to abound in humour- 
 ists, more than almost any nation of the ha- 
 bitable globe. Whether this be one effect 
 attending on the glorious stubbornness of the 
 spirit of liberty, or whether we take some 
 tincture from the November sullenness of the 
 climate, I know not: but our want of ac- 
 commodableness is very perceivable in the 
 reception which our common people usually 
 give to foreigners. Their language is ridi- 
 culed, their manners observed with a haughty 
 kind of contempt : all minds seem to sit aloof 
 to them, as if they were enemies, encroachers, 
 that have nothing to do amongst us, no right 
 to give us trouble, or put us out of our way. 
 
 If we would but learn to put ourselves a 
 little in the place of others, we should soon 
 learn, with pleasure, to suit ourselves to their 
 disposition. But we are apt to imagine, that 
 every body must see every thing, just in the 
 
Essay m. 75 
 
 vSame light that it appears to us : if they do 
 not, it is very strange, and they are no com- 
 panions, for us. Thus, it seems monstrous, in 
 a foreigner to speak our language oddly, when 
 we are so perfectly acquainted with it our- 
 selves. We are prodigiously inclined to think 
 people impertinent, for asking questions about 
 what we know very well ourselves : unless in- 
 deed we happen to be in a humour of dicta- 
 ting and instructing, and then it is a crime of 
 the same nature, for people to know any thing 
 before-hand, that we have a mind to tell them. 
 
 Thus we forget our first opinions of places, 
 things, and people, and wonder that others do 
 not, at first sight, perceive them, in the same 
 light that we do, just at that time: though 
 perhaps it is by dint of reflection, that we have 
 placed them in it. It may however be speak- 
 ing too generally to say we. I am sure I have 
 often experienced this in myself. 
 
 It was the distinguishing character of a poor 
 idiot, whom I had once occasion to see a good 
 deal of, that he had so little of this accomo- 
 dableness, as to be quite outrageous, upon the 
 least alteration, in any trifling circumstances, 
 lie had been used to observe. He exprest his 
 anger, in one way indeed, and we express ours 
 in another, or perhaps are wise enough to 
 
76 Essay in. 
 
 keep most of it to ourselves : but there still 
 remains enough to take off all the grace of 
 what we do, or submit to, thus unwillingly, 
 and the principle of folly, that makes us feel 
 so strong a dislike, is the same in both : only 
 this poor creature deserved pity, while in us, 
 it is a matter of choice. 
 
ESSAY IV, 
 
 On Delicacy of Feeling. 
 
 There is no one disposition of the human 
 heart that affords such exquisite pleasure, or 
 pain, as that which we call delicacy. It is 
 the polish of the mind, soiled by the least 
 breath, and affected by the slightest touch, 
 A delicate turn of thought is, in some cases* 
 extremely agreeable ; is the sign of a valuable 
 mind, (for base metals are not capable of re- 
 ceiving any great degree of polish) but will 
 not go half so well, through the world* as that 
 which is more plain, and rough. 
 
 Yet, as there is something in this disposition 
 peculiarly elegant and amiable, people are 
 apt to encourage themselves in it, till from a. 
 grace, it becomes a weakness, and diffuses 
 unhappiness to all around them, who must 
 weigh with the exactest care all their words 
 and actions : and it is extremely possible, that 
 all their care may not be enough to prevent 
 giving some grievous offence, which they 
 never meant, and which will express itself in 
 perpetual smartnesses, or an eternal flow oS 
 
7B Essay ir. 
 
 tears, according as the constitution of the 
 delicate person inclines to anger, or to melan- 
 choly. In the latter case it is more unhappy 
 than in the former : for hasty anger is easily 
 past off; but no body of good nature can bear 
 to see a person affected, in the most painful 
 manner, by things so trifling, as they may be 
 guilty of, every moment, without knowing any 
 thing of the matter. 
 
 This consideration should make us ex- 
 tremely careful in our behaviour, to those, 
 amongst whom we live. Perhaps some little 
 heedlessness of ours, may seem a most cruel 
 slight to one, we never intend to grieve, and 
 oppress a worthy mind with the most melan- 
 choly dejection. A careless word, spoken 
 quite at random, or merely by rote, may give 
 a delicate heart the most anxious distress : and 
 those of us, who have the most prudence and 
 good nature, say and do an hundred things, 
 in our way of talking, about characters* we 
 know little of, or behaving towards those, to 
 whom we little attend, that have much more 
 grievous consequences, than we are aware of. 
 
 But then, on the other hand, we should, in 
 ourselves, most strictly guard tigainst all ex- 
 cess of this delicacy ; and though we cannot 
 help feeling things, in the quickest manner, 
 
 4 
 
Essay if. 79 
 
 for the moment, we should arm our reason 
 against our feeling, and not permit imagina- 
 tion to indulge it, and nurse it up into a mi- 
 sery : for misery if indulged, it will certainly 
 occasion : since an excess of delicacy is the 
 source of constant dissatisfaction, through too 
 eager a pursuit of something every way higher 
 than is to be had. 
 
 The person of delicate judgment sees every 
 thing, as it were, with a microscopic eye : so 
 that what would be a pleasing object, to a 
 common spectator, is, to him, unsupportably 
 coarse and disagreeable. The person of 
 lively and delicate imagination disdains the 
 common routine of comfort and satisfaction ; 
 and seeks for happiness in an airy sphere not 
 formed to give it: or pursues misery, through 
 a wild and endless maze, which at every 
 turning grows more inextricable, liy this 
 refined delicacy of sentiment, to put ourselves 
 on so different a footing, from the rest of the 
 world, that it is scarce possible, we should ever 
 understand one another, is only vain vexation. 
 
 In friendships especially, this excess of deli- 
 cacy is often of fatal ill consequence. From 
 hence spring suspicions and jealousies ; from 
 hence arise doubts and disquiets that know 
 no end, unless it be, th.at they often quite 
 
80 Essay it. 
 
 weary out the patience of the persons, whom 
 they are thus perpetually teazmg for their 
 affection. I have known instances of this 
 kind, that are sufficient warnings against it. 
 
 As for the affairs of common life, they can 
 scarcely go on where every little nicety is to 
 be turned into a matter of importance. I 
 knew a family, good, agreeable, sensible, and 
 fond of each other, to the highest degree : but 
 where each was so delicate, and so tender of 
 the delicacy of the rest, that they could never 
 talk to one another, of any serious business, 
 but were forced to transact it all, by means of 
 a third person, a man of plain sense, and a 
 common friend to all. 
 
 Poor Lucius ! How much constraint and 
 real uneasiness does he suffer from the delicacy 
 that proceeds from having a genius infinitely 
 superior to most he meets with. By having a 
 mind above the low enjovments of this state 
 of being, he is deprived of many hours of 
 most innocent cheerfulness, which other 
 people are happy in. He has an understand- 
 ing, so fitted for the deepest researches, and 
 the sublimest speculations, that the common 
 affairs and engagements of life seem vastly 
 beneath him. He has a delicacy, in his turn 
 of mind, that is shocked every day, by the less 
 
 7 
 
Essay if. 81 
 
 refined behaviour and conversation of the ge- 
 nerality of mankind: and it must be a very 
 chosen society indeed, that he prefers to his 
 beloved solitude. This disposition gives him 
 a reservedness, that in another character, 
 might pass for pride, as it makes him mix less 
 freely in those companies, that he is unavoid- 
 ably engaged in. However it has certainly 
 this ill consequence, that it makes his virtues 
 of less extensive influence, than they would 
 be, if they were more generally known. He 
 is naturally, extremely grave, and perhaps 
 with the assistance of reason and experience, 
 which prove the insufficiency of any pleasures 
 or attainments, in this life, to make us happy; 
 this seriousness is heightened so as to give 
 himself many a gloomy moment, though other 
 people never feel the effect of it, by any ill hu- 
 mour, or severity towards them. A turn of 
 mind so superior to any of the common 
 occurrences, or amusements of life can seldom 
 be much affected or enlivened by them : but 
 as so excellent an understanding must have 
 the truest taste for real wit, so no one has a 
 more lively sense of ail, that is peculiarly just 
 and delicate. These pleasures, however, are 
 little compensations for the much more fre- 
 quent disgusts, to which the same turn of inind 
 
82 Essay if. 
 
 renders him liable*. Happy, thrice happy 
 are those humble people, whose sensations are 
 fitted to the world they live in. 
 
 Those pleasures, which the imagination 
 greatly heightens, it will certainly make us 
 pay dear enough for : since the pain of parting 
 with them, will be greatly increased, in full 
 proportion, not to their value, but to our en- 
 joyment. The world was intended to be just 
 w r hat it is ; and there is no likelihood of our 
 succeeding in the romantic scheme of raising 
 it above what it is. To distract ourselves 
 with a continual succession of eager hopes, 
 and anxious fears, is a folly destructive to our 
 nature, and to the very end of our being. We 
 are formed for moderate sensations either of 
 pain or pleasure; to feel such degrees of 
 uneasiness only as we are very able to support: 
 and to enjoy such a measure of happiness, as 
 •we may easily resign, nay thankfully too, when 
 religion has opened the prospect to a brighter 
 scene : to meet with many rubs and difficul- 
 ties, which we must get over, or stumble over, 
 as well as we can : to converse with creatures 
 
 * This character of extreme delicacy and high- wrought 
 feelings, so unfit for the common purposes of life, may 
 perhaps remind the reader of that of Fleetwood in the 
 Mirror. 
 
Essay ir. 83 
 
 Imperfect, like ourselves, and to bear with all 
 their imperfections. It seems then, that the 
 only way of passing through life, as we ought, 
 is to place our minds in a state of as great 
 tranquillity, as is consistent with our not 
 becoming stupid. 
 
 @2 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 On the Employment of Wealth. 
 
 fn. 
 
 The advantages of frugality do not deserve 
 to be less considered than those of generosity i 
 for where, alas ! shall bounty find its necessary 
 fund, if thoughtless prodigality has squandered 
 it away. When I hear of thousands, and ten 
 thousands, spent by people, who in the midst 
 of immense riches reduce themselves to all the 
 shifts and pinches of a narrow fortune, I 
 know not how to recover my astonishment at 
 the infatuation, that leads them to annihilate 
 such treasures : for it may really be called 
 annihilating them, when they are spent to no 
 one good purpose, and leave no one honour- 
 able memorial behind them. A fortune thus 
 lavished away becomes the prey of the worth- 
 less : and is like a quantity of gold dust dis- 
 persed uselessly in the air, that might have 
 been melted down, and formed into regal 
 crowns, and monuments of glory. 
 
 I think one now scarcely ever hears an im- 
 mense fortune named, but somebody adds, 
 with a shake of the head — It is vastly rim 
 
Essay r. 85 
 
 out — He is in very narrow circumstances— 
 They are in great straits. — Ask the occasion, 
 &nd you will find few instances of real gene- 
 rosity, or public spirit, or even of a well- 
 judged magnificence: but all has gone amongst 
 voters, fiddlers, table companions;, profuse 
 servants, dishonest stewards, and a strange 
 rabble of people, that are every one of them 
 the worse for it. This is pitiable: and for 
 this, and nothing else, a man of quality 
 is reduced to all the meannesses imaginable. 
 He must be dependent: he must court the 
 smiles of power : he must often be rapacious 
 and dishonest. 
 
 I remember a friend of mine had once an 
 excellent conceit of a cave, at the upper end 
 of which were two enchanted glasses, with 
 curtains drawn before them, that were to be 
 consulted every evening in order for the form- 
 ing a judgment of the actions of the day. The 
 first glass showed what they might have been, 
 and what effects such and such opportunities 
 ought to have produced. When the curtain 
 was undrawn before the other, it showed, 
 tout au naturel, what they had been. Were 
 one to contemplate, in these glasses, on the 
 spending one of those great estates, which 
 reduce our fine people to such difficulties, 
 
$6 Essay jr. 
 
 what a coup d'ceil the first would present! A 
 wide track of country adorned and improved ; 
 a thousand honest families flourishing on their 
 well cultivated farms : I cannot tell whether 
 one should not see a church or two, rising in 
 a plain sort of majesty amidst the landscape. 
 In- another part of it, would appear manufac- 
 tures encouraged, poverty relieved, and mul- 
 titudes of people praying for the welfare of the 
 happy master. His tradesmen, his domestics, 
 every body that had any connection with faina, 
 would appear with a chearful and a grateful 
 air. They, in their turns, would dispense 
 good and happiness to all, with whom they 
 had any concern. At the family seat, would 
 be seen an unassuming grandeur, and an 
 honest hospitality, free from profuseness and 
 intemperance : one may say as of Hamlet's 
 two pictures, 
 
 Such should be greatness : — Now behold what 
 
 follows : 
 For here is fortune, like a mildew'd ear, 
 Blasting each wholesome grain 
 
 In the true historical glass, what may we 
 see ? Perhaps a pack of hounds, a cellar, an 
 election. Perhaps a gaming-table, with all 
 those hellish faces that surround it. An artful 
 
Essay r. 87 
 
 director perhaps, and an indolent pupil. Op- 
 pression gripes every poor wretch within its 
 grasp, and these again oppress their own 
 inferiors and dependents : all look hopeless 
 and joyless: and every look seems to conceal 
 a secret murmur. On the fore-ground perhaps 
 there stands a magnificent palace, in the 
 Italian taste ; innumerable temples, obelisks, 
 and statues rise among the woods : and never 
 were Flora and Pomona, Venus and Diana, 
 with all the train of fabulous divinities more 
 expensively honoured in Greece and Rome> 
 than in these fairy scenes*. Tke Church in 
 the mean time stands, with a wooden tower : 
 the fields are poorly cultivated, the neighbour- 
 hood discontented, and ever upon the catch 
 to find all possible faults in those proud great 
 ones, with whom they have no cheerful friendly 
 intercourse. Fine cloathes, and costly jewels 
 glitter, perhaps, in some part of the glass : but 
 how can they adorn faces grown wan with 
 
 * It might almost be supposed that Miss Talbot was 
 here giving a real description of the beautiful seat of the* 
 late Lord Le De Spencer, at West Wycombe ; but that a 
 handsome new church there is placed on a hill, as an object 
 from the house. The indignant question of Horace there- 
 fore does not apply to this case ; 
 
 Quare 
 
 Templa ruunt antiojiia Deum.?- 
 
68 Essay r. 
 
 inward care: or give gracefulness to those, 
 who must always have the humbled air of 
 inferiority, when they happen to meet t!>e 
 eye of their unpaid tradesmen, whose families* 
 are starving upon their account ? 
 
 The man of thoughtless good nature, who 
 lavishes his money to a hundred potfr devils, 
 (as is the genteel phrase to call those, that have 
 run themselves into misery from mere worth- 
 lessness) I say, when wretches, that deserved 
 only punishment and ignominy, have drained 
 this generous sieve of ail he had to bestow, to 
 what grief ho is. exposed, when he meets with 
 an object of veal distress, one that has, perhaps, 
 been ruined through his means, and is forced 
 to say with the fine gentleman, in Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, 
 
 " I wanted whence to give it, yet his eyes 
 Spoke fox him ! These I could have satisfied 
 "With some unfruitful sorrow"—- — 
 
 Would it not be quite worth while for any 
 body to avoid such uneasinesses as these, when 
 it can be done merely by a little thought, and 
 a little order? Methinks an exactness of 
 method, and a frequent review of our affairs 
 would make every thing perfectly easy. Might 
 it not be possible for a man of fortune to 
 
 4 
 
Essay r. 89 
 
 divide his estate into several imaginary 
 parcels? And, appropriating each to its 
 particular purpose, epeud it, within those 
 bounds, as freely, and with an air as open, as 
 the thoughtless prodigal : and yet be sure 3 by 
 this means, never to run out, and never to 
 bestow upon any one article more than it 
 deserved, 
 
 I will suppose myself at this present pos-» 
 sessed of ten thousand a year : nor will the 
 supposition make me at all vain, gentle reader, 
 since it implies but the being a steward * to 
 other people, and a slave to propriety. Oh it 
 is ten times the more indolent thine: to have 
 but a little, and yet the same kind of manage- 
 ment is required in all. Well : but what 
 shall I do with this estate of mine ? First of all 
 I buy me a large and pompous account book. 
 Then I consider how much must necessarily 
 be employed in mere living: and I write 
 down the sum total, on the first page. This 
 is afterwards subdivided into its proper distinct 
 articles : and each of them has a page allotted 
 to itself. And here it must be observed, that 
 
 * If the possession of wealth was indeed considered in 
 this light, the owners of it might perhaps sometimes recol- 
 lect that their hooks must at last be examined. — Give an 
 account of thy stewardship, $c. Luke xvi. 2, 
 
00 Essay r. 
 
 there are innumerable proprieties of appear- 
 ance, as indispensably necessary to the rich 
 
 man, as bare food and eloathing to the poor. 
 The other pages of the book most each have 
 their title at top, as thus : Charities 1000/. — 
 For the Service of my friends, and of the 
 Public, 10GQL— For proper Improvements of 
 my Houses, Gardens, Estates, iOOOZ. and so 
 on. I doubt whether knick-knacks, cabinets, 
 or any immoderate expences, in jewels, plate, 
 or pictures*, would find a place in such a list 
 as this. 
 
 It would surely be easy, by frequently 
 comparing the daily articles of expence under 
 each head, with the determination marked at 
 top, to keep every one within bounds, and to 
 enjoy what is in our own power, without, in 
 the least, pining after what is not : For that 
 we may read the precepts of the stoics: and 
 for the other, let us consider, a little, those 
 instances, we may see all around us, of good 
 
 * It should be observed that it is not the purchase of 
 these articles that is here censured, but immoderate ex- 
 pence incurred in them. For if it be proper that the arts 
 should be encouraged at all, it must be by the liberality of 
 the opulent ; but it by no means follows that they should 
 so distress themselves for that purpose, as to have nothing 
 left for more essential and necessary pursuits, 
 
Essay r. 91 
 
 characters disgraced by an ill-judged saving- 
 ness in some insignificant particulars, and by 
 a want of ease and propriety, in trifling ex- 
 pences. 
 
 If people have any esteem for frugality, 
 they should try to do it honour by showing, 
 that it is not inconsistent with a becoming and 
 a generous spirit. I have heard very many 
 people accused of covetousness, and generally 
 hated, under that odious character, who per* 
 haps had no principle of that kind, and who 
 threw aw r ay, often, as much upon foolish ex- 
 pences, that had not struck them in the saving 
 view, as they pinched out of others, which 
 made them look paltry and mean in the eyes 
 of the world. Few people, I believe, are 
 heartily covetous throughout : and this makes 
 it so easy for them to flatter themselves, that 
 they are not tainted at all with a vice, the 
 very notion of which would affront them : and 
 for those in the other extreme, they too deceive 
 theselves in the same sort. Whence comes 
 the old proverb, 
 
 Penny ivise and Pound foolish. 
 
ESSAY VI. 
 
 On the Importance of Riches. 
 
 There are a great many things, that sound 
 mighty well in the declamatory way, and yet 
 have no sort of truth or justness, in them. 
 The equality between poverty and riches, or 
 rather, the superior advantages of the former, 
 is a pretty philosophical paradox, that I could 
 never comprehend. I will grant very readily, 
 that the short sleeps of a labouring man, are 
 full as sweet and wholesome as the slumbers 
 indulged upon down beds, and under gilded 
 roofs. I will readily confess, that let people 
 have never so many apartments, they can be 
 but in one at a time : and in a word, that the 
 luxury and pageantry, that riches bring with 
 them, is despicable, and infinitely less eligible, 
 than the simplicity of plainer life. It must be 
 owned too, that greatness and fortune, place 
 people in the midst of innumerable difficulties: 
 and that they are severely accountable for all 
 those advantages, they neglect to .improve. 
 But so 3 indeed, a man is a owe accountably 
 
Essay ri, 93 
 
 creature than a bog: and yet none but a 
 Gryllus, I believe, would prefer the situation 
 of the latter. 
 
 I do not say, that people should upon all 
 occasions, put themselves forward, and aspire 
 to those dangerous heights, which perhaps, 
 they were never formed to ascend. The fable 
 of Phaeton would be much more instructive 
 than such a lesson as this : but I would say, 
 and say it loudly, to all, whom heaven has 
 placed already in the midst of riches and ho- 
 nours, that they possess the highest privilege, 
 and ought to exert themselves accordingly. 
 These people have advantages of improving 
 their being to the noblest purposes : and with 
 the same deg'ree of pains and application, that 
 furnishes the poor artificer a daily provision 
 for himself, and his family, they may become 
 a kind of beneficent angels to their fellow- 
 creatures, and enjoy themselves, a happiness 
 superior to all pleasure. 
 
 It is a pretty thought of Seneca, that as a 
 merchant, whose goods are considerable, is 
 more sensible of the blessing of a fair wind, 
 and a safe passage, than he that has only bal- 
 last, or some coarse commodity in the vessel ; 
 so life is differently enjoyed by men, according 
 to the different freight of their minds. Those 
 
94 Essay vi. 
 
 of indigent fortunes are generally obliged to 
 have their's too much filled, with an attention 
 to provide the low necessaries of life. Indeed 
 riches and greatness are as strong an obstacle 
 as the other, to spending life in theory and 
 speculation : but it is, however nobler, and a 
 more delightful task to provide for the general 
 good of multitudes, than for the subsistence 
 of as few individuals. I speak of what riches 
 might be : God knows, not of what they are. 
 
 The rich, the great, who act an insignifi- 
 cant part in life, are the most despicable 
 wretches of the whole creation : while the 
 poor, the mean, the despised part of mankind, 
 who live up to the height of their capacity 
 and opportunities, are noble, venerable, and 
 happy. 
 
 Is it not amazing, that creatures so fond of 
 pre-eminence and distinction, so biassed by 
 interest, so dazzled by fortune, as all the race 
 of men are, should so blindly trample under 
 foot the only true advantages of fortune ? The 
 only pre-eminence, the only honour, the high- 
 est joy, the brightest lustre, that all those gay 
 things they pursue, could bestow upon them ? 
 Where is the beauty to be found, that will 
 choose to waste her youth where no eye can 
 behold her? Where is the man of wit that 
 
Essay vi« 95 
 
 will sit down contented with his own admira- 
 tion, and lock up his papers in a chest for his 
 own private reading? Yet the covetous man, 
 as far as in hi in lies, conceals the advantage 
 he is fondest of, and pats himself, as much as 
 possible, upon a level with that poverty he 
 despises. Good Heaven I that people should 
 not rather choose to lay hold on every honest 
 means, that can raise them into a kind of 
 superior being. Who would not go through 
 toil, and pain, and danger, to attain so glo- 
 rious a pre-eminence, an honour beyond the 
 Olympic crown of old. And yet it is but at 
 the expence of a little openness of heart, a 
 little thought and contrivance, a little honest 
 generous industry in bestowing properly, that 
 a man of rank and fortune may shine out like 
 the sun, and see a gay world flourishing under 
 his cheerful influence. 
 
 All these things have been said a hundred. 
 times. The miser has been painted in all his 
 unamiable colours : and the prodigal has had 
 his lecture too. But still, methinks, there is 
 a great deal wanting, and I do not know how 
 to express it. The indolent, the thoughtless 
 people of fortune, want to be put in mind 
 of their own importance. Some are so lazy, 
 some so careless, and some even so humble. 
 
96 Essay ri. 
 
 that they never once think of themselves as 
 having any place to fill, or any duty to per-* 
 form, beyond the immediate calls of domestic 
 life* Alas what a mistake is this ! and what 
 noble opportunities do they neglect ! 
 
 But what must people do ? They must 
 awaken in their minds that principle of acti- 
 vity and industry which is the source of every 
 thing excellent and praise-worthy, they should 
 exert themselves in every way, improve every 
 occasion, employ every moment. Let the 
 great survey the whole scene, the whole 
 sphere of their influence, as the master-farmer, 
 from a rising-ground, overlooks the whole of 
 his estate. The labouring hinds indeed are 
 confined to a spot : they have their daily task 
 appointed, and when that is done, may lay 
 them down to sleep without a further care. 
 But the master must wake, must consider and 
 deliberate. This spot of ground wants better 
 cultivation : that must be laid out to more ad- 
 vantage : a shade would be becoming here : 
 in yonder place I mean to lead the little ri- 
 vulet, that wanders near it, to refresh those 
 parched meadows. Those husbandmen should 
 be encouraged: these should be rewarded. — 
 A word, a look, a gesture from a superior, is 
 of importance. Thus might the rich, the 
 
Essay ri. 97 
 
 great, the powerful, consider in like manner. 
 " This part of my fortune will be nobly em- 
 " ployed in relieving the miserable : that, in 
 " works of public generosity: so much in 
 " procuring the agreeable ornaments of life: 
 " in this manner I may encourage the elegant 
 " arts : by this way I may set off my own 
 " character to the best advantage : and by 
 " making myself beloved and respected, I 
 " shall consequently gain an honest influence 
 " over such as may be bettered by my good 
 " example : my advice, my approbation will 
 " be useful in such a case : in this I may do 
 " honour to my country : in that" — Up and 
 employ yourselves, you who are lolling in 
 easy chairs, amusing away your lives over 
 French novels, wasting your time in fruitless 
 theory, or your fortunes in riotous excesses. 
 Remember, you have an important part to 
 act. It is in your own choice whether you 
 will be, the figure in the tapestry, the ani- 
 mated chair * or flower-pot, or the hero that 
 draws the whole attention of the theatre, and 
 goes off with a general plaudit. 
 
 * See Spectator, No. 22. 
 
 H 
 
ESSAY VIL 
 
 On Literary Composition. 
 
 Without at all pretending to criticism, it 
 is almost impossible to read a variety of books, 
 and not form some reflections on the variety of 
 style in which they are writ. One of the first 
 and most obvious, to me, is, that the plainest 
 and least ornamented style is ever the most 
 agreeable to that general taste, which is cer- 
 tainly the best rule, by which an author can 
 form himself. Particular ornaments will not 
 more please some fancies, than they will dis- 
 please others. The flowery epitheted way of 
 writing wearies the imagination, by presenting 
 it with a multitude of wrong objects, in way 
 of simile and illustration, before it has half 
 informed the understanding, of what was its 
 main purpose. 
 
 The human mind has so long a journey to 
 take, in search of knowledge, that it grows 
 peevish at being led out of the way, every 
 minute, to look at prospects, or gather daisies. 
 The original use of epithets was to paint ideas 
 5 
 
Essay rn> 99 
 
 stronger upon the mind, by a complication of 
 little circumstances : but, I know not how, of 
 late, they are grown into a sort of unintelligi- 
 ble language, that signifies nothing more to 
 the slightly attentive reader, than, that the 
 author has a mind to be poetical ; like those 
 Indian alphabets, which first were the plain 
 representation of sensible objects, from thence 
 grew into hieroglyphics, and last of all into a 
 mere cypher. 
 
 The common sort of metaphorical epithets 
 is very disagreeable. When we would in- 
 dulge our fancies with the idea of a cool limpid 
 running stream, to have a piece of crystal 
 thrown across one's way is quite provoking. 
 I remember two lines, in a very good poem, 
 that offended me, 
 
 and strew 
 
 Her silver tresses, in the crystal tide. 
 
 Would not the image be more natural, and 
 make less clatter in one's head, thus : 
 
 and strew 
 
 Her hoary lock, wide floating o'er the stream. 
 
 Gold and Jewels do not become the muse 
 
 herself, half so well, as an elegant simplicity,, 
 
 But elegant it must be, and noble, or else the 
 
 style of writing degenerates into mere chit-chat 
 
 L. h 2 
 
100 Essay ru. 
 
 conversation. Nor should a writer think it 
 any restraint, that he is obliged to attend to 
 the minutest strictness of grammar: since 
 whatever serves to make his composition most 
 clear and intelligible, contributes to the giving 
 it the greatest beauty it can possibly have. 
 For this reason, too long sentences, and the 
 intricacies of parentheses ought, by all means 
 to be avoided, however the sun-like genius of 
 some authors, may have gilded those clouds 
 into beauty. 
 
 This one rule of perspicuity will hold good, 
 for all sorts of people, from those of mere 
 business, to those of absolute speculation. 
 The next is, that writers put no constraint 
 upon their natural turn of mind, which will 
 always give a truer spirit than is within the 
 reach of any art. Yet often from an admira- 
 tion of that in others, which is utterly unsuit- 
 able to themselves, they put on a character in 
 writing, that is mighty difficult to support 
 throughout. The affectation of wit and 
 humour leads into that low burlesque, which 
 is, of all dulness, the most disagreeable. 
 Unable to reach the true sublime, they are 
 willing to bring it down to their own pitch. 
 Hence spring such multitudes of travesties, 
 parodies, and such like perversions of passages 
 
Essay vu. 101 
 
 really fine: when, if they can but present you 
 with low, and often dirty images instead of 
 such as are noble and beautiful, yet in such a 
 manner, as strongly to put you in mind of the 
 difference, all the way, they are greatly con- 
 ceited of their own ingenuity. Where any 
 of these have real humour in them, it must 
 arise from some particular occasion ; and is by 
 no means inherent in that kind of composi- 
 tion *. 
 
 But while little wits think, that lowering 
 and debasing the sublime, is being witty, 
 those, who with an exalted genius, have a 
 sportive liveliness of temper, can find means 
 of ennobling their easiest and lightest compo- 
 sitions. Of all people Mr. Prior has succeeded 
 the best, in this way, if he had not, now and 
 then, allowed his pen too much licence- for the 
 demureness of the muse. As Homer's dreams 
 were the dreams of Jupiter, so Prior's gaieties 
 are the sportings of Apollo : and where he in- 
 
 * Such also was the opinion of her friend Mrs. Carter, 
 who had so great a dislike to parodies and travesties that 
 she could rarely be persuaded to read them, and when she 
 did received no amusement from them. She used to say 
 that they shewed a squint or perversion of mind in the 
 author, which hindered him from seeing the beautiful or 
 sublime in its true colours . 
 
102 Essay vu. 
 
 troduces his fabled deities, in a mirthful scene, 
 it is not by depressing them to the level of 
 merry mortals, but by employing (to use the 
 phrase of an excellent modern author) " a 
 " new r species of the sublime that has, hitherto, 
 " received no name." 
 
 There is a celebrated passage in Longinus, 
 in which he prefers, upon the whole, a mix- 
 ture of striking faults and beauties, to the flat 
 correctness of an uncensurable, laboured au- 
 thor. One of the books which, to those, who 
 for want of translations can know little of. 
 Isocrates and Demosthenes, has most convin- 
 cingly proved the justness of this determina- 
 tion, is Dr. Barrow's Sermons, who seems 
 most exactly to answer what Longinus says 
 of the irresistible Greek orator. His ex- 
 pressions are frequently singular, and though 
 crouded together, are so poured out from the 
 abundance of one of the best hearts, that the 
 finest turned periods are insipid in comparison. 
 His genius too, whatever were the littlenesses 
 of language, in those days, was certainly 
 poetical and noble: and his imagination so 
 warmed and delighted with the fairest view 
 of every thing in the scheme of Providence, 
 that religion wears, through every page of 
 his, its proper grace. 
 
ESSAY VIIL 
 
 On Prior's Henry and Emma, 
 
 To enliven an airing, the other morning, 
 Prior's Henry and Emma was read aloud to the 
 company : and the different sentiments they 
 exprest upon it, determined me, to put down 
 my own upon paper, as that Poem has always 
 been a favourite with me, and yet wants, I 
 think, a good deal of explanation, and ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 The tale is introduced, in a way so much 
 more interesting, than one commonly meets 
 with, in pastoral dialogues; with circumstances 
 of such tenderness and delicacy, and images 
 so smiling and engaging, that one is concerned, 
 before his characters have said a word, to have 
 them keep up to the ideas, which partial ima- 
 gination has formed of each. That of Emma 
 is distinguished by something so peculiarly 
 mild and affectionate, that if we do not attend 
 to this, as her chief characteristic,, we shall 
 be apt to be surprized at many of her most 
 
104 Essay vm. 
 
 beautiful sentiments, as too different from the 
 common ways of thinking on such occasions. 
 
 Emma susceptible of soft impressions, be- 
 yond what were to be wished in a character, 
 where it set up for a general pattern, her 
 soul entirely turned to those tender attach- 
 ments, that are not inconsistent with strict 
 virtue, had long been wooed with every irre- 
 sistible art by an accomplished youth, whose 
 virtues and excellencies could not but discover 
 themselves in such a space of time, on a 
 thousand occasions. By the characters given 
 on each side, their passions seems to have 
 been grounded on a just esteem : and the 
 known truth, and goodness of Henry, had 
 produced in her mind, such an unlimited con- 
 fidence, that it was impossible she could sus- 
 pect him of any crime. To try her constancy, 
 he accuses himself, in the harshest terms, as a 
 murderer : but it was easy for Emma's heart 
 to furnish him with sufficient excuses. The 
 wild unsettled state of the island, in those 
 early times, torn by so many, and so fierce 
 factions, involved the young and brave, in 
 perpetual bloodshed. What was called valour 
 in one party, would, in the other, be branded 
 as murder. In those days, the vast forests 
 
Essay rm. 105 
 
 were filled with generous outlaws: and the 
 brave mixt with the vile, from a likeness of 
 fortune, not of crimes *. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this, because, at first 
 reading, it offended me to imagine, that Emma 
 should be so unmoved with a supposition of 
 her lover's guilt, and continue her affection, 
 when she must have lost her esteem. That 
 point, I think, is now cleared up : but I am 
 extremely sorry, that to prevent all scandal, 
 Prior did not alter a few lines, in the answer 
 she makes him, to his open declaration of 
 inconstancy. In spite of all prejudice, there 
 is certainly a want of all spirit and delicacy in 
 it. If what he told her was fact, he could not 
 be faultless, nor could her affection continue 
 to be innocent. The same mild benevolence 
 to her rival, might surely have been exprest 
 without the extravagance of desiring to attend 
 
 * An ingenious conjecture of Dr. Whitaker, that Henry 
 Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, was the hero of" the 
 " Nut-brown Maid," cannot be supported, because that 
 ballad was printed in 1502, when Henry Clifford was only 
 nine years of age. There is however some reason to sup- 
 pose that his father Henry, Lord Clifford, might be the 
 Poet's Henry. For this curious and interesting enquiry, 
 see Censura Literaria, Vol. VII. Article XX. 
 
106 Essay vm. 
 
 them as a servant. Permit me to insert the 
 alteration here. 
 
 " Go then, while I, in hopeless absence prove 
 
 " By what I shall endure, how much I love." 
 
 This potent beauty, this triumphant fair, 
 
 This happy object of our different care, 
 
 Her shall my thoughts, thro' various life attend, 
 
 With all the kindness of the fondest friend : 
 
 Lov'd for thy sake, howe'er her haughty scorn 
 
 May triumph o'er me as a thing forlorn ; 
 
 For her my warmest ivishes shall be made, 
 
 And Heav'n implor'd for blessings on her head. 
 
 O may she never feel a pain, like mine ! 
 
 Never — for then a double guilt were thine. 
 
 Here must I stay : like thought, were actions free "} 
 
 No wrongs, no hardships should divorce from thee > 
 
 Thy Emma, — not a rival's company. J 
 
 But wandering thoughts, and anxious cares are now 
 
 All that a rigid virtue will allow. 
 
 Go happy then, forget the wretch you leave, 
 Nor for a woman's weakness vainly grieve. 
 Thy fate decreed thee false : the same decree 
 Entail'd a hopeless constancy on me. 
 
 The few following lines, in the same speech 
 are so easily adapted to these, that the change 
 in them is not worth mentioning. 
 
 There is something infinitely beautiful in 
 all the tender passages of this Poet. He has 
 the art of representing all the softness of the 
 passion, without any of its madness. Other 
 
Essay vm. 107 
 
 writers raise their expressions, with such 
 hyperboles, as are a profanation of much 
 nobler sentiments. Methinks softness and 
 tenderness are the only characteristics of a 
 mortal love. The strains of adoration ill 
 become Anacreon's lyre : and are ill addrest 
 to human imperfection. Those imagined 
 everlasting attachments, that rebel against 
 mortality ; those infinite ideas, that grasp at 
 all excellence, in one finite object, are fatal 
 absurdities, that have both their guilt and 
 punishment. 
 
 This kind of sentiment is quite unnecessary : 
 we may survey those we love, surrounded with 
 all the frailties and imperfections of human 
 nature, and yet be partial to these imper- 
 fections, as we are to our own. Pity does but 
 endear the tender tie, where it is not incom- 
 patible with esteem. The pleasures of giving 
 and receiving, from the dear object of affection, 
 mutual protection, comfort and relief, are the 
 joys that we are formed most sensible of, as 
 such a disposition was, in our present situation, 
 most necessary for the preservation, and 
 happiness of society. 
 
 The expressions of this kind of sentiment 
 are, on the other hand, as offensively misused, 
 when applied to sacred subjects, as they 
 
108 Essay pin. 
 
 too often are by the soft enthusiasm of consti- 
 tutional Pietists *. Of human love, kindness, 
 compassion, mutual care, mutual assistance, 
 mutual forgiveness of a thousand little ble- 
 mishes and errors, are necessary ingredients, 
 have their merit, and their reward. All that 
 refined caprice, that shows its kindness, like 
 Alicia in Jane Shore. 
 
 u In everlasting wailings, and complainings," 
 
 is as contrary to this system, as it is to the 
 happiness of whoever is honoured by its perse- 
 cution : and proceeds from a failure, in point 
 of confidence, which when once the honour 
 of a character, justly esteemed worthy, is 
 seriously engaged, should remain unshaken as 
 a rock. This is prettily exprest, by Prior's 
 Celia, 
 
 Reading thy verse, who heeds, said I, 
 
 If here, or there, hisglances flew, 
 O free for ever be his eye, 
 
 Whose heart to me is ever true. 
 
 Another great, as great a contradiction to 
 the amiable kind of temper, that Prior de- 
 
 * Surely this opinion ought to have much weight, when 
 proceeding from a writer of such uniform and acknow- 
 ledged piety : and they who talk of loving their Saviour, 
 in such terms as they would use concerning their fellow- 
 creatures, would do well to consider it. 
 
Essay riti. 109 
 
 scribes, is that violent detestation upon even 
 just cause of offence, which so much too often 
 verifies the poet's expression, 
 
 Heaven has no curse, like love to hatred turn'd, 
 Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd. 
 
 The hatred of anger can justly proceed only 
 from injury Real, premeditated injury can 
 proceed from no such character, as could ever 
 be the object of a well-placed love : and there- 
 fore, in this last, the injury retaliates on a per- 
 son's own mistaken choice : who has there- 
 fore no more reason to be angry with the 
 other, for not acting up to an ideal perfection, 
 than to be displeased at any other instance of 
 wrong behaviour in those, who never were 
 the objects of any just partiality. 
 
 But if the character be mixt, faulty indeed, 
 but not totally bad, pity methinks should gladly 
 take hold on the occasion, and banish, at 
 once, all bitterness of resentment. Religion 
 itself forbids the spirit of uncharitable anger 
 and revenge. When there has ever been a 
 real affection *, it can never, I fancy, be so 
 
 * If Miss Talbot be right, this may be the proof of the 
 reality of the affection ; but it is a proof which cannot be 
 given, till the affection has been shewn to be misplaced by 
 the injury suffered. 
 
110 Essay rui, 
 
 rooted out, as to give place to those hateful 
 emotions. 
 
 Whoever then yield up their minds to these 
 excesses, must confess their former partiality 
 to have been founded merely in pride, vanity, 
 and selfishness: for kindness and benevolence 
 will never cease to exist, whilst their objects 
 remain, in any degree unchanged. If those 
 objects were only our dear selves, every dis- 
 appointment of our pride, interest, and vanity, 
 will wound us to the heart. But if our 
 thoughts had a more generous aim, if the 
 happiness of one dearer than ourselves, was 
 the centre of our wishes, we shall joyfully 
 acquiesce in any means, by which that happi- 
 ness may be attained, laying ourselves entirely 
 out of the case : and should the injury to us, 
 be ever so grievous, we shall only wish for 
 them, with the same diisnterested ardour, 
 Aristides did for the Athenians, who had 
 banished him, that the time may never come, 
 when they shall repent it *. 
 
 * It may perhaps admit of a doubt whether such perfec- 
 tion of disinterested attachment be ever really felt, and still 
 subsist after the circumstances that caused it have ceased 
 to exist. Possibly the feeling in Aristides' heart, very 
 contrary to his words, might be the hope that a time would 
 come when the Athenians should repent of their conduct 
 
ESSAY IX. 
 
 On the Separation of Friends by Death. 
 
 I know nothing more common, and almost: 
 unavoidable, than the disposition of censuring 
 those manners and inclinations in others, 
 which we are sensible would, in our own 
 tempers, be faulty, or which lie cross to the 
 bent of our natural humours. Yet I am per- 
 suaded, in many of these instances, were we 
 to make but common allowances for the 
 difference of constitution, of situation, of know- 
 ledge, and of perception, we should find, ac- 
 cording to a good-natured French saying, 
 that tout le monde a raison. 
 
 That tenderness, which we feel for a true 
 friend, is, in some minds, so inseparably 
 blended with every idea, that the dearer half 
 of every enjoyment is liable to be torn away 
 at once, and the stroke of a moment shall 
 cast its gloom over the longest years of life. 
 Kindness and gratitude, the very laws of con- 
 stancy, and the frame of human nature, seem 
 to exact of us this melancholy return, for all 
 
112 Essay ix. 
 
 that refined and superior happiness, which in 
 such an union, we have enjoyed. 
 
 I cannot help imagining, however, that 
 there may be a good deal of reason on the 
 contrary side : and as one never is so sensible 
 of the force of reason, as when it is heightened 
 by the eloquence of some present feeling; so 
 this came most strongly into my head, during 
 some solitary hours of illness, that very lately 
 put me in mind of such an eternal separation 
 from my friends. The enjoyments of life are 
 what, I believe, all persons of serious thought, 
 would easily resign for themselves, when they 
 are sure, at the same time, to be freed from its 
 disquiets. But, to think that we may carry 
 away with us, into the grave, all the joy and 
 satisfaction of those, to whom we ever wish the 
 most ; and leave them behind us, in a world 
 where every support is wanting, entirely desti- 
 tute of any (of any such, I mean, as the ordinary 
 methods of Providence have appointed) is the 
 only reflection, which, at such a moment, can 
 disturb the composure of an innocent and 
 religious mind. 
 
 I do not know how far the pride of giving 
 pain may extend, in some people, but for 
 myself I protest, that as earnestly as I wish to 
 be remembered with a kind esteem, I could 
 
Essay ix. 113 
 
 not bear the thought of that remembrance 
 being a painful one. For this reason, I was 
 summoning up, in my mind, all that might 
 be alledged, for what I used to eall lightness 
 of temper, and found it much more, than I 
 had imagined. 
 
 Indeed, if the persons we lament, were 
 truly dear to us, we ought for their sakes, to 
 restrain that immoderate sorrow, which, if 
 they could behold it, we are sure, that it 
 would be with the utmost concern. This, 
 however, is an argument, that will by no 
 means hold, in all cases : but there are others 
 more general. I will not argue that so- short 
 a life, as ours, seems to contradict the idea of 
 eternal attachments : because I cannot help 
 flattering myself that they may be continued, 
 and improved through every state of being*. 
 But that they ought to be so moderated, as to 
 contradict no purpose of the state, we are at 
 present placed in, is a truth, that will scarcely 
 be denied. The inferiority of our station, the 
 frailty and imperfection of our nature, make 
 submission to unerring wisdom, one of our 
 first duties : and how do we set ourselves up, 
 
 * Mrs. Garter seems to have been of the same opinion. 
 — See the Memoirs of her Life, First Edition, page 473. 
 
114 Essay ix. 
 
 in opposition to it, when upon withdrawing 
 any one blessing, however kindly to us, we 
 stubbornly determine to shut our minds 
 against every other, which it indulgently con- 
 tinues ! 
 
 Yet after all these considerations, the cha- 
 racters of Arachne and Maria still surpass 
 me, though they no longer give me the disgust 
 they used to do. To hear them talk, with 
 the greatest good nature of any present object 
 of compassion, otherwise ever so indifferent 
 to them : to see how really they are affected 
 by every little instance of kindness, and how 
 happy they are in every trifling amusement, 
 one would imagine them extremely susceptible 
 of impressions. But then, in the midst of a 
 gay conversation, to hear them run over, 
 without the least emotion, a long list of once 
 intimate friends, and then go on as earnestly 
 about trifles, as if such people had never been. 
 — It is impossible not to wonder at their happy 
 constitutions, and eternal flow of spirits. 
 When I tell you, I really esteem these women, 
 shall I be reckoned severe, if I say they are 
 ingenious, without parts, and good humoured, 
 without sentiments ? 
 
 Theagenes is scarcely less happy, in his 
 frame of mind, but more so, in his strength 
 
Essay ix. 115 
 
 of reason. His genius is the most extensive, 
 his imagination the most flowery that can be: 
 and these supply perpetual employments for 
 his mind, diverting it from too deep an atten- 
 tion to melancholy subjects. His temper is 
 really generous and benevolent: this makes 
 him interested in every body's welfare, that 
 comes within his reach : and such an activity 
 of mind is the surest food of cheerfulness. As 
 some people are peculiarly turned to amuse 
 themselves with the oddnesses and deformities 
 of natures, Theagenes has an eye for its 
 beauties only. His speculations wander over 
 the great objects of the universe, and find 
 something curious, in the detail even of me- 
 chanic arts. In characters, he often errs on 
 the favourable side ; and by this means, some- 
 times loses too much, the distinction of different 
 kinds of merit, and subjects himself to a 
 friendly laugh. As he looks upon the world 
 with a philosophic, and a grateful eye, he 
 can find something endearing, in whatever 
 part of it he is placed ; like a strong plant 
 that will take root and flourish, in every soil. 
 When one set of acquaintance is swept away, 
 by time, his social temper unites itself with 
 the next, he falls into ; and is to be considered 
 
116 Essay ix. 
 
 in this view, like a drop of water, which, 
 though separated from its native stream, yet 
 naturally blends with any other mass of the 
 same element, while disunited it would lose 
 its use, and its very being. 
 
ESSAY X. 
 
 On Self-Love. 
 
 It is a reigning maxim, through all the 
 works of Epictetus % that every body may be 
 happy if they please : and the desire of being 
 happy, is but in other words, the definition of 
 such a virtuous and reasonable self-love, as 
 was originally implanted in us, by the Author 
 of our nature, for innumerable wise and 
 gracious purposes. No part of our consti- 
 tution was given us, without important reason: 
 and therefore it were folly to suppose this of 
 so essential a one as self-love : but how often 
 it errs, in its aim, and in its degree, there 
 needs no instance to prove ; nor that when it 
 does so, it is of all other principles the most 
 mischievous, as it is ever the most active. 
 
 Violent declamations, either for, or against 
 any thing of the great frame of nature, serve 
 
 * This Essay therefore must have been written after 
 the year 1752, in which Mrs. Carter finished her transla- 
 tion of the works of that Philosopher, which she sent to 
 her friend in manuscript. — See her Memoirs, p. 119, 
 1st edition. 
 
118 Essay x. 
 
 but to shew an injudicious eloquence, which 
 by proving too much, in effect proves abso- 
 lutely nothing. Even passion may be im- 
 proved into merit*: and virtues themselves 
 may deviate into blameable errors. Unbiassed 
 reason, if such a thing there be, in this mixt 
 state of human nature, surveys both sides at 
 once, and teaches us to moderate our opinions, 
 to draw the proper advantages, from every 
 circumstance, and carefully to guard against 
 all its dangers. 
 
 The same principle of self-love, that adds 
 new fire and strength to every passion, when 
 the loose reign is given up to fancy, at other 
 times checks our indulgence of those passions, 
 and pursuits, by making us reflect on the 
 danger, and pain, that attends them. The 
 same tie, that so closely binds us down to our 
 own interest, makes us sympathize, in the 
 fortunes of our fellow-creatures. By self-love 
 
 * In passion itself, abstractedly considered, is neither 
 merit nor demerit. It is either the reward of virtue from 
 the delight which attends the practice of it, or else it is 
 the means to an end. If regulated by duty and principle, 
 it leads to good, and to the enjoy men t of the gratifying 
 feelings resulting from it; if improperly indulged, it be- 
 comes the handmaid to every vice, the inlet to every mi= 
 sery. 
 
Essay x. 1 1 9 
 
 we learn to pity in others, what we dread, or 
 fear for ourselves. In this balance we weigh 
 their distresses with our own : and what self- 
 love has shown us, under the name of such, 
 to ourselves, we shall always suppose the 
 same to every one else, and kindly commiser- 
 ate the sorrows we have felt. 
 
 Self-love endears virtue to us, by the tender- 
 ness it gives us, for whatever degree of it we 
 perceive in ourselves : and in the same way, 
 makes us look with a peculiar charity on those, 
 whose faults are of the same kind with ours. 
 Every body has, I believe, a favourite virtue, 
 and a favoured weakness, which being first 
 used to in themselves, they are sure to give 
 quarter and applause to, in every one else. 
 By this partiality, particular friendships are 
 generally determined. 
 
 There is a lower degree of it, which would 
 be quite ridiculous, if that too had not its va- 
 luable use in connecting human kind together. 
 As we grow any way acquainted with people, 
 though sometimes it is only by character, 
 sometimes even by some circumstance of no 
 more signification, than having sat at the same 
 table: received, or paid some trilling mark of 
 civility, nay even having it to say, that we 
 have seen them, we assume a kind of pro- 
 
120 Essay x. 
 
 perty in them. Such is the importance, 
 which the least connexion, with our dear 
 selves, can give to whatever we please, that 
 if we have seen people, but one single time, it 
 makes often a wide difference in our way of 
 attending to what is said about them. Re- 
 collect but any conversation you have been 
 in, where persons though of very little conse- 
 quence, have been talked of, and I dare say 
 you may remember, that two or three of the 
 company, immediately fell to recollecting such 
 idle circumstances in their knowledge of them, 
 as could receive no value, but from that 
 knowledge itself. 
 
 This disposition, I think, shows how much 
 we were intended to mix in life : and it must 
 be a strong reason, that will draw the same 
 advantages for practice, from the enlarged 
 views, given by reading and speculation, which 
 even the commonest understandings are titled 
 to receive, from their natural constitution. 
 If these are neglected, we fall into a thousand 
 faults, of which every one carries its own 
 punishment along with it. People who con- 
 fine themselves strictly, to a small circle of 
 acquaintance, are in great danger of contract- 
 ing a narrowness of mind : while those, who 
 enter freely into society, gain by it such an 
 
" Essay x. 121 
 
 ease, and openness of temper, as makes them 
 look upon every interest and pleasure, to be 
 in some degree, their own. 
 
 The great, who live immured, as it were, 
 within the inclosures of their vast possessions, 
 look upon those of a lower rank, as inhabitants 
 of a distant world from themselves. If ever 
 they have any thing to do with them, it is 
 matter of constraint and uneasiness, and 
 therefore never can be done with a good 
 grace. Their sentiments and amusements, 
 are something delicate and mysterious, that 
 the vulgar are not supposed capable of appre- 
 hending, but are to be kept at an awful dis- 
 tance, which, if ever they leave, it is insuffer- 
 able intrusion. 
 
 All distinct sets of people are apt to consider 
 themselves as separate from the rest of man- 
 kind. Hence the perpetual enmities and 
 prejudices of different professions : hence the 
 continual opposition of parties, sects, and 
 ages : hence the general censures, thrown at 
 random, on all. When once what we have 
 censured and laughed at, comes to be our 
 own case, we learn to make those reasonable 
 allowances, that, before, we never so much as 
 thought of. 
 
 A beauty, that has been severely used by 
 
122 Essay x. 
 
 the small-pox, learns to esteem people, for 
 something more than the person. A misre- 
 presented character can allow a great deal 
 for the uncharitableness of people's opinions, 
 and think mildly of a blemished one. The 
 age, which at fifteen, seemed almost antedi- 
 luvian, grows strangely supportable, as we 
 approach it : and Lysis, in an airy dress, no 
 longer ridicules people that go without hoods, 
 after thirty.— I grow trifling. This subject 
 of self-love, affords matter of serious reflection 
 and gratitude. It is surely one of the greatest 
 marks of infinite wisdom, that what, at first 
 sight, may seem only to regard ourselves, is 
 one of the strongest ties to social virtue : and 
 that the very attention to others, which should 
 seem most contrary to our first notions of self- 
 love, is indeed, the truest support, and most 
 rational pursuit of it, and which alone can 
 preserve it from degenerating into miserable 
 weakness and folly. 
 
 Man, like the gen'rous vine, supported lives, 
 
 The strength he gains is from the embrace he gives. 
 
 On their own axis, as the planets run, 
 
 Yet make at once, their circle round the sun. 
 
 So two consistent motions act the soul, 
 
 And one regards itself, and one the whole. 
 
 Thus God and nature link'd the general frame, 
 And had self-love, and social be the same. 
 
 Pope, 
 
ESSAY XL 
 
 On the Principle of Self-interest as applied to 
 Education. 
 
 I was making a visit the other day, to peo- 
 ple, that passed for what are called your very 
 sensible clever folks. They have a large fa- 
 mily of children, of whom they seem fond 
 without indulgence : and to he sure they edu- 
 cate them mighty well. Who is more capable 
 of doing it? They are prudent, have good 
 sense, and know a great deal of the world : but 
 alas, it is this knowledge of the world, as they 
 call it, that spoils every thing. " Come hither, 
 u my dear," (said the lady of the house to a 
 little girl about five years old, who was crying 
 to go out of the room almost as soon as she 
 came in) " come hither Lucy. Look ye my 
 " dear, if you will behave yourself prettily, 
 " and go and talk to all the company, papa 
 " will give you a fine new doll to-morrow." — 
 This you may be sure, stopt the crying for the 
 present. But what will be the effect of it? 
 Every time Miss Lucy wants a new plaything, 
 she has onlv to misbehave herself, and she is 
 
124 Essay xr. 
 
 Sure of being bribed into good humour again. 
 Thus by an excess of good management in 
 her mamma, the little gipsy will be taught to be 
 artful and peevish, at an age, whose greatest 
 ornament is innocence and good humour. 
 
 Two or three instances more, of the same 
 kind of prudence, had quite awakened my 
 sincerity, and I could not forbear speaking of 
 it, with the freedom of an old acquaintance, 
 as soon as the more formal part of the circle 
 Was dispersed. * My dear," (replied Pru- 
 dentia, with a compassionate kind of smile) 
 u you have lived in the clouds, all your days, 
 ic and I am sorry to see you are not out of 
 u them yet. For my part, who have long 
 " been sensible, that it is upon this earth, and 
 " not up in the air, that I am to act my part 
 " in life, I confess, nothing seems more 
 " natural to me, than that children should be 
 " taught to follow the same motive, by which 
 " they are sure to be actuated all the rest of 
 " their lives." — Can you possibly mean so low 
 a motive as interest? said I. — " I certainly 
 " do. For as low as you think it, you must 
 li be sensible, if you reflect a moment, that it 
 4f is what we all of us pursue. Those, who 
 " give up their happiness, in the present state, 
 ft with the most disinterested air, do it only 
 
Essay xi. 125 
 
 a to intitle themselves to the blessings of a 
 " future ones" 
 
 Supposing that this was the case, interrupted 
 I, the nature of the rewards, in these two in- 
 stances,, is so very different, that it would 
 hinder you from drawing any inferences from 
 them, in favour of your own scheme. If the 
 greatness, or gaieties of this world were to be 
 our recompence, I should think, that to reward 
 a child with a doll, or a hobby-horse, were 
 framing its mind to proper expectations and 
 desires — but will you let me talk a little upon 
 subjects, that are certainly above my reach? 
 — O by all means, answered Prudentia, Cle- 
 mene was not to call upon me till eight, and I 
 shall be mighty glad to hear your romance of 
 education, in the mean time. I dare sav it 
 will be pretty : but you will find it a mere 
 romance, I am persuaded, ten years hence, 
 when you have a family of your own. — Well, 
 be that, as it will : you have given me leave to 
 talk, and this is all I have to do at present. 
 
 I was going to say, continued I, that I 
 cannot help imagining, that a great part of 
 our happiness, in a future state, may arise 
 from a sense of right, abstractedly from all 
 other considerations. That, at least, as much 
 of it will proceed from the thought, of having 
 
126 Essay xr. 
 
 acted agreeably to the infallible will of the 
 most perfect of beings, as from that of having 
 deserved the favour of the lord of the universe, 
 and from the hopes of any happiness, which 
 infinite goodness and power may bestow on 
 us. In short it seems to me, as if to contri- 
 bute, each in our inferior way, to the order 
 and beauty of the universe, was at once the 
 noblest, and the justest motive, and the high- 
 est reward of goodness. 
 
 " Lucia is not old enough to enter into all 
 " these abstracted reasonings," saidPrudentia* 
 " In our world, we must treat children, as 
 " children, and convince them by their senses, 
 " in default of their judgments. I do not 
 " know what people may do in Fairy land. 
 " I suppose, if you had a son, you would ex- 
 " pect, he should be divinity Professor at five 
 " years old : but I am afraid, Lucy would 
 " not be at all a fit wife for him." 
 
 Look ye, said I, you shall not laugh me 
 out of my argument : and so arm yourself with 
 patience, and hear me out. Your supposition 
 is an excellent good one : but I am afraid, I 
 shall be less mistaken, in supposing, that a 
 child, who has been taught no other end in 
 behaving itself well, than the gaining some 
 favourite point, or some darling toy, will 
 5 
 
Essay xi. 127 
 
 never make a disinterested minister, will 
 never regard the reality of virtue, and will be 
 ready to throw off even the appearance of it, 
 when it is contradictory to interest. 
 
 " But must one never give a poor child any 
 " encouragement then ?" cried Prudentia. 
 
 You mistake me entirely, said I, let good 
 behaviour be always attended by reward ; but 
 you make it the consequence of bad behaviour. 
 As for the particular rewards of toys and 
 sugar-plumbs, I confess myself, in general, 
 no great friend to them. The approbation of 
 friends is a better incentive to act right ; and 
 gives, even to such children, a pleasure of a 
 much higher kind. These should be m xed, 
 however, in a proper degree: and certainly 
 even the last ought not to be too much insisted 
 on. The notion of doing right, for the sake 
 of doing right, should be gently inculcated, 
 and strengthened by degrees, as they advance 
 in age, and understanding. This will settle, 
 in time, into a firm and stedfast Tightness of 
 mind, which interest shall never bias, which 
 adversity shall never shake, which prosperity 
 shall never enervate. From hence will pro- 
 ceed a calm and even cheerfulness of temper, 
 a regular and uniform conduct, that shall 
 make them for ever happy in themselves, and 
 
128 Essay xi. 
 
 respected by others. Not the wild gaiety of 
 one hour, damped by uneasy reflections., the 
 next: not a perpetual dispute, between reason 
 and passion, which makes people good by fits 
 and starts only. Miserable is the state of 
 these : and yet perhaps it is almost always the 
 effect of their not knowing, from the first, 
 what end to aim at. Interest and ambition 
 attract them, by a thousand glittering temp- 
 tations : and yet, in spite of all these, in the 
 midst of their pursuit, they feel themselves 
 often checked by the secret monitor in the 
 heart, who tells them, we were formed for 
 something nobler than greatness, and that, 
 neither riches nor pleasures are the chief end 
 of life. 
 
 But what is this nobler end ? Perhaps it is 
 the applause of men, the immortality, which 
 fame bestows, or at least, the pleasure of 
 being w r eli looked on, and esteemed by the 
 people among whom we live. — Fatal ima- 
 gination ! Source of wild and mischievous 
 exploits, of wars and desolations : and, in less 
 noble minds, the origin of hypocrisy, and 
 every hateful deceit. To look upon the respect 
 and admiration of men, as the ultimate end 
 of life, is, perhaps, one of the most dangerous 
 errors, into which we can fall. While it is 
 
Essay xi. 129 
 
 the perfection of a character to pay a proper 
 regard to it, to rejoice in it as the amiable 
 attendant of real virtue : but to be willing to 
 sacrifice the fairest appearance, to what is 
 really right: and bear the contempt of man- 
 kind, rather than not deserve their esteem. 
 
ESSAY XII. 
 
 On the Distinction between Canning and 
 Prudence. 
 
 Lord Bacon has an Essay upon cunning, 
 lhat if it falls into wrong hands, is more likely 
 to teach people sleights and devices, than to 
 furnish a warning against them *. And yet 
 the Essay is, in itself, excellent ; but methinks 
 it were time well bestowed to make a just dis^ 
 tinction between cunning and prudence, a 
 blameable artfulness, and a laudable dex- 
 terity. To fix the bounds of these two bor- 
 derers and determine the nice difference, 
 
 *' Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice/' 
 
 To exercise the authority of superior reason 
 and understanding, to make use of their law- 
 ful advantages, can surely be no fault. On 
 the contrary, it is making the best of our na- 
 
 * Swift's Advice to Servants is liable to the same objec- 
 tion. 
 
Essay xn. 131 
 
 tare, and employing faculties that were not 
 intended to lie idle. It is by reason and un- 
 derstanding, that human kind are superior to 
 brutes of infinitely greater strength and force 
 of body, and the same sort of difference sub- 
 sists among men. A brutal nature is to be 
 considered in the same light, whether the 
 animal it governs, go upon two legs or four, 
 only in our behaviour towards the brutes of 
 our own kind, we have this additional consi- 
 deration, that there is, at the same time, a 
 mixture of something divine and excellent in 
 every human soul, which claims strongly our 
 assistance, in subduing that worse half, so 
 prevalent in the many. Thus, those who by 
 wisdom lead others less wise, to act wisely, 
 not only make them, as inferior natures, sub« 
 servient to excellent purposes, but at the same 
 time, do them a real and important good, and 
 raise them above what they were. When, by 
 innocent arts, we soothe an uneasy temper ; 
 when, by suspending the impetuosity of a 
 person's passion, we give him leisure to recall 
 his reason, we do but free him from the worst 
 of tyrants, and defend the good and reason- 
 able man, within him, from the hasty influ- 
 ence of the madman. 
 
 But to do evil, that good may Qome of it, 
 k2 
 
132 Essay xn* 
 
 nothing can ever make allowable *i The 
 moment we deviate from truth and integrity, 
 our very best intentions are all poisoned and 
 perverted. 
 
 To learn what we can, by an acute ob~ 
 servation of the countenances and manners of 
 those with whom we are concerned, is certainly 
 a very blameless point of wisdom. To pry 
 into their secret thoughts, uninterested, and 
 only to betray them, is the baseness of heark- 
 ening at doors, and looking in at windows. 
 
 The cunningly preventing objections to 
 any thing, we have a mind should succeed, 
 by unfairly withdrawing the attention of per- 
 sons from it, can only be allowable, in cases 
 of great exigence, or in absolute trifles. Mere 
 humour is a thing, that we are at liberty to 
 controul and guide, in what way we please : 
 but when the case is of importance, we are 
 scarcely fit judges, if it touches ourselves, 
 whether we are at liberty to deceive another, 
 
 * So also thought St, Paul ; but some modern moral 
 Philosophers have been of a different opinion, and by 
 stating extreme cases, and arguing from supposed cir- 
 cumstances which never have existed, and probably never 
 can take place, have strangely confounded right and 
 wrong, and done much mischief to persons unused to 
 metaphysical reasoning . 
 
Essay xu. 133 
 
 to what, we may think, ever so good an end. 
 If it is a person, over whom we have 
 any authority, the case is somewhat clearer. 
 Madness and folly we have a right to govern, 
 founded in the utter incapacity of those, who 
 are thus governed : and the point is indisputa- 
 ble, that children may be cheated into health, 
 with a sugared portion : and that to steal 
 away the sword of a distracted person, or 
 humour his frenzy, till we have secured him, 
 is no theft or deceit. 
 
 But to surprize any person's reason is 
 utterly unjustifiable: and be the end we pro- 
 pose ever so good, the means is most detesta- 
 ble. If people will not make a right use of 
 leisure and reflection, their fault is great : but 
 if we do not allow them both, ours is much 
 greater- 
 All hypocrisy is hateful and despicable: 
 but there certainly are infinite cases, where 
 others have no right to know our private 
 thoughts and resolutions. Reserve is always 
 allowable. Where we go a step farther, it is 
 accompanied with a kind of shame that is suf- 
 ficient to instruct us. Yet sometimes, to be 
 sure, we may put on an appearance of some- 
 thing better than we are, as showing a disdain 
 of our present imperfections, and provided we 
 put this on, with a real intention and aim of 
 
134 Essay xn. 
 
 rising 1 to the mark we have set. But any 
 appearance contrary to what we are in our 
 hearts and wishes, is vile. 
 
 Once again : people's humours we may, 
 nay ought to soothe and wind, and govern, 
 as we best can : for humour is the childishness 
 of the mind: reason its maturity, and children 
 ought to submit to the direction of grown 
 persons. These are the little arts that huma- 
 nize society, and give it a pleasing and a 
 gentle air. But to work upon people's weak* 
 ness, to take advantage of their simplicity, to 
 side with their passions, for our own purposes 
 • — this is that monstrous policy, which is the 
 wisdom of this world, and the foolishness of a 
 better. 
 
 To introduce any perplexing subject in the 
 easiest maimer, provided our intention be a 
 good one, is but using fit means to a laudable 
 end. But let all have a care how they grow 
 too fond of their own ingenuity and dexterity, 
 in managing even laudable undertakings : the 
 step is too easy to a low sort of cunning, that 
 is as far from the true sublime of virtue, as 
 any species of false wit is from the true sublime 
 in writing. 
 
 Most comedies are very pernicious in this 
 way. They turn upon a thousand little stra- 
 tagems and intrigues, that even when they 
 
Essay xn. 135 
 
 are innocent tend strangely to corrupt the 
 amiable simplicity of an honest mind. 
 
 True taste in every thing is plainness and 
 simplicity, the least deviation from nature that 
 is possible ; for that is very consistent with the 
 highest improvement of it. Buildings, gardens, 
 statues, pictures, writings of all sorts, come 
 within this rule, and it holds full as strongly in 
 character and behaviour. It is the saying of 
 a very excellent author, that the true art of 
 conversation, if any body can hit it, seems to 
 be this, an appearing freedom and openness, 
 with a resolute reserved n ess, as little appearing 
 as is possible. I stumbled at it at first : but 
 upon consideration I must suppose him, and 
 from what goes before it seems most probable, 
 to mean by reservedness, a strict watch over 
 ourselves, not to be led into saying any thing 
 improper, or that can be of the least harm to 
 others, and this may most allowably be tempered 
 with such a winning carriage, and so easy a 
 good humour, as shall take off from the height 
 of virtue and discretion all appearance of stiff- 
 ness and moroseness. 
 
 To insinuate instructions jn a pleasing way, 
 to introduce useful subjects by unaffected 
 transitions, and to adorn truth with a mixture 
 of pleasing fictions, is the highest merit of 
 
136 Essay xii* 
 
 conversation, and has nothing to do with 
 cunning *. To watch for a favourable oppor- 
 tunity of doing people good, or reclaiming 
 them from some error — —who ever complained 
 of being so over-reached ? 
 
 * Witness those most perfect models of all improving 
 conversation, the discourses and parables of Jesus Christ. 
 
ESSAY XIII. 
 
 On the Necessity of encouraging Hope. 
 
 I do not know whether it is a pragmatical 
 disposition, or whether it is the effect of a 
 happy inclination to hope, in spite of all dis- 
 couragements ; but for my part, I cannot 
 abide to hear people in a desponding way, give 
 up every attempt in which they cannot tho- 
 roughly succeed. It is, generally too, the 
 best and wisest sort of people, and who would 
 therefore be the most likely to succeed in some 
 degree, that by carrying their wishes of 
 success too far, and finding it impossible to 
 attain them, in their full extent, sit down in a 
 useless despair and moralize upon the world : 
 which, because it is too bad to be completely 
 reformed by them, they disdain to mend as 
 far as they might. 
 
 Thus the best and most useful designs are 
 the soonest discouraged, while those of the 
 wicked and the trifling are pursued day after 
 day : the one too violent to be checked by 
 any consideration, that would oppose the 
 ruling passion : the others too thoughtless to 
 5 
 
138 Essay xm. 
 
 attend to any difficulties, are continually 
 weaving one web after another out of their 
 idle imaginations, forgetful of all that have 
 been brushed away, and thinking themselves 
 well rewarded, if they can catch a few worth- 
 less flies, the vanities and amusements of 
 life*. 
 
 There is something quite grievous in this to 
 a mind full of spirit and activity, that thinks 
 it glorious, at least to struggle in the cause of 
 virtue, though ever so sure to be overpowered. 
 But this is by no means the case : every ef- 
 fort does something, whether enough to be 
 perceived, at the moment, or not, is very little 
 material: since in time it will certainly have 
 its due effect, and whether that be soon 
 enough for our pride to be flattered by it, or 
 not, is a consideration which truly generous 
 minds should overlook. They will, indeed, 
 go on with less alacrity and satisfaction ; but 
 ease and pleasure are, at best, but the secon- 
 dary ends of our being, in such a state of 
 trial as this life. If, therefore, we do but our 
 duty here, we may trust our reward to futurity : 
 and we should never urge the difficulties we 
 
 # The allegory in this passage may perhaps remind the 
 reader of the 4th stanza of Gray's beautiful Ode on the 
 Spring, written in 1742, but not published till 1753, 
 
Essay xm, 139 
 
 meet with, as any objection to the main 
 business of our life, which would by no means 
 be free from uneasiness, even should we neglect 
 our duty. 
 
 But, after all, w T hat are these so terrible 
 difficulties of which people so heavily com- 
 plain ? Ours is not, with all its faults, an age, 
 or country of persecution or tyranny: people's 
 lives and fortunes are secure ; their virtues in- 
 volvethem in no danger, and though very 
 possibly they may hinder them from rising in 
 the world, yet though ever so openly and stre- 
 nuously persisted in, they can do them no great 
 damage. The utmost they can suffer is a 
 little contradiction, a little chagrin, the vexa- 
 tion of seeing many good endeavours turn out 
 to but little good purpose, the uneasiness of 
 living amongst a mixture of people little suited 
 to their better turn of mind, and to whom they 
 cannot do so much good, as they would. But 
 is this a reason, why they should chuse to do 
 none at all ? Will the world be the better for 
 all the good people, that are in it, running to 
 hide themselves in deserts and solitudes ? If it 
 is not, what then is the sudden retirement, 
 but an idle and selfish pursuit of their own in- 
 dolent inclinations ? Does the industrious 
 planter forbear his toil, because he expects not 
 
140 Essay xm. 
 
 to enjoy the shade of those flourishing oaks, 
 that will spring from his acorns ? Is he dis- 
 couraged by the fear, or frequency of blights? 
 Does he at once declare, that all the young 
 trees are degenerate, and no good to be hoped 
 from them ? The worse the world is, the more 
 need it has of good people's trying to mend it: 
 and should they be ever so unsuccessful, in 
 regard to themselves, at least, they have not 
 lost their pains. Meanly indeed do they be- 
 tray the cause of virtue, if they, its only 
 friends, suffer themselves to be overcome by 
 so weak enemies as spleen and indolence. Of 
 all people they have the least cause to despond: 
 they, who pursue the noblest end, by the 
 fairest means, they who are sure of being in 
 the right, they who are sure to have the best 
 applause for it, they who can doubt of no- 
 thing, but that their present fancy may not 
 be gratified in seeing an immediate success of 
 their endeavours ; and this they need not 
 doubt about neither, since they ought not to 
 think of it at all. 
 
 If sometimes such a glorious instance of 
 success appears, this ought no more to mislead 
 their hopes, than the notion of a magical 
 wand, that raises palaces and gardens in an 
 instant, should make people disdain to culti- 
 
Essay xrir, 141 
 
 vate their country, by the slow and vulgar 
 methods of planting and building. Inconve- 
 niences that cannot be removed may be pal- 
 liated at least. The first who formed habi- 
 tations to defend them from the cold, were 
 certainly much wiser than if they had sat 
 down and piteously lamented those inclemen- 
 cies of the weather, which none of their com- 
 plaints could alter, but against which their 
 industry could easily secure them. 
 
 From this restless activity in the mind of 
 man, this busy hope for ever springing up in 
 his heart, this notion of bettering every situ- 
 ation, and never resting contented while he 
 can aspire to any thing further, all those im- 
 provements, which form half the enjoyment 
 of civil life, have arisen. But with them 
 many errors have shot forward too; and if the 
 more delicate flowers of virtue should be left 
 to sicken and decay in their offensive shade, 
 the world will soon be over-run with the most 
 noxious weeds. 
 
ESSAY XIV. 
 
 On the moral Uses of Geograplvy. 
 
 Among those studies, which are usually 
 recommended to young people, there are few 
 that might be improved to better uses than 
 geography. I mean by this, indeed, not a 
 bare acquaintance with the outlines of a map, 
 but some general knowledge of the people 
 who inhabit this our globe : not their situation 
 only, but their history and manners. It may 
 perhaps be objected, that the title, which I 
 have given to this study, belongs to a subject 
 much more bounded, than the definition, 
 which I have since been making of it: but I 
 think it may very well include a general 
 knowledge of history, as extended to all parts 
 of the habitable globe, though a more parti- 
 cular application to the histories of those few 
 people, who have made themselves very re- 
 markable on it, may belong to a different 
 science. 
 
 It is not only the error of the peasant boy, 
 who imagines there is no habitable land, be- 
 
 9 
 
Essay xrr. 143 
 
 yond those mountains, that inclose his native 
 valley, but of many more, that we have to 
 guard against, and of much more important 
 tendency. How the idea of greatness and 
 superiority vanish in a moment, at the unrol- 
 ling a large map of the world, where we see 
 England itself, make so inconsiderable a 
 figure ! Let our thoughts be never so strongly 
 attached to any particular place, in this in- 
 considerable spot, it must give us a moment's 
 reflection, upon the insignificance of all those 
 cares, that center in so imperceptible a point *! 
 Innumerable interruptions indeed, trifling and 
 vexatious, will often happen to call down our 
 most exalted thoughts, but for that very rea- 
 son, we have the more need of returning to 
 them often : and not only taking a transient 
 view of them in our minds, as shadows passing 
 before a looking-glass -f ; but trying to fix 
 them there, by reducing them to something 
 solid, and ever drawing some practical precept 
 
 * The classical reader will recollect that Socrates en- 
 deavoured to check the early vanity of Alcibiades by this 
 very means. 
 
 f In how many places does Miss Talbot's intimate ac- 
 quaintance with the Scriptures discover itself, even per- 
 haps without any consciousness of it in her own mind ! 
 See St. Jamos i. 23 and 24. 
 
144 Essay xir. 
 
 from them, that may remain in our hearts, to 
 whatever trifles imagination is hurried away, 
 by the various avocations of life. 
 
 Considered as a part of space, the spot 
 each of us takes up, is indeed very insigni- 
 ficant; but nothing is so as relating to the 
 internal system of the universe : and therefore 
 properly to fill the station, there assigned us, 
 deserves an equal degree of care in persons of 
 every rank, and is not to be measured by the 
 acres they possess. 
 
 This sort of consideration restores a higher 
 value to the elevated circumstances of life, 
 than the former has robbed them of, in the 
 low notion of intrinsic value. This should 
 teach the miser, to esteem his riches, rather 
 by the treasure spent, than by his secret 
 hoard : it should teach every body in general, 
 from the day-labourer to the king, by every 
 possible means to raise themselves, in the 
 moral world, to a degree of consideration, 
 that their place in the natural world can never 
 attain. 
 
 Could we (it is a strange wild fancy) ima- 
 gine to ourselves a map delineated of this, as 
 well as of the other, we should see then, that 
 those vast continents which overspread the 
 one, would be reduced, upon the other, to 
 
Essay xir. 145 
 
 moderate bounds : while the smallest civilized 
 tracts of land became extensive empires, in 
 proportion to the improvements they have 
 made, in religious virtue and knowledge. 
 This, after all, is the map of real consequence, 
 and which will remain with indelible strokes, 
 long after the ether, when all that it relates 
 to, is reduced to nothing. 
 
 Can any one imagine riches the soul of life 
 and source of joy? Let him but consider 
 those vast tracts of land, where the bosom of 
 the earth is filled with glorious gems, and 
 glows with unnumbered mines of gold. Let 
 him consider these countries, barbarous and 
 wretched, ignorant of almost every useful art 
 and speculative science ; untaught both in the 
 elegance and use of life : then let him see in 
 some character of civilized generosity, at 
 home, what it is, that gives all the gloss to 
 fortune, and whence alone riches derive their 
 lustre. 
 
 Is power the idol of the soul f Cast vour 
 eyes on the monarehs of Mogul, or emperors 
 of China. See how infinitely their grandeur, 
 in immensity of wealth, in extent of dominion, 
 in the adoration of their subjects, exceeds 
 whatever greatness we are dazzled with, in 
 those minute instances, that come within our 
 
 L 
 
146 Essay xiv\ 
 
 sphere of persona! knowledge. Then consider 
 this greatness in itself; divested of all higher 
 considerations, what is it but a wonderous 
 tale, to astonish foreigners * ; the shining sub- 
 ject of a book of voyages perhaps, that will 
 be thrown aside by the first incredulous per- 
 son, as a lye, and read by the serious and the 
 thoughtful, with such reflections, as the pride 
 of the monarch would little approve. It must 
 be considered too as subject to hourly revolu- 
 tions: besides, that all the state of an eastern 
 monarch is incapable of affording the least 
 relish, to one, who has been used to the re- 
 finements of life, in more humanized nations. 
 The highest gratitude must surely be raised 
 in us, by such comparisons as these, when 
 we reflect, that those moral and civil im- 
 provements, which seem to set our little cor- 
 ner of the globe, so far above the rest, that, 
 like that mountain, which the Siamese imagine 
 
 f _ 1 demens et saeves curre per Alpes, 
 
 Ut paeris ptaceas, et declamatio fins. 
 
 Juv. Sat. x. 
 
 Thus elegantly paraphrased by Johnson in his applica-. 
 lion of the Satirist's character of Hannibal; to that of 
 Charles xn. of Sweden. 
 
 " He left the name at which the world grew pale, 
 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale." 
 
Essay xir. 147 
 
 to stand on those g*ems, in the midst of the 
 earth, the sun and moon, seem to have their 
 revolutions only round that, cheering* and 
 enlightening it with their warmest beams. 
 
 Such an extensive view of human kind, as 
 this, leads likewise to a general benevolence, 
 dilates and enlarges the heart, as well as- the 
 imagination. Where we behold a cultivated 
 spot of land, the eye dwells on it with plea- 
 sure : and when we see nothing but wild and 
 barren deserts around us, we wish that they 
 could be improved into the same smiling scene. 
 We learn to look on the savage Indian, as 
 our fellow-creature, who has a mind as capa* 
 ble of every exalted satisfaction, as ours : and 
 therefore we pity him for the want of those 
 enjoyments, on which we pride ourselves. 
 From compassionate thoughts kind actions, 
 naturally flow : our endeavours will, in some 
 degree, follow our wish, wherever it is sincere: 
 and would we all join our endeavours to do 
 all the good we are able, this earth would soon 
 become a subject of such delightful contem- 
 plation, as should make us reflect, with infinite 
 delight, upon the study, that had first led u> 
 into so useful a train of thoughts. 
 
 t2 
 
ESSAY XV. 
 
 On Consistency of Character. 
 
 It is very strange, and not less grievous, 
 that almost all people should have such an 
 inequality in their conduct, as in ten thousand 
 unheeded instances, daily to contradict those 
 fundamental principles of duty and reason, 
 which, in matters of more acknowledged im- 
 portance, they justly make it their glory to 
 act up to. 
 
 The person who goes contrary to those 
 principles, upon deliberate reflection, we all 
 shun and detest : and is mere heedlessness so 
 great a virtue, as to atone for our behaving 
 in the same faulty way, because we do it, 
 without making so deep reflection, as we 
 ought ? 
 
 A few instances may explain what I mean, 
 and I believe, there are few persons, who will 
 not find something of the same sort, at home, 
 within themselves. 
 
 Good nature is a quality that people are as 
 fond of possessing as any. — Does it ever hold, 
 
 9 
 
Essay xr. 149 
 
 throughout? That pain, which we should 
 abhor to inflict on the body of a friend, or a 
 dependant, do we never suffer our caprice or 
 humour to inflict it on their mind, an infinitely 
 tenderer part? — That resentment and dislike, 
 which we are strongly upon our guard against 
 feeling, in return for real injuries, and should 
 justly reckon ourselves very bad Christians 
 if we did otherwise, do we never make them 
 the punishment of trivial offences, and slight 
 disagreeablenesses, in those to whom, perhaps 
 we have solid obligations ? At the same time 
 that we should desire, in cases of import- 
 ance, to do all our fellow-creatures all possible 
 good, do we seriously enough consider that 
 the repeating an idle story, or spreading upon 
 slight grounds, a disagreeable report, is acting 
 most directly contrary to those laudable de- 
 sires? We can actually do good but to few: 
 but we ought to wish it as sincerely and as 
 warmly to all, as if they were truly within 
 the small circle of our own influence : and 
 consequently, a mind, that is as good as it 
 should be, will feel itself heartily interested 
 in every interest of our fellow-creatures. 
 Should we then listen with complacency, or 
 even with careless ears, to the story of such 
 
150 Essay xr. 
 
 faults, frailties and follies, as are real misfor- 
 tunes to them r 
 
 Patience and resignation are what, in the 
 severest trials, we should earnestly wish to bd 
 distinguished for. Do we practise them oh 
 trifling occasions? Let every one of us be 
 asked — can you bear to be put out of your 
 own way, to accommodate your humour to the 
 varieties of human life, and however your 
 day is turned and interrupted, cheerfully make 
 the best of it ? Can you improve little incon- 
 veniences into something tolerable and even 
 useful? It may generally be done if people 
 would but set their minds to it. 
 
 You are convinced, perhaps that a cheer* 
 ful, grateful disposition is that, which above, 
 all others, ought to be cultivated by creature 
 formed for immortal happiness, guided in 
 their way to it, by the most gracious Provi- 
 dence, and continually under the eye, and 
 care of the most excellent and amiable of 
 beings. But do you always act, and think 
 and speak consistently with this persuasion ? Far 
 none of your breath wasted in vain sighs ? Do 
 you never voluntarily indulge the overflowings 
 of a fruitless sorrow? Do you never, by giving 
 way to a momentary disgust, resentment or 
 
 * 
 
Essay xv. 151 
 
 peevishness, rob yourself of that highest de- 
 light, which flows from perfect kindness and 
 good humour ? Do vou never encourage dis- 
 Bgfceekble thoughts and jarring passions to 
 disorder the harmony of your soul, and make 
 you tasteless to all the joys of life, and to all 
 the charms of beautiful nature ? Do you never 
 nourish a fond and blameable anxiety — never 
 heap times and circumstances of trouble and 
 sorrow in your mind, till the load grows too 
 heavy for imagination to bear? Do you never 
 please yourself with heightening the paintings 
 of your distress? Do you often recollect all 
 the happy and delightful circumstances of 
 your situation ? No state is without very many, 
 and those very important. 
 
 Again : you are generous, it may be, free 
 and open-hearted: your dispositions are all 
 noble and liberal : your bounty would be in- 
 exhaustible if your estate was so: you would do 
 good to all the world: no eye should see you, 
 that could not " bear witness" to your kind- 
 /Uess. But in the free indulgence of this 
 amiable temper, how possible is it, that you 
 may injure those whom you are the most bound 
 to help ? If proper regard to the limits of your 
 power be not observed, this dignity and gene- 
 
152 Essay it. 
 
 rosily must be supported by the cruellest in- 
 justice, and the most wretched condescen- 
 sions. To what straits, what meannesses are 
 those often reduced, whom fortune had once 
 placed in a high rank ! From what proceeds 
 thi-, but from inequality of conduct! 
 
 The elegant beauty, whose fondest aim is 
 to please and to be admired, lias sometimes 
 small regard to that complete harmony of 
 manner and behaviour, which perfects the 
 charm. Indeed we are, all of us, so short- 
 sighted, that to take in a whole view at once 
 is impossible. Yet these view T s of life we 
 ought surely to chuse and study, with at least 
 as much taste and attention, as a landscape 
 painter does prospects. The most consider- 
 able objects should take up the chief place, 
 and be finished with the highest art. The 
 rest should be thrown ofif, in due proportion, 
 and lessening by imperceptible degrees. But 
 what a picture would he make, were the 
 distant hills to be painted with a vivid green, 
 and the nearest objects softened into a purplish 
 blue : here, every flower touched up with ex- 
 quisite art: and these objects as near, and 
 more considerable, sketched only with rude 
 out-lines? — Inconsistent throughout, we are 
 
Essay xr. 153 
 
 seriously offended at Hie disproportion of any 
 work of art, and utterly insensible of it in a 
 thousand instances, where, to the eye of rea- 
 son, it is infinitely more monstrous, 
 
ESSAY XVI. 
 
 On the Art of pleasing in Society. 
 
 One great reason why people succeed so 
 little in the art of pleasing, while they seem 
 wholly possest by the ambition of shining, is 
 their not observing proper rules of place and 
 time. They shine, indeed, in their own eyes 
 extremely: but they do not suit their manners 
 to the taste of those, with whom they con- 
 verse. Whatever is their favourite and su- 
 perior accomplishment, they are apt to imagine 
 a sufficient recommendation, wherever they 
 go; when probably there are a thousand less 
 striking, which, properly placed, would make 
 them appear, with infinitely more advantages. 
 Nor is even the favourite accomplishment by 
 this means lost; for when once you have con- 
 descended to win people's esteem, in their 
 own way, they are willing enough to see every 
 additional grace in your character, and dw r ell 
 upon it with pleasure. 
 
 To instance only in the character of the 
 fine lady. Struck with the praise of beauty, 
 
Essay xrY. 155 
 
 and conscious of such a superior claim to 
 admiration, the absolute fine lady will be such 
 through every scene of life, and in every 
 variety of circumstances. But after all what 
 good is it to the industrious tradesman, that 
 after many a morning's attendance, he can 
 see her ladyship with a pair of fine eyes? It 
 is not beauty, wit, or learning, that pass for 
 current coin, in our dealings with people who 
 live by their business. Punctuality and exact- 
 ness, with a strict care to save them as much 
 time and labour as we possibly can, is the 
 least we owe them, for the pains they volun- 
 tarily take to furnish us with every conveni- 
 ence of life. 
 
 This is meant for a rambling sort of Essay: 
 and now I have named punctuality, I cannot 
 help digressing, to praise it. There is nothing 
 that makes us more welcome members of 
 society. Exactness even in trifles, amounts in 
 a long life, to a considerable sum of merit. 
 People know how to depend upon us, and 
 are sure, we shall never give them the least 
 uneasiness or disappointment if we can pos- 
 sibly help it. This makes them the more 
 easily bear with us, on occasions more im- 
 portant, where interests will sometimes very 
 innocently interfere: and it is a piece of true 
 
156 Essay i//. 
 
 policy never to forfeit that credit, in small 
 things which we may possibly want, in great 
 ones. There are numberless little arts of 
 ingratiating ourselves, with our fellow-crea- 
 tures, which are equally consistent with sin- 
 cerity and prudence : nor was ever any thing 
 more wise and humane than the Apos- 
 tle's precept of " becoming all things to all 
 " men." Little disobligations will be per- 
 petually occurring, if we allow ourselves any 
 liberty, in point of exactness ; the even tenor 
 of our conduct is broken, and people begin 
 to think themselves indebted more to chance 
 than to us, for any civility or kindness we may 
 show them. 
 
 There is a kind of shatter-witted amiable 
 character, which gains no confidence, and 
 loses all respect. I think, I never saw any 
 particular description of it, and it may not be 
 amiss to draw one here. It is a careless, gay, 
 good humoured creature, as full of liveliness 
 and entertainment, as void of caution and dis- 
 cretion, living on from moment to moment, 
 without meaning any harm, or ever taking- 
 thorough pains to do good. In such persons, 
 fifty good qualities are lost, in the mere hurry 
 of inconsideration. Every thing gores on at 
 random : every thing is unequal and odd, and 
 
Essay xn. 15? 
 
 yet every body loves them. Their affairs for 
 the most part run to ruin without any extra- 
 vagance: nay by starts, they will he the best 
 managers, and the strictest economists in the 
 world; but, alas, this is all the while, only 
 whimsy masquerading in the dress of a house- 
 wife. 
 
 They who come under this description, 
 whatever their principles may be, are guided 
 in all the common affairs of life by mere hu- 
 mour and frolick. They run, with the pret- 
 tiest harmlessness in the world, into acts of 
 injustice, that make all around them suffer 
 severely, while they themselves are perfectly 
 insensible whence the mischief comes, because 
 they are conscious to theirown heartsof having 
 the best designs and sentiments imaginable. 
 By all I could ever learn, the great and amiabie 
 Sir R. S. was one of these whimsical, un- 
 happy mortals. With a genius and a heart, 
 that few have ever equalled, lie had this detect 
 in conduct, to such a degree as made him, in 
 every respect, but that of an author, as li art- 
 ful a member of society as well could be. 
 Wit like his turned his very distresses into en- 
 tertainment, and it is hard to say, whether he 
 raised in his acquaintance, morelove, diversion. 
 
158 Essay xri. 
 
 or compassion. But what pity it is, that such 
 a mind should have had any blemish at all *'! 
 
 My disposition has led me a great ways 
 but when a favourite subject is fairly thrown 
 before one, who can resist it? Not gravity and 
 decorum itself. I remember a story of a good 
 old lady, who used pretty equally to divide 
 her time, between the church and the quad- 
 rille-table. A young man of some humour, 
 and of more smartness than discretion, had 
 laid a wager, that he would make her talk, 
 over her cards in prayer time. He contrived, 
 the next day to kneel down by her: and when 
 the Litany began, whispered in a low voice— 
 1 had the terriblest luck last ! No mortal was 
 ever so unfortunate. — Hush: be quiet, Sir, 
 pray have done. — Madam, you shall but hear 
 me. — Pray Sir, fie, by no means, pray be gone, 
 for goodness sake. — I had four matadores: and 
 so on he went telling his hand, and the wiiole 
 
 * This character of Sir Richard Steele has given muck 
 offence to some persons who think more highly of his 
 moral qualities than Miss Talbot seems to have done. 
 However the character given of him in few words by that 
 wonderful prodigy of early genius, and Christian virtue, 
 H. Kirke White, exactly agrees with her's. See lis " Ee- 
 mains" by South ey, vol. i. p. 208. 
 
Essay it/, 159 
 
 process of the game: while she, poor woman, 
 was very seriously angry, and as she thought, 
 perfectly inattentive to him. He goes on 
 however. — A club was led, I put on a small 
 trump, — Human patience could endure no 
 longer. Pooh, says the good lady, you should 
 have played your ponto. 
 
ESSAY XVII. 
 
 On the Power and Necessity of Confidence. 
 
 The stedfastness of a rock, the immoveable- 
 ness of a centre, the firmness of a deep foun- 
 dation, a pillar of adamant, an everlasting 
 anchor, such to the fluctuating mind of man 
 is a well-grounded confidence *. Without 
 it, all his though is are lighter than the leaves 
 in autumn, the sport of every momentary 
 hurricane, His opinions are changeable by 
 every varying circumstance : every mote in a 
 sun-beam suggests some new fancy : he hopes 
 and fears, dislikes and loves, doubts to-day, 
 trusts to-morrow, accuses himself of credulity 
 the next, then again grows inadvertent, and 
 never lets his busy disquieted imagination rest. 
 His reason, one hour, convinced by weighty 
 
 * It is impossible to read this passage without being re-, 
 minded of the sublime ode of the stoical Poet, 
 
 Justum et tenacem propositi virum 
 Non civium ardor prava jubentium, 
 
 Non vultus instantis tyranni 
 
 Mente quatit solida; &c. — HoR. Lib. iii. Ode 3. 
 
Essay xrn, 161 
 
 arguments, has no impression left of them, 
 another : but, suspecting judgment to be in 
 faulty when only memory is blameable, frankly 
 gives itself up to the next contrary system, and 
 so on ad infinitum. 
 
 In the intercourse of life, this fatal diffidence 
 insensibly alienates the dearest friends, breaks 
 the kind bonds of mutual trust, or dissolves 
 them, by scarce perceptible insinuations. It 
 particularly oppresses weak spirits: and 
 challenges all the knight-errantry of reason, to 
 free them from the power of this wicked 
 enchanter. It is indeed in his insorcelated 
 palace, that like the people in Ark>sto, friends 
 and lovers, deceived by false appearances of 
 one another, are perpetually wearied in a 
 vain pursuit, and groan under a thousand 
 imagined slights and injuries, of which all are 
 equally guiltless ; and never gain an expla- 
 nation to rectify the miserable error. A hero, 
 who lately, perhaps, appeared crowned with 
 laurels, is now, on the sudden, transformed 
 into a monster. Credulous minds ! that do 
 not know that the laurel of some virtues, is so 
 absolute a security against all grosser failings, 
 that their eyes must deceive them whenever 
 they represent such a metamorphosis. 
 
 But judgments are formed, more from par- 
 
 M 
 
162 Essay xvn. 
 
 ticular instances, than from general rules ; and 
 hence it is, that they are so contradictory. 
 Every fresh glaring appearance is believed, 
 against the most absolute evidence, the past 
 experience can furnish : and by mere following 
 our noses, we miss the great land-marks, that 
 should direct our journey. 
 
 But to grow more methodical : this paper 
 is of too mixed a nature, to allow the dwelling 
 seriously on that religious confidence, which is 
 the ground of all the rest, and of every assured 
 satisfaction in life, or support at the close, of 
 it. This is the inexhaustible, eternal source 
 of cheerfulness, patience, and courage : of that 
 true undaunted fortitude, that inspires the 
 real hero, 
 
 Who asks no omen, hut his country's cause *. 
 
 Distrust and danger vanish at its radiance : 
 constancy and indefatigable perseverance 
 crown it with the noblest success, and with 
 immortal honour. Even the weakness of 
 constitutional cowardice may be relieved by 
 it, from a thousand anxious fears ; and raised, 
 
 * Pope's translation of 
 Etf qwvos vpisros aiAvvzoQxt wept 9ra.fM$,-~ll. xii. 243, 
 
Essay xvn. 163 
 
 upon any extraordinary occasion, into an ab- 
 solute disregard of all those unreal evils, 
 which so swell the sickly list of apprehension. 
 
 In friendship, a mutual confidence is of so 
 absolute necessity, that it is scarcely possible 
 it should subsist, for any time, without it. 
 When once upon reason, and experience, we 
 have given persons an allowed title to our 
 esteem, it is the highest injury both to them, 
 and to ourselves, to remove it upon less than 
 than an entire certainty ; and there are some 
 degrees of esteem, that ought to outweigh the 
 very strongest appearances. In such cases 
 we should misdoubt all judgments of our 
 own, rather than suspect the fidelity of a 
 tried friend : and never give it up till we have 
 allowed them the fullest opportunity for vindi- 
 cating themselves, if appearances have injured 
 them. By this means, nothing will remain 
 perplexed or uneasy upon the anxious mind, 
 but every thing will be fair, clear, and honest. 
 
 When truth is presupposed as the founda- 
 tion, this dependence follows of course, even 
 when the circumstances do not admit of a 
 present explanation. — " Appearances would 
 " give me reason to be uneasy at your beha- 
 " viour, if friendship did not forbid my sus- 
 " pecting you." — — "It is very true: and I 
 
 m 2 . 
 
164 Essay xru. 
 
 " cannot yet explain those appearances/' 
 
 What a world of trouble, and distrust, would 
 such short explanations avoid. 
 
 There are few things, which have more 
 struck my imagination, than the meek answer 
 of Balaam's ass, when his master unreason- 
 ably corrected him, for what had only the 
 appearance of a fault, and was, in reality, 
 the highest instance of duty and care. In 
 which, after having received a very passion- 
 ate return to a very gentle expostulation, she 
 only replies, — " Was I ever wont to do so 
 « unto thee ?" 
 
ESSAY XVIIL 
 
 On true Friendship. 
 
 The only unshaken basis of friendship is 
 religion. True friendship is a union of 
 interests, inclinations, sentiments. Where 
 these greatly clash, here may, indeed, be 
 outward civility, but there can be nothing 
 more. — What then becomes of all those fair 
 ideas, and many fair histories too, of generous 
 friendship sacrificing every interest of its own? 
 What becomes of that worthiest complaisance 
 that bends disagreeing humours into perfect 
 sympathy ? What becomes of that powerful 
 affection, that makes often so thorough a 
 change in the sentiments and tempers of per- 
 sons ? All these may consist with a maxim ap- 
 pearing so contrary : for few people look so 
 deep as the real and solid foundation of all, 
 but take those for important interests and 
 essential points, which indeed are but a tem- 
 porary superstucture, liable to perpetual al- 
 terations. 
 
 Whoever to the constancy and faith of 
 
166 Essay xvm. 
 
 friendship sacrifices the interests of fortune, or 
 the indulgence of inclination, pursues still his 
 true and essential interests : since he is strictly 
 performing an important duty,. However the 
 opinion of the good may differ in a thousand 
 things, in this they agree, that there " is one 
 ■" thing needful," and that in all lesser points, 
 candour, complaisance, and good nature, are 
 the temper of mind it requires. 
 
 Agreed in this, their inclinations, their 
 pleasures, their pursuits, in all that is important, 
 must be the same *. What openness of heart, 
 what harmony of sentiments, what sweetness 
 of mutual conversation must be the conse- 
 quence. 
 
 Truth, perfectly clear, and undisguised, 
 constancy unchangeable through all the varie- 
 ties of humour and circumstances, the kindest 
 affection, and the most winning manners, flow 
 almost naturally from this source of every good 
 disposition. This infallible rule is a sure 
 guard against all those errors and extremes 
 which the best affections are liable to run 
 into. It makes particular friendships keep 
 
 # See this beautiful idea expressed also in terms nearly 
 similar, but before Mrs. Carter had seen this Essay, in 
 her Letters to Mrs. Vesey appended to the correspondence 
 between her and Miss Talbot, Letter xxxvi. 
 
Essay xrm. 167 
 
 within such bounds, as not to interfere with 
 general charity and universal justice. It 
 teaches to distinguish between Uiose errors 
 and frailties of human nature, which in true 
 friendship must be absolutely past over, and 
 those contagious faults which necessarily dis- 
 solve it. It heightens the delights of happy 
 friendship, while it teaches us to look upon 
 our friends, as blessings indulged to us, by the 
 All-Giver: and it provides the only balm, 
 that can heal the wounds of friendship cut 
 short by death. It softens every kind anxiety 
 we can feel for those we love, and must feel fre- 
 quently in a world so full of varied distresses : 
 by bidding us look up to the almighty Friend 
 and Father of all, " who careth for all alike,'' 
 and trust in him to give them that assist- 
 ance and relief, of which we poor helpless 
 creatures, can at best be but very poor 
 instruments. To him we can pour out the 
 affectionate fulness of our hearts, when over- 
 whelmed with a tender concern for their wel- 
 fare: and may rest assured, that he will 
 guide and prosper our sincere endeavours for 
 their real good. 
 
 When the heart has long been used to the 
 delightful society of beloved friends, how 
 dreadful is absence, and how irksome solitude* 
 
168 Essay xviu. 
 
 But these phantoms of absence and solitude 
 vanish before the sun-shine of religion. Every 
 change of life, every variety of place, allotted 
 us by an all-ruling Providence, grows welcome 
 to us ; and while we consider ourselves and 
 our friends, however distant, as equally under 
 the care and protection of the same gracious 
 and omnipresent Being, our common Creator, 
 Redeemer, and Preserver, the distance be- 
 tween us, with all its terrors is annihilated ; 
 while solitude and retirement gives us but the 
 opportunity for a wider range of thought on 
 subjects, that ennoble friendship itself* Then 
 may our minds look forward, through an 
 endless succession of ages, in which the spfrits 
 of just men made perfect, renewing in a 
 happier world the affectionate engagements, 
 just began, as it were in the days of their 
 mortality, shall rejoice in one another's con- 
 tinually improving happiness and goodness, to 
 all eternity. Blessed mansions, where we 
 shall meet again, all those beloved persons 
 whose remembrance is so dear to us ! Our 
 friendship shall then, probably be extended 
 through the whole society of the blest. Every 
 one amiable, every one benevolent, how can 
 it be otherwise? The excellent, of all ages, 
 and nations, shall then be numbered among 
 
Essay xriii. 169 
 
 our friends. Angels themselves will not dis- 
 dain to admit us to their friendship. Beyond 
 all these glories, we may still raise our 
 thoughts to the supreme Friend and Father, 
 till they are lost in the dazzling, but delightful 
 contemplation. 
 
 When so fair a superstructure rises from so 
 fairabasis, who but would build their friendship 
 on this everlasting rock ? But, alas ! the slight 
 connections of the trifling world, are but like 
 those wooden buildings raised suddenly for 
 pompous festivals, adorned with every elegance 
 and splendour for a day, and with all the 
 mimickry of marble pillars, and the most 
 solid architecture. The least accident destroys 
 them at once : and a very short time, of 
 course, sees the spot, where they were erected, 
 forlorn and bare *. 
 
 # If Mr. Cumberland ever read the passage which con- 
 cludes this noble Essay, it might be supposed that he had 
 taken from it the hint of the last speech of the third act of 
 his tragedy of the Carmelite. But the same brilliant ideas 
 may often occur to the minds of authors of real genius, 
 without rendering them liable to the imputation of plagi- 
 arism. 
 
ESSAY XIX- 
 
 On our Passage through Life ; a Reverie. 
 
 I do not much love the tribe of dreaming 
 writers. There is something very unnatural 
 in supposing such products of understanding, 
 such a regular series of ideas, generally ab- 
 struse and allegorical enough to put the com- 
 prehension of a waking reader upon the 
 stretch, to be the effects of wild imagination, 
 at those hours when she is most unassisted by 
 reason and memory. Yet it is pity a lively 
 fancy should be baulked, and confined to the 
 dull road of essay-writing, merely to avoid 
 such a trifling absurdity in the phrase. It 
 might certainly be changed with great pro- 
 priety into that of a Reverie, which, by people 
 that indulge their imaginations, is often car- 
 ried on a very considerable time, with as gay 
 a variety of circumstances, and as lively co- 
 louring as the poppy-dipt pencil of Morpheus 
 could ever produce. Be it allowed me then 
 to say, that one afternoon this summer, I fell 
 into a deep Reverie, lulled by the whispering 
 
Essay xix. 17 1 
 
 of groves, the soft descent of a refreshing 
 shower, and the musical repetitions of a 
 thrush. The air around me was perfumed 
 with jessamins and woodbines, and I found 
 myself perfectly in a poetical situation. The 
 volume I had in my hand should of right, to 
 be sure, have been Ovid or Petrarch, but it 
 was Sunday, and the genteel reader must ex- 
 cuse me if I own that it contained the book of 
 Ecclesiastes. 
 
 The soothing scene about me had at length 
 suspended my reading; but my thoughts were 
 still filled with many beautiful images of the 
 nothingness and vanity of human life. There 
 is something so bounded, and so shadowy in 
 our existence, that the celestial beam of un- 
 derstanding which shows us what it is, must 
 give vis almost a disgust of life itself, were not 
 our affections attached to it by so many tender 
 ties, as call back our proud thoughts every 
 moment. Most miserable state, continued I, 
 in a melancoly soliloquy, what wretchednesses 
 are we conversant in, to what mean objects 
 are we bound down, how little a way can 
 we see round us, how much less can we 
 comprehend, through what a wild of errors 
 lies the narrow path of truth ! Narrow and 
 long ! — Long ? Why then it is not methinks 
 
 5 
 
172 Essay xix. 
 
 so strange, that one should not step to the end 
 of it at once. Well, suffice it that our pro- 
 gress be gradual. — But what a thick dark 
 hedge is here on either side. How much plea- 
 santer would it be to break through it, and 
 view the fair varieties of the universe as we 
 pass along. Suppose it quite away. — In the 
 midst of this vast trackless plain how will you 
 now distinguish your path ? — This brink of a 
 precipice that you are to pass along, does not 
 your head turn at it ? Do not you wish again 
 for your safe boundary ? — Well, but here the 
 path is safe and open. — Amuse yourself, look 
 round you. — I do not like my own path. 
 Yonder is one much fairer, passing over a 
 much nobler eminence. I like my own path 
 less than ever. I do not yet see far enough. — 
 O thou spirit of disorder and confusion, canst 
 thou not be contented to move in the way al- 
 lotted thee? Deviate then into ruin. Many 
 a winding walk presents itself on each hand. 
 Art thou willing to venture ? — No, let us pur- 
 sue this safer, vulgar path. Must we have 
 dirt and cloudy weather too ? — You must. It 
 belongs to this portion of the universe. This 
 rain that displeases you here, is nourishing 
 sweet herbs and delicious fruits, that will re- 
 fresh you a few r furlongs hence. Behold now 
 
Essay xix. 173 
 
 the advantage of these despicable things you 
 are hedged in with. These thorns that some- 
 times pull you back, are often crowned with 
 gay and fragrant blossoms, to make the tedious 
 journey seem less irksome. Those thick trees, 
 that bar your wandering view, are drest in a 
 soft verdure that relieves your eye, and ena- 
 bles it sometimes to take a better glimpse 
 through the branches, on objects that it could 
 not dwell upon, till it becomes stronger. — 
 Beneath a cypress lay a gloomy philosopher, 
 who called out in a dismal tone, whoever you 
 are, foolish passengers, know your own mi- 
 sery. It is impossible to have any rational 
 enjoyment, in this your despicable state. 
 Banish the thought of comfort. You are a 
 parcel of wretches, to be happy is none of 
 your business, to be cheerful is an absurdity. 
 These blossoms are transient as the spring, 
 those vile fruits you gather as you pass along,, 
 ought not to detain your attention one mo- 
 ment from those gems that glitter on your 
 heads, which are your only real treasure. 
 Those wretched fruits what are they ? — They 
 are what support us from one state to another, 
 said a plain man, who past by, and our stock 
 of gems is gradually increasing, if we keep 
 but steadily in the right path, and gently and 
 
174 Essay xix. 
 
 patiently remove the thorns and briars, that 
 molest us, as we move towards the country of 
 diamonds.— Immediately my Reverie trans- 
 ported me into a fair. Long streets of booths 
 crossing each other at right angles formed 
 very regular squares, of which some were 
 handsome and some very ugly, from the dif- 
 ferent structures of the booths. Several mar- 
 ket-women were carrying away bundles and 
 baskets marked with the names of the various 
 proprietors. I met a hag of a very untoward 
 look, bent almost double with the weight 
 of years, her brow wrinkled, and her com- 
 plexion weather-beaten. The sight of her 
 displeased me, but she was not to be avoided. 
 Here, said she, offering me a filthy basket, 
 covered at the top with thorns, take your pur- 
 chase, and make much of it. My purchase 
 said I, stepping back : Nay, said she, e'en 
 take it, and flung it at my head. But as she 
 turned away, a smile that began to brighten 
 on her solemn face, discovered to me that she 
 was the gQod Fairy Experience. I sat down 
 with the encouragement this discovery gave 
 me, and began to examine her basket. The 
 thorns it was covered with cost me a good 
 deal of time to disentangle, and take them out 
 with safety to my fingers, but I recollected 
 
Essay xrx. 175 
 
 them distinctly every one to be such as had 
 perplexed me and torn my clothes, as I past 
 along the narrow path, and which one by one 
 I had gently broken off the boughs while I 
 pursued my journey. These were the very 
 individual thorns and briars, and while I was 
 wondering how they should come to be so 
 collected, I came to the bottom, where I 
 found a row of inestimable pearls, equal, in 
 number to the briars, large, even, round, and 
 of an exquisite polish. Beside them lay a 
 scrip of paper with these words written on it. 
 * Philosophy and evenness of temper are 
 " pearls, which we purchase at the price of 
 " those vexations and crosses in life, that 
 " occur to us every day. Nothing in this 
 " world is to be had for nothing. Every dif- 
 ficulty we surmount is the purchase of some 
 advantage. Go through the fair, and 
 
 « 
 
 " see." 
 
 I perceived a good genius standing near 
 me, and desired him to be my cicerone. We 
 went through the booths and examined the 
 purchases. Here the coin paid down for 
 health and ease, and freedom from perplexity, 
 was stamped with care and prudence. There, 
 the copper money of mere plodding perse- 
 verance was the price of wealth, honour, 
 
176 Essay xix. 
 
 learning and accomplishments. In one place 
 there was a sort of M@n mouth-street, where 
 people were bartering old bad habits for new T 
 ones, every way more becomings but seemed 
 to think their bargains very hard, and the 
 very article of fitting them on, occasioned 
 such a variety of wry faces, as would have 
 given great diversion to a grotesque painter. 
 It was a melancholy amusement to see how 
 people mistook in the value they set upon 
 things, how often they passed by, with a 
 slighting air, those goods which at first they 
 might have had for a trifle, and never knew 
 the worth of them, till they were engaged to 
 other bidders, or the price raised very high, 
 or themselves perhaps gone so far off before 
 they took the fancy of returning, that they 
 could not find their way back without a guide; 
 and in the whole place there was but one 
 guide to be met with, and she of so forbidding 
 an aspect, and so disagreeable a conversation, 
 as made her a very undesirable companion. 
 She severely reproved their folly, and obliged 
 them to throw away the bargains, on winch 
 they had most set their heart, and then led 
 them back to the fair, by a rough, round- 
 about way, to buy those they had formerly 
 slighted. By the time they had got there, she 
 
Essay xix. 177 
 
 began to wear a gentler aspect, and they found 
 so much advantage in the change of their 
 purchases, that notwithstanding all her rude 
 treatment, they acknowledged Repentance as 
 a very useful friend. 
 
 Leisure, I found, was a metal that proved 
 more or less valuable according to the image 
 stamped upon it, and as I saw what admirable 
 curiosities it purchased in the hands of good 
 managers, I was quite provoked to see what 
 quantities of it were flung away : but this was 
 nothing. I saw many fine people throw away 
 handfuls of diamonds, that they might have 
 their fingers at liberty to catch butterflies. 
 
 In some parts of this fair, every body seemed 
 to be playing at cross purposes. The most 
 valuable gems were squandered away for 
 trifles, which yet they could not purchase, 
 and trifles offered for jewels of the highest 
 price. I saw my friend Fosco the antiqua- 
 rian, among a multitude of the same class, 
 who brought such a quantity of time and in- 
 dustry, as would have purchased any thing in 
 the whole place, and poured it out before a 
 cabinet of copper coins, which, still after all, 
 wanted one or two of being perfect. I saw 
 others of gayer appearance buy a shadow, a 
 
 N 
 
178 Essay xix. 
 
 flower, a feather, at still a higher price. — At 
 last, to my infinite vexation, a less shadowy 
 figure stood before, and a summons to attend 
 some visitors that were just alighted, put an 
 end to my Reverie, 
 
li# S S A Y X X » 
 
 On our Capacity for Pleasure. 
 
 There is a magnificence in nature, like 
 that of some sumptuous feast. The objects of 
 our enjoyment are multiplied infinitely beyond 
 our capacities of enjoying: and there is some- 
 thing, in the human mind, perpetually dissa- 
 tisfied with its present advantages, because it 
 cannot take in every thing at once. Like silly 
 children, possessed of all within our reach, 
 we cry for all we see. 
 
 The desires of our nature so vast, and its 
 capacities so bounded, are demonstrations of 
 a being in its infancy here, and to be per- 
 fected hereafter. But having traced this un- 
 easy sentiment, this perpetual craving to its 
 natural source, we should from thence learn 
 to suspend its force, during our present state ; 
 and when once we know at what sort of en- 
 joyments we can arrive, and how vainly we 
 strive to go further, sit down contented with 
 our lot, and try to make the best of it. Were 
 this done, as it should be, spleen would lose 
 half its empire in the world. We should not 
 
 n 2 
 
180 Essay xx. 
 
 be much mortified at finding ourselves tied 
 down for a while, to such childish amuse- 
 ments, because we should consider, that our 
 existence has a nobler aim, a higher end in 
 view. In the mean time, till that can be 
 attained, we shall welcome every small satis- 
 faction, with a cheerful countenance, and 
 never be too proud to be pleased. 
 
 I cannot help looking upon pleasure as a 
 real, and amiable being, and blessing the 
 author of nature, who has created this charmer 
 to lead man on towards final happiness 
 through, as Shakespeare calls it, this worky- 
 day world. This soft enchantress waves her 
 wand, and all nature appears drest in smiles 
 and elegance. Sweet smells, gay colours, 
 musical notes, are diffused through the whole 
 globe. Every thing is beautiful in its season *. 
 All we have to do, is to open our minds to so 
 rich a variety of delightful impressions : to ac- 
 commodate ourselves with joy and thankful- 
 ness to the present scene, whatever it is, and 
 to make the most of that good, which every 
 thing has in it. To a free mind all is agree- 
 able : but violent attachments to any par- 
 
 * And God saw every thing that he had made, and 
 behold, it was very good. Gen. i. 31. 
 
Essay xx. 181 
 
 ticular objects narrow the soul, and lessen its 
 capacity for enjoyment. 
 
 The first care to be taken is, to keep our 
 minds so loose and disengaged from the world* 
 that setting, as far as possible, the true value 
 upon every thing in it, and no more, we may 
 enjoy all the satisfaction it can possibly afford 
 us, and avoid those anxieties, which misplaced 
 affections create. Violent partialities, must 
 have violent antipathies to balance them : 
 those who set up to themselves idols to worship, 
 will, at the same time, raise to themselves 
 hobgoblins, to fear. We can seldom find in 
 our hearts to exalt one character, without 
 depressing another: and we must generally 
 have an object of ridicule and dislike, as well 
 as one of esteem and admiration. Nay, I am 
 afraid, there are more people, who amuse 
 themselves with seeing every thing in a bur- 
 lesque and disagreeable light, than of such, 
 as will take the pains to be pleased with an 
 amiable view of this fair world. We are 
 most ingenious to find out what is wanting or 
 amiss in our situations : but how ready to 
 overlook the other side! What complaints of 
 the scorching heat of summer, the pinching 
 cold of winter! For some people, no day is 
 good enough, no place without its faults, no 
 
182 Essay xx. 
 
 company without failings. Alas, alas! as \{ 
 it were any thing new or unexpected, that this 
 world should be, in many things, deficient: 
 as if it were a proof of genius to discover, 
 what it is a much better proof of good sense 
 to pass over, and as if it needed quick eyes to 
 discern the flaws in this rough cast of a globe. 
 Who could ever expect it to be all made of 
 solid pearl, and polished to the highest lustre? 
 Yet such as it is, if we make the best of 
 it, we shall enjoy no small degree of happi- 
 ness. 
 
 There is in every thing, a charm, a good, 
 that we have capacities to taste, if we would use 
 them. The enthusiastic language of poetry 
 alone, is fitted to describe the bloom of nature, 
 in a country scene. One breath of vernal 
 air diffuses serenity and joy, through the souL 
 The music of the woods, tunes every thought 
 to harmony. The clear height of the firma- 
 ment, and the bright biueness of the aether, 
 is transport to the eye, and gladness to the 
 heart. While the sight wanders through the 
 gay expanse, the mind rises to the noblest 
 contemplations, and our thoughts expatiate 
 upon future scenes of fair existence, in worlds 
 all of harmony and beauty. 
 
 But, to give us a just view of our capacities 
 
Essay xx. .183 
 
 for pleasure, and sure this is a rent-roll well 
 worth looking over, we may consider what joy 
 almost every kind of object affords to some set 
 of men or other, and resolve out of duty and 
 prudence to draw some degree of that satis- 
 faction from them, which these do from in- 
 clination, or acquired partiality: at least not 
 to overlook with contempt, or regard with 
 aversion, whatever is not contrary to inno- 
 cence or reason. See but how delighted the 
 florist and botanist are with those blossoms 
 and herbs which the rest of mankind tread 
 carelessly under foot. Observe the astrono- 
 mer, with what transport he views those clear 
 stars, which the mortal of business, or the 
 butterfly of amusement, scarce ever find leisure 
 to look up to. Mind the painter, who sees all 
 things in a picturesque view, how charmed he 
 is with the blended lights and shades, in every 
 landscape. Nothing escapes him ; each figure 
 has an attitude, an air, something graceful or 
 grotesque * : and so far is not ridiculouSc 
 
 * The late good and amiable Mr. Gilpin was a striking 
 instance of this kind. In his various tours he seems to 
 have attended (as indeed he professed to do) to scarcely 
 any thing else, and even in his views and landscapes he 
 drew them not as they were, but as they ought to have 
 been, to produce the desired picturesque effect. 
 
184 Essay xx. 
 
 Every kind of virtuoso has his darling atten- 
 tion, and each one is the source of some plea- 
 sure unknown to the rest of the world. Why 
 may not we share in them all? What a vene- 
 ration has the antiquary for dust and mould? 
 How pleased is the collector of rarities, with 
 moths and shells, nay, with what many of us 
 should look upon as the refuse and deformities 
 of nature. These good people, as much as 
 they despise one another, have, all of them 
 reason on their side, as far as it will carry 
 them. But when attached to one particular 
 thing, we indulge our fondness to an extra- 
 vagance, then ridicule comes in, with a just 
 reproof. But this belongs only to the degree, 
 to the immoderate fondness ; for in some mea- 
 sure, every thing deserves a pleased attention. 
 The flower, the butterfly, the shell, has ex- 
 quisite beauty : the herb, invaluable use *. 
 Every speeies of learning is an improvement 
 to human nature: and those of which the use 
 is not obvious, may tend, perhaps, to import- 
 ant discoveries yet unthought of. Antiquity is 
 truly venerable, its simplicity amiable, its annals 
 
 * And this our life exempt from public haunt, 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 
 
 Shakespeare. As you like it> Act II, 
 
Essay xx. 185 
 
 instructive. Modern refinements have their 
 merit. The most trifling gaieties of social life 
 exhilarate the heart, and polish the manners. 
 One might as fairly number the sands on the sea 
 shore, as reckon up the multitude of things, 
 that may afford a wise and reasonable plea- 
 sure. Were our lives here stretched out to 
 some thousands of years, we might still be 
 learning or enjoying something new. Yet 
 this consideration does not make long life at 
 all desirable, since our advantages in another 
 state will be superior atoall, that our best im- 
 provements can help us to acquire in this. 
 
ESSAY XXL 
 
 On Reflection as the Source of Cheerfulness, 
 
 How vain, and how vexatious is the flutter 
 of the world ! Even I, who am sufficiently 
 sensible, perhaps too much so, to its pleasures 
 and amusements, can find, after a little while, 
 my spirits quite worn out by them, and learn 
 from a frequent experience, that reflection 
 of the most serious sort, is the only true and 
 lasting source of cheerfulness. 
 
 As most of our affections here take their 
 deepest tinge from the workings of imagina- 
 tion, so there are perhaps scarce any, that 
 will maintain their terrifying shapes against 
 the calm efforts of reason: but, when amidst 
 the hurry of a mixed and varied scene, we 
 give them only now and then a transitory 
 glance, these airy phantoms cast a gloom and 
 horror over our whole lives. It is then, that 
 poverty and pain, and sickness, disgrace and 
 disappointment, nay satiety itself, strike upon 
 our unguarded fancies, in the most dreadful 
 manner. Our hearts are filled with sorrow, 
 
 5 
 
Essay xxr. 187 
 
 and poured out in ungrateful complainings. 
 Cool reflection alone can disdain these bus-- 
 bears of the mind : and to one who compre- 
 hends so far as our bounden understandings, 
 G&n comprehend, the universal scheme of 
 Providence, few of its particular dispensations 
 will appear severe, while every present suf- 
 fering is overbalanced by a glorious futurity. 
 
 How naturally the contemplation of what 
 is most melancholy, leads to the most enliven- 
 ing hopes, may be seen in some verses, which 
 I will insert here, and which flowed from a 
 natural chain of thoughts from the trifling, 
 but gloomy incident of a bell tolling at mid- 
 night. 
 
 Hark ! with what solemn toll the midnight bell 
 Summons Reflection to her dusky cell : 
 With leaden sound it dully strikes the ear, 
 Bids Horror wake and careless Fancy hear ; 
 Chill'd Fancy hears with awful gloom opprest, 
 Thus by the deep-felt worldless voice addrest. 
 
 Wake mortal I wake from Pleasure's golden dream, 
 The present gay pursuit, the future scheme ; 
 The vain regret of hours for ever past, 
 The vain delights in joys not made to last : 
 The vainer prying into future days, 
 Since, ere to-morrow's sun exerts its rays, 
 My toll may speak them vain to thee. Thy fears, 
 Thy hopes, thy wishes vain, and vain thy tears. 
 
188 Essay xxi. 
 
 What then to thee, whose folded limbs shall rest 
 In the dark bosom of the sabled chest, 
 What will it then import to thee if fame, 
 With flatt'ring accents, dwells upon thy name, 
 Or spurns thy dust, or if, thy mould'ring form 
 Safe from life's dangerous calm, or dreadful storm. 
 Sleeps in the concave of a well-turn'd tomb 
 By marble Cupids niourn'd amid the gloom 
 Of some old Abbey, venerably rude, 
 In Gothic pride : or in some solitude 
 Beneath the spreading hawthorn's flow'ry shade, 
 Crown'd with fresh grass and waving fern is laid : 
 Trod, in some public path, by frequent feet 
 Of passing swains, or deck'd by vi'lets sweet : 
 Nameless, unheeded, till a future day 
 Shall animate to bliss the lifeless clay. 
 
 Or whether gaily past thy festive hours, 
 Bath'd in rich oils, and crown'd with blooming flow'rs ; 
 Or pinch'd with want, and pin'd with wasting care, 
 All joys, all griefs, alike forgotten there. 
 The part well acted, gracious heaven assign'd, 
 If of the king, the warrior or the hind, 
 It matters not : or whether deck'd the scene 
 With pomp, and show, or humble, poor and mean, 
 The colouring of life's picture fades away, 
 When to these shades succeeds a clearer day. 
 The colouring partial Fortune blindly gave, 
 Debas'd the imperial figure to a slave. 
 In glitt'ring robes, bade shapeless monsters glow, 
 And in a crown conceal'd the servile brow. 
 Perhaps false lights on well-drawn figures thrown, 
 Scarce cautious Virtue would her image own : 
 But when the gloss of titles, wealth, and pow'r, 
 Of Youth's short charm, and Beautv's fading ;flow'i\ 
 
Essay xxi. 189 
 
 Before Truths dazzling sun shall fade away, 
 
 And the bare out-lines dare the piercing ray, 
 
 Then if the pencil of thy life has trac'd 
 
 A noble form, with full proportion grac'd, 
 
 A model of that image heav'n imprest 
 
 In the first thoughts of thy untainted breast, 
 
 Whate'er the painting Fortune's hand bestow'd, 
 
 Whether in crimson folds thy garments flow'd, 
 
 Or rags ungraceful, o'er thy limbs were thrown, 
 
 Thy ev'ry virtue overlook'd, unknown ; 
 
 An eye all-judging, an all-pow'rful hand 
 
 The bounteous pallet shall at length command, 
 
 Reject the vicious shape that shrinks away, 
 
 Stript of those robes, that drest it once so gay. 
 
 Excuse the imperfect form, if well design'd, 
 
 Where the weak stroke betray'd the enlighten'd mind ; 
 
 Grant every ornament and ev'ry aid 
 
 On ev'ry failing cast the proper shade, 
 
 And bid each smiling virtue stand display'd ; 
 
 Improving ev'ry part, with skill divine, 
 
 Till the fair piece in full perfection shine. 
 
 I 
 
ESSAY XXI L 
 
 On the Employments of Life. 
 
 Why is it that almost all employments are 
 so unsatisfactory, and that when one hath 
 past a day of common life, in the best way 
 one can, it seems, upon reflection, to be so 
 mere a blank ? And what is the conclusion to 
 be drawn from so mortifying an observation ? 
 Certainly not any conclusion in favour of 
 idleness: for employment, as such, is a very 
 valuable thing. Let us have done ever so 
 little, yet if we have done our best, we have 
 the merit of having been employed, and this 
 moral merit is the only thing of importance in 
 human life. 
 
 To complain of the insignificancy of our 
 employments, is but another name for repi- 
 ning at that Providence, which has appointed, 
 to each of us, our station : let us but fill that 
 well, to the utmost of our power, and what- 
 ever it be, we shall find it to have duties and 
 advantages enough. 
 
 But whence, then, is this constant dissatis- 
 
Essay xxn. 191 
 
 faction of the human mind ; this restlessness, 
 this perpetual aim at something higher and 
 better, than, in the present state, it ever can 
 attain ? Whence, but from its celestial birth, 
 its immortal nature, framed for the noblest 
 pursuits and attainments, and in due time, to 
 be restored to all this dignity of being, if k 
 does but behave properly in its present hu- 
 miliation. 
 
 Be that as it will, there is something painful 
 in this strong sense of worthlessness and 
 meanness, that must make people of leisure 
 and reflection pass many an uneasy hour. 
 Perhaps there is nothing better fitted to wean 
 us from life : but in doing that, it by no means 
 ought to hinder us from industry and content- 
 ment. Every station, every profession, every 
 trade has its proper set of employments, of 
 which it is an indispensable duty for every 
 person to inform themselves with care, and to 
 execute with patience, perseverance, and dili- 
 gence. This rule of duty holds, from the 
 emperor to the artisan : for though the em- 
 ployments are different, the duty, that enforces 
 them, is the same, in all. Man is born to 
 labour : it is the condition of his being : and 
 the greatest cannot exempt themselves from it, 
 without a crime. 
 
192 Essay xxn. 
 
 If we consider well, we shall find, that all 
 employments, in this transient scene, come 
 pretty much to the same nothingness.— The 
 labours of those who were busy and bustling 
 on this globe, five or six hundred years ago — 
 what now remains of them, but the merit, to 
 the persons themselves, of having been well 
 employed ! How many valuable books, the 
 employment, and the worthy one, of whole 
 lives, have perished long ago, with the very 
 name of their authors! The strongest monu- 
 ments of human art and industry, obelisks, 
 temples, pyramids, are mouldered into dust, 
 and the brittle monuments of female diligence 
 in pye-crust, are not more totally lost to the 
 world. To found an empire was enough to 
 gain a sort of immortality ; yet the empires 
 themselves have proved mortal *. 
 
 There are certainly some employments of a 
 noble, and a happy kind, but in no degree, 
 answerable to our ideas : for the best we can 
 do, is most poor, whether we would improve 
 
 Empires die ; where now 
 
 The Roman ? Greek ? They stalk an empty name ! 
 Yet few regard them in this useful light ; 
 Tho' half our learning is their epitaph. 
 
 Young's Night Thoughts, ix. 
 
 Published about 1745 
 
Essay xxn. 193 
 
 ourselves, or do good to our fellow-creatures, 
 in comparison of the capacity of our mind, 
 in its original state ; which resembles some 
 vast Roman amphitheatre, that once con- 
 tained myriads of happy people within its 
 ample round ; defaced and ruined, it can now 
 scarcely afford shelter from the sudden storm, 
 to a few silly shepherds * m 
 
 * As in those domes where Csesars onoe bore sway, 
 Defac'd by time, and tott'ring in decay, 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed, 
 And, wond'ring man could want the larger pile, 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 Goldsmith's " Traveller? printed 1765, 
 
 A singular coincidence of idea ; for Miss Talbot died in 
 1769, and her health had been too bad, for several years 
 before, to allow her to compose. 
 
ESSAY XXIII. 
 
 On Resignation to the Will of Providence. 
 
 It is too common, for persons, who are 
 perfectly convinced of the duty of patience and 
 cheerful resignation, under great and severe 
 trials, in which the hand of Providence is 
 plainly seen, to let themselves grow fretful and 
 plaintive under little vexations, and slight 
 disappointments : as if their submission in one 
 case, gave them a right to rebel in another. As 
 if there was something meritorious in the 
 greater sufferings, that gave them a claim to 
 full indulgence in every trifling wish of their 
 heart : and accordingly they will set their 
 hearts most violently upon little reliefs and 
 amusements, and complain and pity them- 
 selves grievously, if they are at any time de- 
 nied. 
 
 All this is building on a false foundation. 
 The same gracious Providence, that sends 
 real afflictions only for our good, will, we 
 may be absolutely sure, afford us such supports 
 
Essay xxur, 105 
 
 and reliefs under them, as are needful and 
 fit : but it will not accommodate itself to our 
 idle humour. 
 
 To be happy, we must depend for our hap- 
 piness on Him alone, who is able to give it. 
 We must not lean on human props of any 
 kind ; though when granted us, we may thank- 
 fully accept and make use of them ; but 
 always with caution, not to lay so much 
 weight upon them, as that the reed broken 
 under our hand, may go into it, and pierce 
 it*. 
 
 On the loss of a friend, we must not say, 
 this and that person, this and that amusement 
 shall be my relief and support. But — -to 
 Providence I must submit— Providence will 
 support me in what way it sees proper.— The 
 means on which I must depend, under that, 
 are a careful and cheerful performance of, and 
 an acquiescence in whatever is my duty. I 
 must accommodate myself to all its appoint- 
 ments : and be they health or languor, a dull, 
 or an active and gay life ; a society agreeable 
 to my fancy, or one that \s not, or none at 
 all : if I do but endeavour to keep up thi| 
 
 * See Isaiah xxxyi, 6. 
 o 2 
 
196 Essay xxirr. 
 
 right disposition, and behave accordingly, 
 nothing ought to make me melancholy, or 
 unhappy, nothing can, nothing shall. For- 
 ward beyond this life, in this case I not only 
 may, but ought to look, with joy and hope, 
 with cheerfulness and alacrity of spirit. For- 
 ward in this life, it is not only painful, but 
 faulty to look either with anxiety, or with 
 self-flattering schemes. Yet on this present 
 scene, from day to day, and forward, so far 
 as is necessary to the duty of prudence, I may 
 look with a smile of content and gratitude : 
 for every day has something, has innumerable 
 things good and cheerful in it, if I know but 
 how to make the best of it. 
 
 In a change of situation, think not like a 
 child, of the toys you leave, and the toys you 
 shall find, to make you amends for them. All 
 play-things are brittle. Think not, like a 
 grazing animal, that you have changed one 
 pasture for another : and shall graze on this, 
 or that herb here, with delight: " The herb 
 " withereth, the flower fadeth" every where. 
 But think, like a reasonable creature. — This 
 change was apointed for me: acquiescence is 
 my duty: duty must be my support. Yet I 
 know, such is the condescendence of infinite 
 
Essay xxm. 197 
 
 goodness, that I shall have many a slighter 
 relief, and agreeableness thrown in: but these 
 are by the bye : not to be reckoned on before- 
 hand, nor to be grieved for, if they fail or 
 intermit. 
 
ESSAY XXIV, 
 
 On the Happiness derived from Society. 
 
 What are my ideas of happiness ? Nega- 
 tive ones present themselves first. A freedom 
 from guilt— from self-dislike— from fear— from 
 vexation — from languor — from pain — from 
 sorrow* 
 
 The joy of early youth and early morning* 
 that is, vigour and capacity for continual im- 
 provement, and a long space before one to 
 exert them in, with a variety of new and 
 noble objects. — But, alas, how am I fitted for 
 this, who have acquired such strong habits of 
 loitering indolence — lost all power of applica- 
 tion. 
 
 Therefore application, a habit of it ought 
 to be re-acquired, though the objects of it 
 here, are looked upon with the indifference 
 they so highly deserve. 
 
 The approbation, and protection, and guid- 
 ance of the good, wise, amiable, and great — 
 how much have I undeservedly experienced 
 of that, even here ! But mixed with a pain- 
 
Essay xxir. 199 
 
 fulness, and degree of suspicion, from feeling 
 that J am nothing, and have no claim to it: 
 and that the best of them are but a degree 
 above nothing: are fallible, and maybe de- 
 ceived, in me, or mislead me : are mortal, 
 and must forsake me, and leave me.— But 
 look higher, and there is a power, that can 
 make us what it will, and goodness that wills 
 our happiness, and wisdom, that can fully fit 
 us for it: and majesty and amiableness — no 
 expression can reach the ideas, that fill the 
 soul, in this contemplation and hope. Total 
 solitude in the enjoyment of thoughts like 
 these, seems, to me, high happiness. — But the 
 corruptible body would soon press down the 
 mind : the exhausted spirits would sink into 
 wretchedness, and there would be a self-re- 
 proach for the neglect of social duties. There 
 will be duration enough for all, hereafter, and 
 strength for every various exertion. There 
 are some poor pleasures here, which are only 
 such, because the mortal frame requires them, 
 as it does food, and sleep. These are what 
 one calls relaxations, amusements, trifles, that 
 unbend the mind, and vary its ideas agree- 
 ably. The sight of gay flowers, or sunny 
 landscapes ; the song of birds ; the sportings 
 of innocent imagination, in some trifling book; 
 
200 Essay xxir. 
 
 the gaieties of young animals *. I am very 
 thankful for these, in their season, but past 
 the moment they are necessary, the landscape 
 soon fades, if seen by one's self alone ; and 
 the book gives it quite another kind of delight, 
 if read in a society, that are equally pleased. 
 The amusement of animals, is from seeing 
 them happy, and all this tends to promote 
 right dispositions, as the contemplation of 
 beautiful objects, and sweet sounds, raises the 
 mind to grateful adoration. 
 
 The mortal pleasure I can the least know 
 how to lay out of my ideas, is the sweet for- 
 getfulness of quiet and refreshing sleep : a 
 great blessing here, but only here where there 
 are cares, and fears and follies to be forgot. 
 But if not indulged beyond needful refresh- 
 ment, it ought, surely, while we are here, to 
 be accepted with humble thankfulness. 
 
 The joys of society are of all others, most 
 mixed with pain. Yet where all are perfect, 
 and where all are happy, how sublime must 
 
 * How much delight the pious as well as elegant mind 
 ef Miss Talbot received from these innocent trifles is par- 
 ticularly observable in her Letters to Mrs. Carter from 
 Cuddesden. 
 
 See the tl Series of Letters" Vol, J*. 
 
Essay xxir. 201 
 
 they be * ! Alas my great, my continual 
 failure is in social duties ! Why ! Because I 
 am almost continually .in society. In solitude, 
 one has nothing to do, but to cherish good 
 and pleasing dispositions. In society, at every 
 unguarded moment, bad and painful ones 
 break out, and fill one with shame, remorse, 
 and vexation. Selfishness shews its ugly 
 head : little contradictions excite vehemence 
 of temper, to put out its claws : talkativeness 
 prates away the inestimable hours, without 
 use or pleasure. Even good humour, and 
 easiness of temper must be restrained and 
 mortified, else they lead to criminal negli- 
 gence, and destructive extravagance. The 
 justest affections must be regulated, else they 
 tie down the heart too much. On the con- 
 trary, justice and gratitude demand often, 
 that our kindest affections should be excited 
 and exprest, where natural temper and incli- 
 nation do not prompt them. We ought with 
 the strictest eye of justice to distinguish right 
 and wrong in characters, and yet with the 
 tenderest charity to overlook, and couipas- 
 
 * And how noble is even the slight insight which the 
 inspired writer has given us into it ! 
 
 Se§ H*b, xii. 22, 23, 24- 
 
.202 Essay xxir. 
 
 s-ionate ten thousand lesser faults, and disa* 
 greeablenesses. 
 
 In short, the life of society is the life of con* 
 stant, unremitting mortification, and self-de- 
 nial. It is this, that makes the only useful 
 hardship of the cloister, not the fastings, hair- 
 cloths, watch ings, and disciplines. But it is 
 really still harder in uncloistered society. To 
 keep the mind in right frame, amid ten thou- 
 sand interruptions; to be regular, and dili- 
 gent, without the possibility of any settled 
 plan : to spread cheerfulness when one is not 
 pleased : to support in one's self, when others 
 are dejected — and a sad look, or a sad word, 
 from those I love, sinks my heart : as a good 
 word, and a smile raises it instantaneously* 
 
 But far, far better than the cloistered rules 
 of man's foolish and arbitrary invention, the 
 life of society, with all its self-denials, is the 
 appointment of the Almighty. Every indivi- 
 dual, of human society, is ennobled, and en- 
 deared by its relation to him. For the mean- 
 est of these, Christ died. Our love to each 
 other, to every one of each other, is the proof 
 required of our being his disciples. 
 
 Selfishness therefore must be continually 
 overcome, except where some real harm, or 
 great pain may be avoided by very slight in- 
 
Essay xxu\ 203 
 
 convenience : and then it should not be cun- 
 ningly contrived, but openly requested : and 
 if granted, accepted as a favour, or the re* 
 fusal cheerfully acquiesced in* 
 
 But; in other respects, how can we do good? 
 Follow as God's providence leads, each in his 
 station, within his bounds, and within his 
 capacity* Above all keep up cheerfulness 
 and good humour. An air of dissatisfaction 
 is doubly faulty. It belies your eternal hopes, 
 and disheartens all around you. — But con- 
 versation is so empty, so useless. — Keep it 
 peaceable and innocent, at least. Restrain 
 talkativeness in yourself, that you may think 
 a little, how to introduce somewhat useful: 
 but do not strive too much. Mere good hu- 
 mour is very useful : it tunes the mind. Do, 
 in every thing, the best you can: and trust 
 in better merits, that it shall be accepted. 
 Look forward to the conversation of angels, 
 and perfected spirits: of those whom you have 
 loved, and who have loved you amidst all 
 your mutual imperfections here. There will 
 be nothing but joy, and eternal improvement. 
 All joined in executing the divine will, and 
 dwelling on its praises. No more fear of 
 sorrow, or parting: no more doubts and jea- 
 lousies of yourself: no anxieties for them: 
 
204 Essay xxir. 
 
 all fixed and secure. Of past sorrows and 
 frailties will remain only the everlasting gra- 
 titude of those who have been relieved, and 
 forgiven. Each to other, in their due de- 
 grees : all supremely., to their God and Sa* 
 viourl 
 
ESSAY XXV* 
 
 On Trust in Providence. 
 
 This is a dav * I have cause to bless. Let 
 no gloomy thought come near it. But can I 
 keep out of my mind, the thought of such a 
 friend, as I so lately had ; with a whole train 
 of ideas attending that thought? No; un- 
 doubtedly: but let me think of that friend, 
 and regulate those ideas, as I ought. Let 
 me, with humble, joyful gratitude, consider, 
 in how many excellent beings I have the in- 
 terest of an affectionate and beloved friend. 
 Glories of the world! I look clown upon you: 
 my happiness, my boast are of a higher kind. 
 
 These friends are, at present, far separated 
 from one another, but all happy: and in a 
 blessed hereafter, I am permitted humbly but 
 joyfully to hope, that we shall all be eternally 
 re-united. What mutual gratulations, what 
 tender recollections must attend that re-union ! 
 And oh, what unspeakable gratitude and 
 
 * Probably her birth-day. 
 
208 Essay xxr\ 
 
 adoration to him, through whose blessed re* 
 demption, that bliss shall be attained, and 
 " this mortal put on immortality!" The frail 
 human heart can hardly bear the transport 
 of the thought ! This idea is too vast, and 
 too bright — Yet, it is not a fairy vision, but 
 a steadfast, eternal truth. 
 
 Far away, then, all melancholy apprehen- 
 sions of death, of pain, of parting, mere sha- 
 dows every one ! For what is pain ? An hour 
 of trial, the proof of our faith, patience and 
 fortitude.- — What is death ? The entrance 
 upon our reward, the end of our dangers and 
 perplexities, the point to which we have been 
 tending from our birth. — What is parting? 
 More bitter in itself than death, because it 
 leaves us destitute of our dearest supports, in 
 a state wherein we seem to need them most. 
 This then, as the severest pain, is the no- 
 blest trial. And are we not sure that we are 
 in the hands of a merciful God, whose every 
 attribute is engaged to lay no more upon us, 
 than our own faith and own sincere endeavours 
 concurring, he will enable U3 to bear, to 
 triumph over? 
 
 We are born into this world poor helpless 
 creatures: but parents, friends, protectors are 
 provided to conduct us up to maturity. An 
 
Essay xxr. 207 
 
 all-gracious Providence works by what variety 
 of instruments it sees fit: but fit instruments 
 it never wants, and never can want. The 
 seeds of good and evil grow up with us : at 
 least, the enemy sows his tares so early that 
 they soon overtake the grain. To root out 
 the one, and to cherish the other, is the busi- 
 ness of life. What is it, to us, by what means, 
 or by what change of hands, the Master of 
 the harvest vouchsafes to do this? since our 
 great concern is only, that it be effectually 
 done, and then, we are well assured, that He 
 " will gather the wheat into his garner." 
 
 He, who has given the former rain in its 
 season, will not deny the latter rain, also, to 
 the diligent and pious husbandman. Where 
 a merciful Providence has remarkably blest 
 the earlier part of life, the well-disposed heart 
 need not fear, that the later years of it shall 
 be left destitute. Every fit support and 
 guidance shall be provided: nay every com- 
 fort and delight, that contradicts not some 
 still kinder intention, or more important aim. 
 
 Sufferings belong to human nature. Of 
 these, some persons have a larger, some a 
 lighter share, and this indiscriminately, in 
 some measure, to bad and good. This ap- 
 pointment is for wise reasons, some of which 
 
208 Essay xxr\ 
 
 even our poor shallow understandings can 
 trace. But the good are assured that they 
 shall never want any necessary support, under 
 their sufferings: and to know that they are 
 liable to them, is one appointed trial of their 
 faith, of their submission. A true Christian 
 knows, that all these things shall finally work 
 together for his good. Why then should he 
 dread any of them? 
 
 But when these sufferings are actually 
 present, how must they be supported?-— cheer- 
 fully. To those who know, that alf is, on 
 the whole, well, every passing day brings its 
 amusement and relief: and let these be thank- 
 fully accepted. Those who are removed out 
 of this world are happy: they are removed 
 in God's good time. Those, who are con- 
 tinued in it, must rejoice in every comfort, 
 that attends their continuance: must be 
 thankful for every added year. For, is not 
 life a blessing? May not this added time be 
 improved to most excellent purposes ? Let this 
 then be our endeavour. 
 
 While continued in human society, let us 
 preserve a sociable, a friendly spirit. Let our 
 joyful affectionate remembrance attend those, 
 who are removed already into a higher class 
 of beinn-s. But let our active love be exerted 
 
Essay xxv. 209 
 
 towards all our fellow-travellers: and let it 
 be our aim, so far as we are enabled, to lead 
 many along with us towards those happy 
 niansions. This, at present, it seems, is the 
 only work we are fit for; and is it not a blessed 
 one? 
 
 " Be glad, O ye righteous, and rejoice in 
 " the Lord, for a good and pleasant thing it 
 « is to be thankful !" 
 
ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 On the Necessity of innocent Amusement. 
 
 Amusement is useful and laudable, not when 
 it draws the mind from religious subjects (in 
 this view the world uses it and is destroyed by 
 it) but when it takes the thoughts from such 
 sorrows as are merely temporal, and imaginary, 
 and so refits them for that better employment, 
 which, without this harmless medium, they 
 could not so soon or so well have resumed. 
 The idle mind flies improvement as its enemy, 
 and seeks amusement as its end. The Chris- 
 tian heart has but one home, one joy, one 
 pursuit. But from this home it is too often 
 detained: from this joy it is too often shut 
 out: in this pursuit it is, too often, hindered, 
 by the frailty of human nature, the necessary 
 attentions and engagements of life, the attach^ 
 ments of affinity, and friendship. 
 
 On this side eternity, cares and sorrows will 
 be felt, in some degree, by the best: but the 
 Christian, who knows that it is his absolute 
 duty to rejoice, and give thanks, in every 
 
Essay xxii. 21 1 
 
 thing, indulges not those gloomy hours, nor 
 wilfully harbours one melancholy thought. 
 Yet striving with such thoughts, is only to be 
 worse entangled in them. At such times the 
 good and humble mind, accepts thankfully 
 the assistance of the veriest trifle, the most 
 common and uninteresting object, or employ- 
 ment, that can dissipate the present chain of 
 vain and tiresome thought^ and this chain 
 once broken, it flies with recruited vigour to 
 its true home, " as a bird out of the snare." 
 
 By common and uninteresting objects, I 
 mean only to exclude all indulgences of 
 fancy and imagination, and such amusements 
 as seem interesting, because they indeed sooth 
 the disposition, which we suppose ourselves 
 flying from, as, for example, melancholy 
 music, and poetically solemn scenes. But, in 
 a higher view, the least flower of the field, is 
 a more interesting object than the proudest 
 palace. For what object can be small or 
 uninteresting, that is the work and gift of the 
 Almighty! This flower, or insect, or shell, 
 would Aspasia say, is given to me, at this in- 
 stant, by ever present, ever watchful goodness, 
 to call off my thoughts from their present vain 
 anxiety, or sinful regret, to the thankful con- 
 templation of a gracious Creator and Re- 
 
 p2 
 
212 Essay xxru 
 
 deemer. — This employment, this company, 
 that calls my present attention from subjects, 
 it could wish to pursue, though it pursues 
 them to its hurt: this dull and unedifying 
 company, this dry and trifling employment, is, 
 in the order of Providence, a kind remedy, 
 to unbend my mind, and thereby restore its 
 strength. As such I will thankfully accept 
 it, and cheerfully turn myself to it: for if I 
 am absent in company, I had better be alone; 
 my soul is equally wasting its strength, in 
 earnest thought, and melancholy recollection, 
 and my appearance discredits the cause of 
 religion. 
 
 These are the reasons that make it a duty 
 to open the mind to every innocent pleasure: 
 to the admiration of every rural object, to 
 harmless pleasantry and mirth, to such a ge- 
 neral acquaintance with arts and sciences, 
 trades and manufactures, books and men, as 
 shall enable us to attend to, and to be amused, 
 in some degree, with every scene, and with 
 every conversation. There is just the same 
 pride in resolving, that our minds shall be 
 always employed on the stretch, as in ima- 
 gining that our reason is a competent judge 
 of all subjects: human frailty and imperfec- 
 tion, alike forbids both. The Israelites ga- 
 6 
 
Essay xxvi. 213 
 
 thered their manna, from day today: so should 
 we our temporal pleasures, and comforts, and 
 trust him to provide for to-morrow, who sup- 
 plied us yesterday. When, through eagerness 
 and fondness of mind, we hoard up, by anxious 
 schemes and wishes, a portion for ourselves, it 
 breeds but corruption. Only in the ark can 
 it be laid up safe *. 
 
 * This poetic and beautiful illustration may not perhaps 
 be well understood by those who are not very conversant 
 with Bible history. 
 
 See Exod, xvi, 20 and 33 . 
 
LETTERS TO A FRIEND 
 
 FUTURE STATE, 
 
 CHARACTER OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL, 
 
LETTER I. 
 
 The curiosity you expressed in a conversa- 
 tion, which we heard with pleasure, we may 
 within those limits you acknowledged just, 
 be permitted to gratify. New discoveries 
 must not be expected — Could you explain to 
 a child the delights afforded by science? Or 
 to one born blind the exquisite sensations pro- 
 duced by light and beauty? But so far as 
 may be collected from what hath been re- 
 vealed, we are ready and delighted to assist 
 and guide your search. Startle not at the 
 darkness which is before you, and the irre- 
 mediable gulph that must be passed. From 
 that bourn, one traveller hath returned, and re- 
 turning, irradiated the gloomy shades with 
 beams of celestial light. In that human form, 
 though cloathed with splendour inexpressible, 
 he shall again return *. Each guardian angel 
 shall then attend the charge, whom, through 
 all the scenes of mortal life, he had endea- 
 
 * See Acts i. 11, and Matt. xxv. 31, 
 
218 Letter r. 
 
 voured to protect * ; and who having by 
 humble faith and sincere obedience secured 
 the supreme protection, was in the closing 
 hour committed to his peculiar care. How 
 ineffectual at that dark season are the ten- 
 derest soo things of mortal friends ! Yet even 
 those soolhings, though blended by sympathy 
 for the distress which mingles with them, are 
 dear to the sickening heart. But there is one 
 who can in the most trying moment, speak ifr 
 into instantaneous and eternal joy. By him 
 commissioned, how joyfully do we receive the 
 wearied combatant — But weariness is vanished ; 
 pain and sorrow are for ever gone ; and all 
 his sympathy now is with rejoicing, and con- 
 gratulating angels. Among the many man- 
 sions in the house of our heavenly Father, 
 one most delightful be assured there is, as 
 completely prepared for the abode and happi- 
 ness of the separated spirits of the just, as this 
 earth of your's is for the mingled society of 
 mortal men. However far the distance of 
 
 * This is a doctrine which, though not expressly taught 
 in Scripture, yet receives some countenance from passages 
 in it. In heaven their angels do always behold t7iefaee 
 of my Father which is in heaven. Matt, xviii. 10. Are 
 they not all minis t ring spirits, se?it forth to minister for 
 them who shall be heirs of salvation? Heb. i. 14, 
 
Letter /. 219 
 
 this Paradise, the penitent thief found scarcely 
 any interval between that and Calvary. 
 Whatever its employments, for spiritual beings 
 are ever active, imagine not that they can 
 alter the state of its final account. That at 
 the hour of death is irrevocably closed. As 
 the tree falleth * so shall it lie. If stunted 
 here no other spring shall ever add to its 
 growth : if it was hitherto unfruitful, no fu- 
 ture autumn shall enrich its idle branches. 
 But still, there may be employments num- 
 berless, more delightful than you can conceive. 
 New faculties may be expanding — but enough 
 for this once. Think frequently of these so- 
 lemn, these exalting subjects ; but think not 
 too intensely. Let not the speculations of 
 eternity encroach on the duties of time. In 
 this only now you can exercise the human 
 virtues — go, relieve the distressed; sympathize 
 with the afflicted ; rejoice with the innocently 
 cheerful; cement the ties of friendship ; pro- 
 mote the inseparable cause of religion and 
 virtue; enjoy and improve the comforts of 
 society; and patiently suffer the infirmities 
 and sorrows of mortality. One morning in 
 the week you shall find a Letter on the table 
 from 
 
 Your Guardian though your 
 
 Fellow-Servant, 
 * Eccles. xi, 3. 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 The week is come round, and you expect 
 to find another Letter; but affected as you 
 are, my poor mortal charge, with every 
 variety of the wintry season, are you fit to 
 attend to these sublimer subjects ? Attempt 
 not contemplations beyond your little strength. 
 Be satisfied that the time will come when we 
 shall be permitted freely and delightfully to 
 discourse with you, because then you will be 
 able to bear and to comprehend our discourse. 
 Know you not that " eye hath not seen nor 
 " ear heard" those things which Almighty 
 goodness hath prepared ; and how then should 
 we convey to you any ideas of them? But so 
 much you may know, and therefore should 
 know, as may fill you with cheerful hope, 
 and excite you to ardent pursuit of the inesti- 
 mable prize. And yet amid the toils and 
 miseries of mortal life, it might seem that 
 merely negative descriptions might content 
 you. To rest from care and sorrow — to in- 
 dulge without a fault a long sweet unmolested 
 repose, in the assurance of waking to a joyous 
 
Letter n. 221 
 
 everlasting morning! Might not this, my 
 indolent charge, well satisfy your wishes for 
 the present ? No. You would fain know if 
 this sleep is at least varied by delightful 
 dreams, as you suspect that your mind even 
 in sleep is never totally idle. But I must not 
 let you farther into the theory even of dreams 
 than your own observations may lead you. 
 What hint was it you caught so long ago in 
 Mr. Locke of sleeping meditations ? Pursue it 
 if you can. Observe you not sometimes that 
 you wake out of quite a different sort of world 
 from that to which your days are accustomed ? 
 And yet at the time all its scenery has appeared 
 familiar to you, and not unpleasing *. On 
 your efforts to grasp them by recollection the 
 thin ideas shrink away, and in a few moments 
 are quite vanished. Strive not to retain them 
 — the talents committed to your trust now, are 
 
 * It is an idea prevalent in the East, that the soul quits 
 the body, and is actually present in the scenes represented 
 in the dream. Some Christians also seem to entertain a 
 similar opinion. The late learned Mr. Porson was col- 
 lecting materials towards forming a theory of this kind ; 
 and made anxious enquiries of his friends whether they 
 had ever distinctly dreamt of any known animal when 
 dead; obviously supposing that the soul, in its nocturnal 
 excursions, could have no communication with those de- 
 ceased creatures which have no souls. 
 
222 Letter ir. 
 
 your waking active hours. Perhaps but few 
 remain, Improve them to the utmost: then 
 shall you give up your account with joy. But 
 where, you ask, are now those companions of 
 your former years, whose time of trial is over, 
 whose trust is discharged, who no longer 
 mingle in this active scene, for whom the sun 
 rises and sets no more ? Where ? Why equally 
 in the divine presence as yourself — recollect 
 you not the time, in former days of fancy, 
 when you fondly delighted to contemplate the 
 moon because a favourite distant friend might 
 possibly at the same time be gazing on the 
 same bright object ? This fancy seemed to 
 cancel distance, and bring you near together., 
 Think then that not the waning moon but the 
 source of glory shines on them with the same 
 gracious beams, that in mercy extend even to 
 you. But, oh ! with how much brighter lustre ? 
 Yet should they, for reasons infinitely wise and 
 kind, be kept for a while in unconscious se- 
 curity, consider that to them, who are now 
 become heirs of eternity, a thousand years 
 will pass over as one day — while to you one 
 day ought to seem as important as a thousand 
 years, since millions of ages may depend upon 
 it. Oh learn to improve it well. To awaken 
 you to diligence with the continual repetition 
 
 1 
 
Letter u. 223 
 
 of this important lesson, I amuse your curiosity 
 find converse with you in this unusual manner, 
 on the subject that has most excited it. Me- 
 ditate often on futurity : but not so as vainly 
 to trifle away present time. This is certain, 
 that the friends you loved, exist now as really 
 as when you conversed with them, and much 
 more happily. A more infallible word than 
 mine hath assured you, that they are blessed : 
 that they rest from their labours : and that 
 their ivories follow them. Follow them now, 
 for ought you know, with a pleasing though 
 humble consciousness of faithful though im- 
 perfect endeavours: and will follow them 
 on that great day, for which all other days 
 are made, with a crown of everlasting praise 
 and joy. 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 Your meditations have been busy again 
 about unseen futurities ; your eye is impatiently 
 cast every morning on your table, and you 
 eagerly expect another Letter from your invi- 
 sible attendant ; though you have yet learnt 
 nothing new from either of the former. There 
 is somewhat in your curiosity that ought for 
 your good to be checked, and yet somewhat 
 laudable in it that deserves to be indulged. 
 Your thoughts cannot be more nobly employed, 
 nor fixed on a more absolute certainty than 
 that future state which now engages them, 
 There is also a grateful affection to many dear 
 friends whom you once justly numbered among 
 your greatest earthly blessings, that makes you 
 fondly inquisitive into their actual situation 
 and employment. That their situation is 
 happy and certain ; that they are in peace ; 
 that the souls of the righteous are in the hand 
 of God, and there shall no torment touch them ; 
 that our common Lord will raise them up at 
 the last day, body and soul ; and call them to 
 a participation of his ineffable joy ; of all this 
 
Letter in. 225 
 
 you are infallibly assured. And can you not 
 be contented to live by such a faith ? Must 
 the fond eye of imagination needs be soothed 
 with a fancied sight of pleasing scenes, and a 
 Christian elysium ? Why, be it so ; the lively 
 powers of sweet imagination were granted to 
 the children of men with a gracious intent to 
 counterbalance the low cares and frequent 
 sufferings of their mortal state. It is their own 
 fault when imagination is taught to excite 
 every hurtful passion, and add fresh stings to 
 every pain. So far as your's can travel along 
 with tolerably rational conjecture, and under 
 the guidance of submissive resignation, I am 
 content for the present half hour (as you mor- 
 tals parcel out that pittance of duration which 
 you call time) to attend her airy steps. Per- 
 haps I may even help her over the first bar. 
 Since as the tree falleth so it must lie, you are 
 inclined to think there can be no increase in 
 goodness during that whole length of time 
 that stretches from the hour of death to the 
 last period of human things : and during your 
 Christian race you have been so justly taught 
 to consider standing still as in effect going back, 
 that you cannot form an idea how thousands 
 of years should innocently and happily pass 
 over creatures unimproved in their course. 
 
226 Letter in. 
 
 Continual improvement is the law of your- 
 mortal state of trial — he who loiters in a race 
 must lose, but he who has happily reached 
 the goal may rest. Perhaps beyond the period 
 of these stars and planets, new amazing 
 scenes of delightful activity, and extatic pro- 
 gression to inconceivable improvement, with 
 still brighter crowns in view, may be for ever 
 opening on the spirits of the blessed. Allow 
 them a few ages of recruit before they are to 
 enter on the boundless barrier. Of this for 
 the present no more. Is your first difficulty 
 removed ? As the tree falleih so it must lie. 
 True : there can after your present state of 
 trial is ended, be no change from bad to good. 
 But who hath told you that there may be no 
 change from good to better ? each spirit still 
 keeping its own proportion, but each in that 
 proportion advancing still to new degrees of 
 knowledge, of charity, of devotioij, and raptu- 
 rous gratitude ? Increase in knowledge cannot 
 be made by such a spirit as hath by the all- 
 gracious Redeemer been accepted in the hour 
 of death, without bringing proportionable im- 
 provements in every divine affection. But these 
 are no longer, as in this world rewardahle 
 since they are no longer a toil, a struggle, a 
 victory ; but mere necessity of nature, an 
 earnest and a blessed part of the infinite reward 
 
Letter iir. 227 
 
 which He hath obtained for all that will. Oh 
 think frequently of this, my frail charge; 
 think that you may attain — that you may 
 forfeit your share in this inestimable blessed- 
 ness. Whoever will, may take the waters of 
 life and drink freely. And will you bestow 
 your thoughts and care on broken cisterns and 
 muddy streams. Think how the friends 
 whom you have so dearly loved and lamented, 
 may by this time be improved, and that if you 
 press on here, you too shall hereafter attain to 
 your proportionable improvement. Endeavour 
 even to overtake the foremost excellence. To 
 awaken you out of heartless despondency — to . 
 rouse you from dangerous indolence, is an 
 important part of my commission — the shield- 
 ing you from bodily peril, or relieving you in. 
 painful moments, is nothing in comparison. 
 What availed the temporary preservation of the 
 unprofitable tree, if after all the pains bestowed, 
 it was at last cut down as a cumber er of the 
 ground * ? That last must soon come, but if 
 the tree bear good fruit well — it will not then 
 be cut down, but transplanted into the groves 
 of Paradise. 
 
 * See Luke xiii. 6, &e: 
 Q2 
 
DIALOGUES, 
 
 V : -YORK. 
 
DIALOGUE I, 
 
 Description of a Moral hut not Gloomy 
 Retirement, 
 
 My clear friend Imagination, what place 
 will you allot for my Winter's habitation, 
 when I have a mind to retire from the hurry 
 of the town, and review the actions of every 
 passing day ? 
 
 A little hermitage, on the eastern side of 
 the highest mountain, in the kingdom of 
 Katascopia *. 
 
 Order a set of ideas to be put to your rapid 
 chariot, and transport me thither as soon as 
 you please ; for I am already charmed with 
 the proposal. 
 
 A winding path leads you by an impercepti- 
 ble ascent, through groves of laurels, bays^ 
 pines, oaks, cedars, myrtles, and all kinds of 
 beautiful ever-greens, with which the sides 
 of the mountains are eternally covered, to an 
 
 * Contemplation* 
 
232 Dialogue i* 
 
 apartment cut out in the substance of the rock/ 
 and consisting of two rooms. You enter into 
 the first, through an arch hewn out, without 
 much art; and whose only ornaments are the 
 ivy, with which it is almost entirely overgrown, 
 and the chrystalline isicles, which winter 
 hangs on the inequalities of its surface. The 
 only light that it receives, is through this arch : 
 and the plainness of the furniture is answerable 
 to that of the building* The floor is covered 
 with a kind of moss, that is always dry : and 
 a couch of the same goes round the room* 
 On the right side, at the further end, is a 
 little stone-table, with the Hermit's usual 
 furniture, a book, a skull, an hour-glass, and 
 a lamp, Near the mouth of the cave is a teles- 
 cope : and on the left side, a small door opens 
 into a little square apartment, formed to in- 
 dulge less melancholy meditations. Opposite 
 to the entrance, are shelves filled with books, 
 of a serious and moral nature, that take up one 
 side of the room. A bed of plain white dimity, 
 with two chairs of the same, is opposite tp the 
 chimney, where a cheerful wood fire is con- 
 tinually blazing. Near the fire is placed a 
 little table, and a low seat, more for convent 
 ence, than show ; and the w r alis are covered 
 
Dialogue i. 233 
 
 with a white paper, over which, a vine seems 
 to spread its leafy shade. 
 
 You have described this retirement to mv 
 wish. A mere hermitage would be too gloomy 
 for a constant dwelling. And yet there are 
 many hours in which the solemnity of the out- 
 ward cell, with the moon shining into it, and 
 faintly gleaming on its melancholy furniture, 
 would suit my turn of thought, better than the 
 brightest sun, glittering on the gayest scenes, 
 
 I have not yet mentioned to you the most 
 agreeable circumstance of the outward cell* 
 its delightful and extensive view. 
 
 Is not that obstructed by the groves of ever- 
 greens, through which you ascend to this seat 
 of calm wisdom ? 
 
 It is placed high enough for the spectator 
 to look over their venerable tops, and see the 
 current of life, a wide extended ocean, gliding 
 swiftly along, at the foot of the mountain. 
 Beyond it, but half concealed in woods, lie 
 the happy islands, and the bleak and doleful 
 regions, where all that infinite number of 
 barks, that cover this immense ocean, sooner 
 or later dislodge their weary passengers. The 
 observations you will make, from this emi- 
 nence, on the course of the sea, the various 
 rocks and whirlpools, that jnake its passage 
 
234 Dialogue i. 
 
 C3 
 
 dangerous; tlie conduct of the pilots, and the 
 behaviour of the passengers, will give you 
 important instructions, for the guidance of 
 your own bark. You may even see your 
 own : and by a timely observance, avoid every 
 danger that threatens it, and improve every 
 favourable gale, to the best advantage. 
 
DIALOGUE II. 
 
 Enquiry how far Practice has kept pace with 
 Intention. 
 
 What have you done, this Summer ? 
 
 Rode, and laughed, and fretted. 
 
 What did you intend to do? 
 
 To learn geography, mathematics, decimal 
 fractions, and good humour: to work a screen, 
 draw copies of two or three fine prints, and 
 read abundance of history : to improve my 
 memory, and restrain my fancy : to lay out 
 my time to the best advantage: to be happy 
 myself, and make every body else so, To 
 read Voltaire, Newton, Whiston's Euclid and 
 Tillotson's Sermons. 
 
 Have you read nothing? 
 
 Yes : some of the Sermons ; Mrs. Howe's 
 Works; the Tale of a Tub; a book of Dr. 
 Watts's; L'Histoire du Ciel; Milton, and 
 abundance of plays and idle books. 
 
 Do you remember nothing of your geo- 
 graphy ? 
 
 Not so much as what belongs to England. 
 
 Mathematics — 
 
 7 
 
§36 Dialogue if. 
 
 Turn my head. 
 
 And what is your fine head good for? 
 
 To wear a pair of Brussels lappets, or spii> 
 out extravagant imaginations and fancies. 
 
 How does your arithmetic go on ? 
 
 I have bought one of the best books on the. 
 subject, 
 
 And studied it? 
 
 O no : I have not read a page in it. 
 
 This is the way too, in which you study 
 natural history? 
 
 Yes: I have bought Reaumur's works, and 
 set them on my shelves.. 
 
 Well : but are you good humoured ? 
 
 yes: mightily so, when I am pleased and 
 entertained. 
 
 But a trifle puts you out of humour? 
 
 Yes, perhaps it does: but then, I am ten 
 times more out of humour with myself than 
 with other people. 
 
 So that, upon the whole, you are satisfied 
 \vith your temper? 
 
 Very tolerably, as the world goes* 
 
 And do not you think yourself at all vain? 
 
 1 do not think, what is commonly called 
 vanity, so terrible a thing, as it is generally 
 reckoned. 
 
 What do ypu mean by this ? 
 
Dialogue tu 237 
 
 I mean, that if it were possible, people ought 
 to be as well acquainted with their own cha- 
 racters, at least, as with those of other persons ; 
 and therefore ought to know their good qua- 
 lities, as well as their faults. 
 
 This, in itself, is not vanity : but it is the 
 ready path to it. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 If you were standing on a high hill, from 
 whence you had two very different views, one 
 adorned with all that can make a landscape 
 beautiful; the other leading your eye through 
 barren moors, dreary caverns, and frightful 
 precipices: which do you think you should 
 spend most time in looking at? 
 
 The answer is a very clear one : If I had 
 no interest in either of the views, I should 
 admire the fine landscape, and perhaps take 
 a copy of it. 
 
 Well, but suppose them both in your own 
 estate? You seem to think that would make 
 some difference, in your way of proceeding. 
 
 Yes, to be sure, a very great one. In that 
 case I should spend the greatest part of my 
 time in considering, by what methods I could 
 level the precipices, render the barren heaths 
 fruitful, and make that part of my estate as 
 
238 Dialogue //. 
 
 useful and delightful as the other: but still it 
 would be necessary to observe the other pros- 
 pect, for this very purpose, of imitating it. 
 
 If you had not added this last reason for 
 looking at the gay side of the view, you had 
 proved, what was far from your intention, that 
 it is our faults, and not our perfections, which 
 ought to claim our attention. 
 
 There are twenty reasons for this, besides 
 that which I mentioned. To continue your 
 allegory: with what spirit do you think, it 
 would be possible for a man to set about so 
 difficult a work, as those improvements must 
 be, if he did not know, that he had an estate 
 sufficient to support the expence, and an 
 agreeable place to retire to, when he was 
 wearied with his less pleasing employment? 
 
 This is but one of the twenty. 
 
 But it is strong enough to be equal to half 
 a score of less weight. However, you shall 
 have another — 
 
 There is no need of it. I am sensible that 
 a man ought to- know the true value of what 
 he possesses, both that he may enjoy it, with 
 due gratitude to the giver, and that he may 
 take sufficient care., to preserve it at least, and 
 perhaps to improve it still further. But when 
 
Dialogue iu 239 
 
 this is granted you will allow mo, that it' is 
 very disagreeable for a rich man to be always 
 boasting of the greatness of his estate and the 
 magnificence of his palaces. 
 
 Mqst certainly. Nor is it less disgustful 
 to hear a man, who is well known to all the 
 world to have a very considerable fortune, 
 always complaining of his poverty, and, under 
 a feiVned humility, concealing the most hate- 
 ful pride. 
 
 So that, upon the whole, all extremes ought 
 to be avoided, even though, sometimes, they 
 may seem to border upon a virtue. 
 
 This is the lightest conclusion in the world; 
 but the misfortune is, that it is no new disco- 
 very of ours, but has been the allowed and 
 wise precept of all ages *, 
 
 That does not make it at all the less valuable 
 to us. Do you not think, we should be much 
 happier in being able to follow the maxim, 
 than in being able to give it? 
 
 I should wish to be capable of both. 
 
 Pray, my dear, how old are you? 
 
 Eighteen last Mayf\ 
 
 * Virtus est medium vitiorum et utrinque reductum, 
 
 Hor. Epist. i. 18. 
 t If, as it seems, Miss Talbot was only eighteen whea 
 she wrote this dialogue, she must have possessed a sur~ 
 
240 Dialogue it. 
 
 You have lived eighteen years in the worlds 
 you say : pray may I enquire what you have 
 done in all that time? 
 
 My life has not, as yet, been one of much 
 action. I have been chiefly employed in lay- 
 ing in provision of knowledge and sentiments, 
 for future years. 
 
 Well: shall I examine your magazine? you 
 will have occasion for it all, and ought to have 
 it chosen with the utmost care. 
 
 Which will you look into first, my heart or 
 my memory? Here are the keys of both. 
 
 Your memory is next at hand. It is a pretty 
 cabinet, and not one of the smallest size: but 
 I have seen a japan cabinet kept in much 
 better order, though it was filled only with 
 shells. 
 
 I wish yovi would help me to set the 
 drawers a little in order. What do you meet 
 with in the first ? 
 
 Fragments of all sorts and kinds. Truly I 
 think it is like a museum: there are some 
 valuable things in it, but they are almost hid 
 amongst mere trash. — I need look no further. 
 I perceive already, that your memory is so 
 
 prising knowledge of the human heart, and an uncom- 
 mon justness of reasoning for that early time of life. 
 
Dialogue n. 241 
 
 idly filled, that your wish of giving wise 
 maxims, is a very wild one. So I will con- 
 clude, my dear, with advising you, to be very 
 well contented, if you can but follow those 
 of other people.. 
 
DIALOGUE III. 
 
 Danger of too much Prosperity without the 
 Assistance of real Friends. 
 
 Come to my assistance, my friend, my ad- 
 viser. I feel myself oppressed and low spi- 
 rited, to the greatest degree ; all my thoughts 
 have a disagreeable turn; my employments 
 seem burthensome, and my amusements in- 
 sipid. A moment's serious conversation with 
 you, seems the only thing that is likely to give 
 me relief. 
 
 I should little have thought, that your situa- 
 tion in life required relief, or wanted any assist- 
 ance, to make you sensible of its agreeable- 
 ness. 
 
 I know, that I have every reason, except 
 that which arises from merit, to think myself 
 the happiest creature in the world : and no- 
 body can be more fully and more gratefully 
 sensible of it than I am: nor is it my reason 
 that complains. 
 
Dialogue in. 243 
 
 It is not then your situation in life, that sinks 
 your spirits. 
 
 It is the very situation, that answers Cowley's 
 wish *, and mine: nor would I change with 
 the greatest princess. 
 
 Nor is it the want of friends to make that 
 situation agreeable. 
 
 In this respect, you know, that ho mortal 
 was ever so remarkably happy as I am. No- 
 body had ever, I believe, the advantage of 
 such amiable examples of affectionate care, 
 guided by such excellent sense and goodness. 
 I feel too much upon this article to express it 
 at all well: and my thoughts flow in so fast> 
 that I cannot find words for them. But I was 
 going to add, that nobody ever wanted this 
 advantage so much as I do, whose too easy 
 temper might, perhaps insensibly, follow a bad 
 example, if fortune had thrown it in my way. 
 But however that be, of this I am sure, that 
 never was a mind so helpless, so distressed as 
 mine would be, if it had been left in this 
 wide world, without guides, who possess all 
 my love and confidence. 
 
 Is it bad health, then, that prevents your 
 
 * See his Poem so called, p. 79. of TonsWs edition of 
 1721. 
 
 r 2 
 
244 Dialogue in. 
 
 enjoying the happiness, that seems to attend 
 on all your steps ? 
 
 Nothing less: I never knew a painful ill- 
 ness. My sleeps are sweet, and uninterrupted, 
 and those slight disorders, to which I am some- 
 times liable, only serve to make me sensible of 
 the value of the great share of health and 
 ease, which I for the most part enjoy : and to 
 shew me the most engaging instances of good- 
 ness, in those about me. I speak this so seri- 
 ously that I believe I scarce ever had a fever 
 or cough in my life, that did not occasion me 
 more pleasure tlMn uneasiness: and the hours 
 of retirement they have afforded me, are none 
 of the least obligations which I have to them *l 
 
 * To a well regulated mind suffering will appear to be 
 t least as beneficial a gift of God as happiness is. So 
 sung our moral Poet : 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity, 
 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
 
 As you Like it. 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of 
 Vanity. 
 
 What is vanity? 
 
 Ask your own heart. 
 
 And is it very blameable ? 
 
 It destroys all the merit of every thing that 
 is good: and all the grace of every thing that 
 is amiable. 
 
 But may not one love to be commended ? 
 
 According as the commendation is. 
 
 Methinks, now, it would be more vanity to 
 be so self-sufficient, as not to wish the suffrages 
 of good and wise peeple, to make one satisfied, 
 that one's conduct is right. 
 
 But what can you say for the pleasure you 
 feel upon being commended for trifles, or ap- 
 proved by idle people? 
 
 Why, it is but common good nature to 
 wish to please every body, without exception, 
 so far as it may innocently be done. 
 
 Yet favour, you know, is deceitful. — And 
 
246 Dialogue ir. 
 
 so far for trifles, and in things most import- 
 ant, remember the strict and solemn charge, 
 that we do not our good actions before men, 
 to be seen of them. 
 
 Yet we are as strictly charged to let our 
 light shine before them, and to set them a good 
 example for the honour of religion. 
 
 Most true. The golden medium must be 
 found, nice as it is to hit: our highest interest, 
 our all depends upon it. If praise be our 
 aim, praise, the poor praise of wretched men, 
 shall be our barren reward. Yet if timor- 
 ously we hide our one talent in a napkin, even 
 that shq.ll be taken away from us. 
 
 How dreadful the thoughts of missing that 
 only approbation, which it should be the bu- 
 siness of our life to deserve! No natural de- 
 sire of the friendship and good-will of our 
 fellow-creatures can stand in competition with 
 that fear. 
 
 Happy the cloistered life, where the world 
 is quite shut oat : and piety and virtue are 
 exercised in solitude and silence without any 
 visible eye to observe them! 
 
 That sure is an extreme, the extreme of the 
 buried talent. Let me tell you what I think 
 must be the only rule lo go by. 
 
 Oh ! tell it : no sound cap be so welcome. 
 
Dialogue iK 247 
 
 The rule of duty. Attend solely to that, 
 and let all self-reflections alone. 
 
 How! never examine my conduct? Never 
 call my follies to account? 
 
 Yes: but have you never read (^with re- 
 gard to virtues) of " forgetting the things 
 " that are behind, and ever pressing for- 
 " ward?" 
 
 Well; yet in an hour of sickness, adversity, 
 distress, may no glad hope from the remem- 
 brance of having always acted from a sincere 
 right intention, however imperfectly pursued, 
 cast its reviving ray athwart the gloom ? 
 
 The comforts of a good conscience are no 
 vanity. There is in them an important re- 
 ality. But cordials, in the day of health, are 
 poisons. 
 
 Then be particular: what is this rule of 
 duty ? 
 
 Whatever the exigence of the present cir- 
 cumstance most immediately and clearly de- 
 mands, Pursue always one strait path, with- 
 out ever stepping out of the way, either to 
 attract observation, or to avoid it. 
 
 What is the rule in cases of charity? 
 
 Chuse to do good in the most private man- 
 ner, whenever that is a matter of choice. 
 But as this is, in many cases, quite impossible. 
 
248 Dialogue iv. 
 
 do as quietly as you can, all the goorl that is 
 incumbent on you : that is, all the good von 
 are capable of, in your station, and without 
 interfering, where you absolutely ought not to 
 interfere. If you meet with commendation for 
 it, be if possible so much the more humble : 
 as knowing those seeds of vanity to be in you, 
 that may, upon the slightest praise, have 
 such a sad effect, as to render the best you 
 have done, less than nothing. 
 
 Alas, it is terrifying to consider, how many 
 persons have fallen, from not inconsiderable 
 advancement in goodness, though mere pre- 
 sumption, and self-opinion ! And yet can one 
 help wishing to please ? 
 
 No certainly: there would be something 
 savage in a contrary disposition. But then, 
 look to it, that this desire be free from vanity. 
 It may be quite so. 
 
 Can it be without some self-complacence in 
 its gratification ? 
 
 It cannot be without some sense of plea- 
 sure: but from what? Self, in every one of 
 us human creatures, is the wretchedest, the 
 poorest of beings. The pleasure results from 
 a gratetul reflection on the fulness and bounty 
 of that gracious Being, whose gift alone is 
 
Dialogue jr. 249 
 
 every thing, that can give us delight, with 
 every capacity of tasting it. 
 
 In this view then, we may innocently 
 desire, that his gifts of some good qualities to 
 us. should be the instruments of conveying his 
 gift also of some benefit or pleasure to our 
 fellow-creatures ; and that in return, they 
 should in a lower degree, be pleased with us. 
 
 I think so indeed. 
 
 But what say you to the duty of setting a 
 good example, and contributing so far as 
 private persons can, to keep virtue and religion 
 in countenance ? 
 
 It is surely a very important one. But it 
 requires a daily, hourly guard over the heart, 
 to see that no secret vanity poisons the good 
 intention. 
 
 And what is to be said of affability, good- 
 humour, easy behaviour, and endeavouring 
 to make ourselves agreeable ? 
 
 Let but your whole behaviour flow uniformly 
 from one fixed principle of duty, and you may 
 always be secure. Be therefore equally affa- 
 ble to all kinds of people : study to please 
 even those who are far from pleasing you : 
 make yourself agreeable to those, whose praise 
 you are sure you do not seek. Study to oblige 
 the heavy, the low T , the tedious ; and in what- 
 9 
 
250 Dialogue iv. 
 
 ever company you are, never aim at what is 
 called shining. Do all this, and you may 
 very allowably strive to please in agreeable 
 company too : and may be satisfied yon act 
 from sociable good humour and not from 
 vanity. 
 
 But tell me : is it possible to see one's self in 
 the right, and another in the wrong, without 
 feeling a little superiority f 
 
 Yes; if you will consider the matter a little 
 coolly over, you will see it to be very possible 
 to adhere to your own better judgment, without 
 the least triumph, and indeed with the truest 
 huteility. 
 
 Instruct me, I beseech you. 
 
 Consider first, this very inclination to be 
 over-pleased, is a very dangerous weakness : 
 one that you are ashamed to own, since any 
 expressions of self-esteem are contrary to all 
 rules of true politeness ; and true politeness 
 has its foundation in the nature of things. 
 Therefore, whenever you feel any sentiment, 
 that you should be ashamed to express, be 
 assured thai they ought equally to be ashamed 
 of indulging it in silence. The first emotions 
 of the mind are, indeed, in some measure 
 involuntary: the giving encouragement to 
 them is all, for which we shall be accountable, 
 
 
Dialogue if. 251 
 
 and the thought may very commendably pass 
 through the mind, that becomes faulty if it 
 dwells there*. Self-applause of any thing 
 ever so praise-worthy is like Orpheus conduct- 
 ing Eurydice. It must needs accompany it : 
 but if the pleasure of looking back and ad- 
 miring be indulged, the fair frail object 
 vanishes into nothing. 
 
 So : while you take breath after that simile, 
 let me ask a few more questions. 
 
 I have not done with the last yet, You 
 will say, how can we be even the more hum- 
 ble for seeing other people's faults? 
 
 Not improbably. 
 
 Why : are we not partakers of the self- 
 same erring nature ? Are not we as liable fo 
 err as they ? 
 
 No: surely there is a difference between 
 good and bad, knowing and ignorant, pru- 
 dent and rash. 
 
 Is there ? Well : what do you imagine then 
 of our first parents, formed in the highest 
 perfection of uncorrupted nature, conversant 
 
 * Evil into the mind of God or man 
 
 May come and go, so unapproved, and leave 
 No spot or blame behind. 
 
 Par. Lost, Booh r* 
 
252 Dialogue iv. 
 
 daily with celestial visitors, and by them in- 
 structed ? 
 
 I see your inference, and it is strictly just. 
 
 — They fell. — What then are we ? Yet. we in 
 this blessed period of the world, in this its 
 last two thousand years, have higher advan- 
 tages, and surer supports and stronger assist- 
 ances. 
 
 Most true. But are these to make us vain, 
 or to make us humble ? 
 
 Humble, I own it. We have nothing that 
 we can call our own : nothing that pride and 
 self-conceit may not forfeit : and the greater 
 our advantages, the more terrifying is the 
 possibility of losing them. 
 
 Reflect, in every history you read, what 
 impression it leaves on you of the gross of 
 mankind. Then think, all these passions, all 
 these weaknesses are originally, more or less 
 in every one of us. If you were still liable to 
 the infection of the small-pox, and were hourly- 
 exposed to it in a town, where it raged among 
 almost all Use inhabitants, with what kind of 
 sentiments should you see them labouring 
 under all its dreadful circumstances, and 
 what kind of triumph and self-approbation 
 should you feel, from your own high health, 
 and smooth complexion ? 
 
Dialogue ir. 253 
 
 I should only, with fear and trembling, 
 double my caution to preserve them if possi- 
 ble. 
 
 And were you safe got through the illness, 
 how strong would be your sympathy with 
 those yet suffering? 
 
 Yet might I not, and ought I not to pre- 
 scribe to them such methods of cure, or even 
 of present relief and ease, as I had experienced 
 to be most successful ? 
 
 Yes: but would the praise be your's or your 
 physician's ? 
 
 All characters upon record are not thus 
 terrifying. We partake the same nature 
 with saints and heroes. 
 
 Can that raise any vanity ? A noble and an 
 honest pride it may: a glorious, a laudable 
 ambition to imitate their virtues. But to see 
 others of our own nature mounted up so high, 
 our eye can scarcely follow them, is surely to 
 us, poor, dull, and weak creatures, of short 
 sight and feeble pinion, mortifying enough. 
 
 You teach me the best lesson, that can be 
 learned from history, a deep, a practical and 
 unfeigned humility. Society with all its 
 various scenes will te^ch the same: and all 
 those things, which if vanity engross us, 
 minister so abundantly to self-conceit, con- 
 
254 Dialogue iv. 
 
 tempt, disdain, and every evil disposition of 
 the heart, will, if humility be our directress, 
 heighten in us every right affection. Our 
 hearts will overflow wrh gratitude to our su- 
 preme Benefactor, and pour themselves out in 
 the most earnest desires of his continual assist- 
 ance and protection. They will melt with the 
 kindest commiseration to our erring fellow- 
 creatures: and they will, without forming one 
 ambitious scheme, be most happily and meekly 
 content with whatever situation Providence 
 allots us. 
 
 The disposition of humility being thus valu- 
 able, let me add one consideration more, 
 which may help to confirm it, and may teach 
 us to avoid that great danger it incurs, from 
 our knowing ourselves at any time in the 
 right. The more strong we are in our opinion, 
 the more lively our dislike is of the opposite 
 error, fault, or folly, the more humbled we 
 should be at the thought, (which in general is 
 a certain fact, though we are blind perhaps as 
 to the particulars) that however right we 
 are in this instance, in some others, too proba- 
 bly in very many others, we are quite as much 
 in the wrong, as those we now despise and 
 blame. Error is just as ugly in us, as in 
 them : If our sense of it be as strong, uglier 
 3 
 
Dialogue iv. 255 
 
 still and more unpardonable. And yet how 
 many have fallen themselves into the very 
 faults, they most violently condemned : 
 
 How true is all this ! Let me add to it a 
 thought, that just now rises to my mind, or 
 rather a whole group. 
 
 It is true, the subject is inexhaustible : but 
 our time you know was limited, and the clock 
 is just striking. 
 
DIALOGUE V. 
 
 On the Nature of human Happiness. 
 
 Lisaura was complaining one day to Paulina, 
 that happiness was no where to be found. 
 How do you contrive, said she, to be cheerful 
 and easy, so constantly contented in your 
 appearance ? When, I am convinced, that at 
 the bottom, you must have some lurking dis- 
 satisfaction, some concealed uneasiness, that 
 secretly diffuses its venom over your enjoy- 
 ments ? 
 
 It is true, said Paulina, my history is pretty 
 extraordinary, and my life, has been crost by 
 a thousand accidents, that reason and religion 
 apart, would make my happiness appear 
 doubtful enough. But prithee, Lisaura, how 
 do you come to suspect it, who, I am per- 
 suaded, know little of my real story, and are 
 young enough to judge of the sincerity of 
 other people's appearance, by your own. 
 
 Why, it is from that very cause you name, 
 replied Lisaura. In all the bloom of health 
 and youth, in all the ease of situation imagin- 
 
. Dialogue r. 257 
 
 able, I still perceive a discontent, that preys 
 upon my heart. Sometimes, I am anxious for 
 the long futurity even of common life, that 
 lies before me : that lies, like a wild, unknown, 
 and barren plain, wrapt up in thick fogs of 
 uncertainty. Sometimes I lose myself in 
 melancholy reflections on the past. My cares, 
 and attentions, which then so busily engaged 
 me, seem now such a heap of impertinences, 
 and follies, that I sicken at them, and at my- 
 self. And then, what a strong presumption 
 do they give one, even against those of the 
 present hour! That present hour, how vain is 
 it, how uneasy, what a very trifle will entirely 
 sour it ! With all this, any body that consi- 
 dered my situation in life, would pronounce 
 me happy. How then can I be secure of the 
 happiness of any other person ? 
 
 Shall I tell you, answered Paulina, why 
 you are not sure of your own ? 
 
 Oh most willingly, cried Lisaura. 
 
 Well then, resumed Paulina— but come my 
 dear, tell me a little of the assembly you were 
 at, last week. 
 
 The transition is a little hasty, said Lisaura, 
 smiling. 
 
 No matter for that, you will lose nothing 
 
258 Dialogue r. 
 
 by it, in the end : perhaps I may give you a 
 more studied discourse in the afternoon. 
 
 Well then, what can I tell you, but that I 
 was fatigued to the greatest degree ; and after 
 long expectation, and five hours vain pursuit 
 of amusement, came home, at last, utterly dis- 
 satisfied. 
 
 Amusement ! That is a very general word : 
 in what shape did you think, that it was to 
 appear to you ? 
 
 Lisaura coloured, and Paulina went on. 
 Your mistake, dear Lisaura, in life, is the 
 very same, that it was in this assembly, and 
 will lead you into the same dissatisfied satiety. 
 You, not you only, but most young people, 
 form to yourself a general and vague idea of 
 happiness, which, because it is uncertain in 
 its being, is as variable as your temper: so 
 that whenever you meet with any thing that 
 does not exactly suit the present humour, you 
 imagine you have missed of happiness : and so 
 indeed you have ; but quite in a different way. 
 The perfect idea of happiness, belongs to 
 another world : as such it is always to be kept 
 in view, and therein consists the point of 
 human happiness, which no vicissitudes of 
 human affairs can alter. 
 
Dialogue r. 259 
 
 Ct 
 
 But human happiness has separate from 
 this, a very real existence, and has distin- 
 guishing characteristics of its own. One of 
 these is imperfection : and a necessary one it 
 is to be known. Our business, in this world, 
 was not to sit down, and be satisfied, but to 
 rub on through many difficulties, and through 
 manyduties, with just accommodations enough 
 to support us among them in a cheerful frame 
 of mind ; such a cheerful and easy frame of 
 mind, as is at all times, disposed to relish the 
 beauties of nature, and the comforts of so- 
 ciety, though not enough attached to them, 
 to make the parting difficult. 
 
 To form any other notion of happiness, 
 than this, is a folly that will punish itself. 
 Duty excepted, all the concerns of human life 
 are of slight importance : and when once Ave 
 have possessed our minds of that belief, all 
 those mysterious phantoms, that gave us such 
 real anxiety, will immediately disappear. The 
 opinion of the world, figure, obscurity, poverty, 
 wealth, contempt, fear, pain, affliction, will 
 appear to be momentary concerns, and there- 
 fore little worth long hours of serious thought. 
 Yet all these things are worth so much, hat 
 just as far as reason directs us, it is matter of 
 duty to pursue, or avoid them. But when 
 
 s 2 
 
260 Dialogue v. 
 
 choice has nothing to do, content is every 
 thing. Content did I say? I should have 
 added, gratitude ; for much indeed, the 
 state even of this world deserves. For that* 
 however, I will refer you to Dr. Barrow. He 
 lies upon my table, above stairs : and has 
 something in his style so sweet, so strong and 
 animated, that I cannot recommend you a 
 better companion. 
 
 I have often been charmed with him at 
 home, replied Lisaura, and, as fond as you 
 see me of idle amusement, I am not insen- 
 sible to the excellencies of so grave an author. 
 I have been pleased to hear very good judges 
 call him the English Demosthenes : and I have 
 felt a secret delight in hearing applied to this 
 noble orator, who (in spite of those peculiar 
 expressions, which the copiousness of his dic- 
 tion seems to call in, from all parts) has so 
 often warmed me with sentiments unknown 
 before, what Longinus says of the other, that 
 one might as well face the dazzling lighten- 
 ing, as stand against the force of his elo- 
 quence. Bless me, how do I run on ! You 
 
 were teaching me to be happy, pursue the 
 lesson. I have done. 
 
 I'll tell you then, my clear Lisaura : attend 
 \o me. Convinced by reason and religion, 
 
Dialogue v. 261 
 
 that the evils of life are mere phantoms, pre- 
 pare yourself with resignation, to submit to 
 them, with constancy to support them. To lay 
 in such a stock of strength, you must call in the 
 assistance of many a leisure hour, of many a 
 serious thought, of many an earnest resolu- 
 tion. By these means, all will grow clear in 
 your own mind : reflection will become your 
 best friend, and most agreeable companion, 
 and whatever destiny attends you, you will 
 acquiesce in it with pleasure. 
 
 But your misfortune is that of a splenetic 
 constitution : a day's slight disorder, a heavier 
 temperament of the air immediately affects 
 you so, as to alter, to your fancy, the whole 
 frame of nature. Fix it well in your mind^ 
 that these gloomy imaginations are deceitful. 
 The bountiful Creator was not mistaken, when 
 pleased with his compleated work, he declared 
 that " all was good." The scheme of Pro- 
 vidence and nature is infinitely so; and its 
 contemplation is an inexhaustible source of 
 delight. Life has its gloomy scenes, but to 
 the good, they only prove an awful exercise 
 of duty supported, all the while, by the assur- 
 ance of reward. Life has its cheerful mo- 
 ments too, which to the good, no sorrow can 
 embitter. Thus whilst the pleasures of re- 
 
262 Dialogue v. 
 
 ligion, of benevolence, of friendship, of con- 
 tent, of gratitude, of every innocent gaiety, of 
 free society, of lively mirth, of health, and of all 
 those infinite objects of delight, which smiling 
 nature offers us; whilst these are real and 
 substantial enjoyments, that ill, which we 
 might fear, from the deprivation of some of 
 them, and even of life itself, is proved to be 
 a mere imaginary terror. This, we have 
 numberless opportunities of knowing. But, 
 blinded by passion, or weakened by consti- 
 tution, we perpetually run into the common 
 mistake. We form, to ourselves, such a false 
 idea of human happiness, that when we might 
 behold, and be favoured by the goddess her- 
 self, we fly from her in a fright because she 
 is not adorned just with those trappings, in 
 which our fancy had drest her out. Restless, 
 we still shift from place to place, to find what 
 we do not know, when we see it: and restless, 
 we shall ever be, if for a fit of the spleen, or 
 an unanswered wish, we imagine, that a just 
 degree of happiness is not within every body's 
 reach. My dear Lisaura, if you have any 
 sense of gratitude to that Providence, which 
 formed you for happiness, avoid this gloomy 
 error. Let refined reason fix your judgment, 
 and then, let common sense direct your prac- 
 tice. 
 
OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 Talking over idle vexations, only makes 
 them worse. 
 
 Every day should be single, unconnected 
 with the rest, and so bear only the weight of 
 its own vexations *. 
 
 Never make a group of them, nor look 
 backwards or forwards on a series of dis- 
 agreeable days; but be always content to 
 make the best of the present. 
 
 Every day try to do what you can, and try 
 in earnest, and with spirit. Scorn to be dis- 
 couraged ; and if one scheme fails, form ano- 
 ther, as fast as a spider does webs. But 
 never be anxious or uneasy : and if the day 
 be very unpropitious, and nothing will do, 
 even be contented, and easy, and cheerful, as 
 having done the best you could. For, per- 
 petually trying and aiming to do proper things, 
 keeps up the spirit of action which is the im- 
 
 ■* Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. 
 
 Matt, vi, 34. 
 
264 Occasional Thoughts. 
 
 portant point, and preserves you from the 
 danger of falling into heartless indolence, to 
 the full as well as if you really did them : and 
 as for the particular things themselves, it is 
 not a pin matter. But always carry an easy 
 smiling look, and take nothing to heart. 
 
 There is scarcely any thing which a sincere 
 endeavour, directed by the hearty conviction 
 of real duty, will not in time accomplish : 
 since an endeavour so directed, will be accom- 
 panied by persevering, humble prayer, and to 
 persevering prayer, joined with sincere endea- 
 vours, success is infallibly promised. 
 
 Considering life in its great and important 
 view as the probation for a passage to eter- 
 nity — and this is the just and true way of 
 considering it— of what signification is it, 
 whether it be passed in town or country : in 
 hurry or in retirement: in pomp or gaiety, 
 or in quiet obscurity? Of none: any further 
 than as these different situations hurt or im- 
 prove the mind : and in either of them a right 
 mind may preserve, or even improve itself, 
 
 What is then of consequence ? Why, that 
 wherever, or however life is past, it should 
 be reasonably and happily : now to this no- 
 thing is necessary but a true practical sense 
 
Occasional Thoughts. 265 
 
 of religion, an easy good humour, cheerful in- 
 difference to trifles of all kinds, whether 
 agreeable or vexatious : and keeping one's self 
 above them all, suitably to the true dignity of 
 an immortal nature. 
 
 Now in a quiet private life one certainly 
 may be reasonable, religious, friendly, good- 
 humoured, and consequently happy. 
 
 In great life one may be thus good too, and 
 very useful besides, and consequently very 
 happy also. But this way of life is more dan- 
 gerous, and has too strong a tendency to dis- 
 sipate the mind, and deprave the heart. 
 
 Upon the whole, every state of life is equal. 
 Providence orders all : and therefore in every 
 one, those who cheerfully, and resignedly ac- 
 commodate themselves to its orders, may, and 
 must be happy. Why then this vain care 
 and anxiety, about what it does not belong 
 to us to look forward to ? The good and evil, 
 and the right improvement of the present day, 
 is what it is our business to attend to. If we 
 make the best of that, we are sure all will, 
 and must go well. If we put ourselves by 
 vain distrust and useless foresight, out of a 
 right temper to-day, every to-morrow will be 
 the worse for it 
 
266 Occasional Thoughts. 
 
 We had need often perpetually to be re- 
 collecting what are our duties, and our dan- 
 gers, that we may fulfil the one, and avoid 
 the other: but never with anxious or uneasy 
 forecast. We must consider the difficulties 
 of the state of life we are likely to be in, not 
 because every other state of life has not as 
 many, for all are pretty equal, but because 
 those peculiarly belong to us. 
 
 Dwelling much in our thoughts on other 
 people's unreasonableness, is a sort of revenge, 
 that like all other revenge, hurts ourselves more 
 than them. However, to talk over things some- 
 times a little reasonably, and see how the 
 truth stands, is a very allowable indulgence: 
 but it must not be allowed too often. 
 
 Trying to convince people in cases where 
 they are prejudiced, though ever so unrea- 
 sonably, be it by temper, humour or custom, 
 is a vain and an idle attempt. One should 
 be satisfied if one can, quietly and unper- 
 ceived, over-rule those prejudices, where it is 
 necessary in practice; and not aim at the 
 poor triumph of showing them, that they are 
 in the wrong, which hurts, or puts them out 
 of humour. 
 
 It is mere cheating one's self to take things 
 
Occasional Thoughts. 267 
 
 easily and patiently at the time, and then 
 repine and complain in looking back upon 
 them. This is to enjoy all the pride and self- 
 applause of patience, and all the indulgence 
 of impatience. 
 
PROSE PASTORALS. 
 
 / 
 
PASTORAL I. 
 
 Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of a 
 Shepherd's Life. 
 
 The sun was hid by wintry clouds: the 
 wind blew sharp and cold: the flocks were 
 browzing on the heath, when Colin and 
 Thyrsis, two young Shepherds, who kept them, 
 sat down upon a bank beneath the shelter of a 
 holly bush, and fell into much discourse. 
 Methinks, said Thyrsis, it is but a sad life, 
 that we poor wretches lead, exposed at all 
 times to the severities of the weather : in 
 Summer parched with heat, and pinched by 
 frosts in Winter. While other young people 
 are diverting themselves in the villages, we 
 roam about solitary here, on the wild common, 
 and have nothing to attend to, but our strag- 
 gling sheep. 
 
 And yet, answered Colin, as hard as our 
 life is, you see how old Alcmon loves it ; who 
 has fed his own flocks for fifty years, and 
 maintains that he is happier than a king. 
 
 I am, replied Thyrsis, but newly come into 
 5 
 
272 Pastoral i. 
 
 this country, and have little knowledge of 
 the neighbouring Shepherds : but I should be 
 glad to see one, who could convince me I was 
 happy. 
 
 See then, said Colin, where Alcmon comes 
 hither most opportunely. And thereupon call- 
 ing to the good old man, father, cried he, 
 here is a young Shepherd, who wants your 
 instructions how to live contented. 
 
 Son, said the old man, sitting down by 
 them, I accept of that name, and of the office 
 you have given me : for I wish well to all 
 young people : and as I am happy myself, I 
 would fain have others so. 
 
 A hard task you will have father, inter- 
 rupted Thyrsis, to make people happy, who 
 have no one enjoyment of diversion in life ; 
 but must slave out our day in the service of 
 their masters, who divert themselves the while, 
 and live at ease. 
 
 Good Thyrsis, said Colin, listen but to 
 Alcmon, and you will be convinced, as I have 
 been. 
 
 Nay rather, said Alcmon, let him make his 
 complaint to me: do you answer him from 
 your own experience, and which ever of you 
 best defends his own cause, shall come and 
 sup with me at night. There we will enjoy 
 
Pastoral /♦ 273 
 
 ourselves in honest mirth by a warm fire, and 
 forget all the toils of the day. Thyrsis agreed 
 to the proposal and began. 
 
 Thyrsis. Alas how gloomy are the skies ! 
 How hollow is the whistling of the wind in 
 December ! Are these the scenes to entertain 
 a youthful fancy ? The trees are stript of all 
 their leaves : the very grass is of a russet 
 brown. The birds sit silent and shivering on 
 the branches. All things have an air of po- 
 verty and desolation. Alas how tasteless is the 
 shepherd's life ! His meals are short, and his 
 sleep soon interrupted. He rises many hours 
 before the cheerful day begins to dawn ; and 
 does not return home, till the cold night is far 
 advanced. 
 
 Colin. But then how delightful is the early 
 spring ! How reviving the advances of sum- 
 mer ! The sky grows clear, or is only over- 
 spread with thin, white, curdling clouds. Soft 
 showers descend upon the withered grass, and 
 every meadow seems to laugh. The gay 
 flowers spring up in every field, and adorn 
 it with beautiful colours. The lambkins frisk 
 around us, and divert us with their innocent 
 gaieties. The shepherd's life is as innocent as 
 theirs. If his meals are plain, they are hearty: 
 if his sleep is short, it is both scu id and 
 
274 Pastoral i. 
 
 sweet. He rises refreshed in the morning, 
 and sees the day come on by gradual advances, 
 till the whole east is streaked with purple 
 clouds. \^hen night succeeds, he beholds 
 the immense vault of heaven : he admires the 
 lustre of the stars, and in vain tries to reckon 
 their number. While they glitter over his 
 head, he has no cause to fear any ill influences 
 from them, since his whole life is harmless 
 and industrious, and renders him the care of 
 Providence. 
 
 Thyrsis. O with what envy do we see the 
 young hunters hastening by us in pursuit of 
 their youthful prey! While we are confined, 
 as it were, to one spot, they measure with 
 swift steps the whole fair country round ; and 
 the speed of the horses seems equal to that of 
 the winds. The hills echo to the enlivening 
 sound of their horns, and the cheerful cry of 
 their dogs. The timorous hares scud away 
 before them : they feel not the coldness of the 
 air : and when they return home, they have 
 all things in plenty. We have the same 
 dispositions, for mirth and entertainment, 
 with them — Why, why should there be this 
 difference between one man's station and 
 another's ? 
 
 Colin. Why rather, O Thyrsis, O misjudg 
 
Pastoral i. 275 
 
 ing Thyrsis, do you envy them a pleasure, 
 they so dearly buy ? Not long ago, I was 
 tending my flock, upon the brow of the hill, 
 These hunters passed by me in great mirth, 
 and high gaiety. Amongst them was a very 
 handsome youth, the only son of a fond 
 mother. He guided an unmanageable horse, 
 and guided it without discretion. Just upon 
 the edge of a precipice, the unruly creature 
 took fright. — I saw the youth brought back, 
 lifeless, pale, and disfigured. The great pos- 
 sessions to which he was born, were no longer 
 of any avail to him : while I, poor humble 
 shepherd, salute the rising sun, and enjoy life 
 and health. 
 
 Thyrsis. Those accidents, timorous Colin, 
 do not happen every day. But at least I may 
 envy those idlers, whom I see, in perfect 
 safety, diverting themselves upon the common. 
 They have no severe master to give an ac~ 
 count to, for their time ; they are well clothed 
 and better fed. 
 
 Alcmon. O Thyrsis, they have a master, to 
 whom they are accountable, superior to those 
 sort of masters you mean. A master that 
 looks upon us with as favourable an eye at 
 be does upon them. A master, to whom the 
 
 t 2 
 
276 Pastoral I. 
 
 greatest king upon his throne, is but an upper 
 servant, and lias a heavier task, because he 
 is able to do more than you and I. Those 
 idlers, whom you envy, are perhaps not so 
 happy, as you fancy them to be. 
 
 Colin. I saw Clorinda cross some meadows, 
 the other day, with an air that expressed little 
 happiness* There were a large company of 
 them together : all people of prosperous for- 
 tunes, all idle, and at ease. The young 
 nymph went a good way before all her com- 
 panions: her garments glittered in the sun, 
 with silk and gold. She seemed to shun con- 
 versation : her eyes were fixed upon the 
 ground : her look was pale and melancholy, 
 and, every now and then, she would sigh, as 
 if her heart was breaking. 
 
 Thy?*sis. Clorinda's melancholy is easily 
 understood. Urania and she were once inse- 
 parable companions : that favourite friend of 
 her's is lately dead : I heard Dametas tell the 
 unhappy story. But Clorinda has a thousand 
 consolations. If one of us loses his friend or 
 brother, he loses his all. We have nothing 
 else that fortune can deprive us of. 
 
 jilcmon. Tliyrsis, 1 like your ingenuity : 
 you show some skill in defending a bad 
 
Pastoral i. 27f 
 
 cause *. Colin and you shall both come home 
 with me. When it is no longer a matter of 
 dispute, I hope you will come over to the hap- 
 pier opinion. Believe me, shepherd, we, of 
 low condition, are free from a multitude of 
 unknown evils, that afflict the rich and great, 
 and are more terrible to them than storms and 
 tempests are to us ; more grievous than labour, 
 and honest and industrious poverty. 
 
 * Perhaps it may even be thought more skill than his 
 opponent. The defence in this dialogue seems unusually 
 feeble, and the writer's arguments much less conclusive 
 than they generally are. It is to be hoped that much more 
 might have been said on that side of the question. 
 
PASTORAL IL 
 
 On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty, 
 
 Phillis and Damaris were two country 
 lasses, the pride of the village where they 
 lived : both handsome to perfection, but ex- 
 ceedingly different. The unaffected Damaris 
 had no attention but to assist the infirmities of 
 an aged parent, whom severe illness confined 
 to his cottage, while she tended his flock, by 
 the wood-side. Her hands were generally em- 
 ployed in some useful work: and wdiile she 
 knit, or spun to procure her old father a more 
 tolerable subsistence, the cheerfulness of her 
 songs exprest a contented heart. Her dress, 
 though very poor, was always neat and clean : 
 she studied no ornament in it, and if the 
 neighbours commended her person, she lent 
 them very little attention. 
 
 Phillis had been bred up under a careless 
 mother. She was exceedingly pretty, and 
 knew it mighty well. On holidays nobody so 
 spruce as she. Her hat was wreathed with 
 flowers or ribbands: every fountain was con- 
 
Pastoral it. 279 
 
 suited for her dress, and every meadow ran- 
 sacked to adorn it. From morning till night 
 she was dancing, and sporting on the green : 
 all the shepherds courted and admired her, 
 and she believed every word they said. Yet 
 she felt many a discontent. Sometimes her 
 garland would be less becoming than she 
 w 7 ished it : sometimes she would faacy that a 
 favourite shepherd slighted her : or that a 
 newer face was more admired than her's. 
 Every day was spent in the pursuit of gaiety : 
 and every day brought with it some disquiet* 
 She was one morning sitting very pensive 
 under a poplar, tying up a nosegay, when she 
 heard Damaris, who was concealed from her, 
 only by the shade of some bushes, singing, 
 with a merry heart, a song in praise of indus- 
 try. Phillis could not help interrupting her in 
 the midst of it : and when she went towards 
 her, found her busy in plying the distaff, which 
 was fixed in her side : when thus the gay maid 
 began. 
 
 Phillis. How is it possible, Damaris, that 
 you should be always so merry in leading a 
 life of such drudgery ? What charms can you 
 find in it ? How much much better would it 
 become your years to be dancing at the may- 
 pole, where some rich farmer's son might pro- 
 bably fall in love with you ? 
 
280 Pastoral u. 
 
 Damans. Ah Phillis, I prefer this way of 
 life, because I see you very unhappy in your's. 
 For my own part, I have never a moment's 
 uneasiness. I am sensible, I am doing what 
 I ought. I sec myself the comfort of a good 
 old father, who supported my helpless infancy, 
 and now wants this return of duty in his de- 
 crepid age. When I have pinned the fold at 
 night, I return home, and cheer him with my 
 sight. I dress his little supper, and partake 
 it with more pleasure, than you have at a 
 feast. He in the mean time tells me stories 
 of his younger days, and instructs me by his 
 experience. Sometimes he teaches me a song 
 like that I was singing just now: and on holi- 
 days, I read to him out of some good book. 
 This, Phillis, is my life. I have no great ex- 
 pectations, but every cheerful hope, that can 
 make the heart light and easy. 
 
 Phillis. Well Da maris : I shall not dispute 
 your taste. My father is well enough, by his 
 own labour, to provide for his family : and 
 my mother never set us the example of work- 
 ing. 5 Tis true we are poor : but who knows 
 what good fortune may throw in our way ? 
 Youth is the time for mirth and pleasure : a ad 
 I do not care how hardly I fare, provided I 
 can get a silken lining to my hat, and be the 
 Lady of the May next year. 
 
Pastoral u. 28 1 
 
 Damans. O Phillis, this is very pretty for 
 the present : but in what will it end ? Do you 
 think that smoothness of face will always last? 
 Yon decrepid old woman, that iimps upon 
 her crutches, was once, they say, as handsome 
 as you. Her youth passed without engaging 
 any body in a real affection to her : yet her 
 good name was lost, among the follies she en- 
 gaged in. Poverty and age came on together ; 
 she has long been a burden to the village and 
 herself. If any neighbours cow is ill, all sus- 
 picions of witchcraft fail upon her. She can 
 do nothing to maintain herself: and every 
 body grudges her what she has. 
 
 Phillis. Ill-natured Da maris, to compare 
 me with a hag, that all the country abhors. I 
 wish you would come to the pastimes : they 
 w r ould put you in a better humour. Besides 
 you would there hear what the shepherds say 
 to this Phillis, whom you are pleased to de- 
 spise so. 
 
 Danuwis. I do not despise you Phillis : 
 but I wish you well, and would fain see you 
 as happy as myself. That fine green stuff, 
 your gown is made of, would become you 
 much better if it was of your own spinning. — 
 But I talk like an old man's daughter, and 
 am little heeded. Go pretty butterfly, and re- 
 
282 Pastoral ft. 
 
 joice in the Summer of thy days : let me, like 
 the homely but industrious ant, lay up some 
 provision for the Winter *. 
 
 * The writer may be judged from this interesting dia* 
 ]ogue to have understood the comforts arising from the 
 performance of duty in her own sex, better than she di$ 
 those of the other. 
 
PASTORAL III, 
 
 The Happiness of a religious Hope. 
 
 Imagine, honest friends, that instead of a 
 little book, I am a good humoured neighbour, 
 come to spend an hour with you in cheerful 
 chat. Do not look upon me as one that is 
 come to read you grave lectures of religion and 
 good behaviour : but give me the welcome of 
 an agreeable companion. Is it in a summer's 
 holiday, you take me up ? Come, let us go 
 out into the fields, sit down under some shady 
 tree, and while the sun shines, and the birds 
 sing round us, let us talk over all we have to 
 say. Or is it a winter's evening r Draw your 
 seats about the chimney; throw on another 
 faggot, make a cheerful blaze, and let us be 
 comfortable. What is it, to us here, if the 
 wind blows and the rain beats abroad ? Since 
 we cannot work, let us divert ourselves, but 
 let us divert ourselves in a harmless reasonable 
 way, that we may turn this idle time to as 
 good account as the busiest. 
 
284 Pastoral in. 
 
 Come : what shall we talk of ? Of hap- 
 piness? there cannot be a pleasanter subject. 
 Where is it to be had, this happiness, and 
 how shall we come by it ? 
 
 Where is it to be had ? Why, every where, 
 so we can but command our thoughts, and do 
 our duty : serve God cheerfully, and make 
 the best of our lot. 
 
 It may be, good neighbour, you are old, 
 lame, sickly, have a large family, and little 
 to maintain them. Alas, poor neighbour ! 
 yet still it is ten to one you may be happier 
 than many a nobleman, and many a prince, 
 I suppose you honest and religious. Why 
 then the better half is secure : your mind is 
 easy. You have no load upon your consci- 
 ence, and no need to be afraid even of death. 
 But cannot your condition be, any way, 
 mended ? Content is a good thing : yet suc- 
 cess in honest endeavours is a better. There 
 is no need of sitting sadly down and acqui- 
 escing in a miserable lot, till, upon mature 
 consideration, we find it to be really the will 
 of Providence that we should : and then, let 
 me tell you, dear friend, God's will is kinder 
 to us than our own wishes. When we submit 
 patiently to sorrows and hardships, not out of 
 laziness, nor out of despair, nor out of thought- 
 
Pastoral in. 285 
 
 less helplessness, we then trust our souls to 
 him, in well doing. We act a commendable 
 part, which our great Master will approve: 
 and we may have a cheerful confidence in his 
 mercy, that all tilings shall work together for 
 our good. Come : pluck up your spirits my 
 friend, and let us see whether the part that 
 falls to you is to mend your condition or to 
 bear it. 
 
 First you are old. — Well, that is a fault 
 that time will not mend indeed — but eternity 
 will mend it, honest friend. The period will 
 come when your youth shall be renewed: when 
 you shall be young, and lusty as an eagle, 
 and these grey hairs and wrinkles shall be 
 succeeded by immortal bloom. In the mean 
 time, so much of your life is well over: you 
 are got so far on your journey, through this 
 vale of tears. You can reflect with pleasure 
 on a great many good actions, and pious dis- 
 positions: and it peculiarly becomes old age 
 to meditate much upon those subjects, which 
 are of all others the most noble and delightful. 
 Heaven is the object that should be always 
 in their view. What a prospect is that ! 
 What, think you, should be the joy of a sea- 
 faring man, when, after a long, stormy voy- 
 age, he is come within sight of the port? 
 
286 Pastoral m. 
 
 Suppose a young man had an estate left to 
 him* which he had never seen. Suppose he 
 had been travelling a thousand miles to come 
 to it : that he had met with perpetual bad 
 weather, by the way, and dirty roads: that he 
 was faint, and well nigh wearied out: and 
 that just when he comes to the brow of a dry, 
 sandy hill, bleak and unpleasant in itself, but 
 from whence the prospect first opened 
 upon him, of that fair place, he is going to 
 enjoy. Suppose he sees the tufted woods 
 crowned with the brightest verdure : suppose 
 he sees, among them, glittering spires, and 
 domes, and gilded columns : and knows that 
 all these shall be his own. With what plea- 
 sure will he survey the gentle winding rivulets 
 gliding through fertile meadows: the borders 
 gay with flowers of every kind : the parks and 
 forests filled with all sorts of excellent fruits: 
 the castles, and pleasure-houses, which he 
 knows to be rich with magnificent furniture : 
 and what is above all, where he knows that 
 his best and most beloved friends, and a de- 
 lightful society, whom he longs to be amongst, 
 are waiting with kind impatience to receive 
 him : think you, that he will have leisure to 
 attend to the little inconveniences of the pre- 
 sent moment ? Will not his thoughts fly for* 
 
 1 
 
Pastoral in. 287 
 
 ward, faster than his legs can carry him, to 
 this blessed inheritance? Yet how poor are 
 such riches and pleasures, compared with the 
 certain expectations of the poorest old man, 
 that is pious and virtuous.* 
 
 * Surely that critick must be very fastidious, who, 
 after reading this excellent and useful monologue, should 
 make no other observation upon it, but that the reasoning 
 in it will apply equally well to every other situation of 
 life, as to that in which the scene is laid. 
 
A FAIRY TALE* 
 
 Education. 
 
 A number of boys were diverting them- 
 selves one fine day in a meadow, when a 
 wrinkled old woman came up to them, and 
 stopt their play. Her looks were unpleasing 
 and her interruption unseasonable. One of 
 the biggest, who had been taught by his tu- 
 tor to respect her, addrest her very civilly; 
 but of the little urchins some ran away 
 frighted, and hid themselves : and others very 
 insolently laughed at her, and called her old 
 witch. Little George, the youngest of them 
 all, a very pretty, good-humoured lad, held by 
 the hand of the eldest, (who, he thought, as 
 he had always been his friend, would protect 
 him) and listened : but a liltle afraid too, and 
 not much liking either her looks, or the being 
 hindered of his play : however, he was too 
 well bred to say any thing rude. She smiled, 
 and taking his other hand, do not be afraid 
 of me, my dear child, said she, for though 
 those idle boys yonder call me Crossness, and 
 
 9 
 
A Fairy Tale. 28§ 
 
 Severity, my true name is Instruction. I love 
 every one of you: and you, my little dear, in 
 particular; and my whole business is to do 
 you good. Come with me to my castle, and 
 I will make you as happy as the day is long. 
 
 Little George did not know how to trust 
 her, but as he saw his friend Henry disposed 
 to follow the old lady, he even ventured along 
 with them. 
 
 The castle was an old melancholy looking 
 building, and the path to it very much entan- 
 gled with briars and thistles : but the old 
 woman encouraged them in a cheerful tone 
 to come along: and taking out a large key, 
 which had several strange words engraved 
 upon it, she put it into the door, which im- 
 mediately flew open, and they entered a spa- 
 cious hall magnificently furnished. Through 
 this they passed into several apartments, each 
 finer and pleasanter than the other : but to 
 every one they ascended by steep steps, and 
 on every step, strange and unknown words 
 were engraved. 
 
 Perhaps you would be glad to know some 
 more particulars of these apartments: and in- 
 deed I should have told you, that as soon as 
 they entered the great hall, she made them sit 
 down to a pretty collation of plumb-cakes. 
 
290 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 biscuits, and sweet-meats, which were 
 brought in baskets covered with flowers, by 
 four smiling, rosy cheeked girls, called Inno- 
 cence, Health, Mirth, and Good-Humour. 
 When they were sufficiently refreshed, the old 
 lady returned to them, in a finer dress, and 
 with a much more pleasing look. She had 
 now a wand in her hand, of ivory, tipped with 
 gold, and with this she pointed out to them 
 the ornaments of the room. It was supported 
 by strong, but handsome pillars of adamant : 
 and between the pillars, hung festoons of fruit 
 and flowers. At the upper end, were niches, 
 with very beautiful statues in them. The 
 principal one was Truth. It appeared to be 
 of one entire diamond, and represented the 
 -most beauiful woman, that ever eyes beheld. 
 Her air was full of dignity and sweetness: in 
 one hand she held a sceptre, in the other a 
 book, and she had an imperial crown on her 
 head. The old fairy gently touched this 
 figure with her wand, and immediately it 
 stepped down from the pedestal, and began to 
 speak. No music was ever so pleasing as 
 the voice of Truth. She addrest herself to our 
 little hero, and examined him in his Catechism. 
 As he had formerly been a little idle, he could 
 not say it so well, as at that minute he wished 
 
A Fairy Tale. 291 
 
 to do. — Little wretch said the old fairy 
 frowning, why do you answer so stupidly? 
 Have you never been taught? Here was a 
 loop-hole through which a boy of a cowardly 
 spirit, might have crept out, by pretending, 
 that his tutor had been in fault, and not him- 
 self. But little George scorned to tell a lye : 
 nor could he be so base as to excuse himself, 
 by accusing an innocent person. Therefore, 
 though trembling for fear of the old fairy, 
 and her wand, he answered, Indeed, madam, 
 I have been often bid to learn it, but I loved 
 my diversions so well, that I never could 
 
 apply to it -Here the old fairy, smiling, 
 
 kissed him, and said, my dear child, I forgive 
 your past idleness, in favour of your noble 
 honesty. A fault honestly owned, is half 
 amended, and this nymph shall reward you. 
 
 Immediately Truth gave him a little Cate- 
 chism bound in silver enamelled, a pocket 
 Bible with ruby clasps, and a small looking- 
 glass in a gold case. In these books, my 
 dear, said she, you shall find constant direc- 
 tions from me 5 which, if you follow, will make 
 you good, and great, and happy. If you 
 never offend against me, I will be ready to 
 assist you in all difficulties. If ever you 
 should be tempted to offend me, look in this 
 
 u2 
 
292 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 glass. If you see yourself in it your own 
 
 natural figure, go on contentedly, and be sure 
 
 you are under my protection. But if you see 
 
 yourself in the form of a slave, and a monster, 
 
 greasy, ragged, loaded with chains: a double 
 
 tongue hanging out of your mouth, and a pair 
 
 of ass's ears on your head, tremble to think, 
 
 that you are got into the power of the wicked 
 
 enchanter Falsehood. Retract the lye you 
 
 have told : stand still wherever you are : call 
 
 out aloud for my assistance : and do not stir 
 
 from the spot you are in, till I come to help 
 
 you. So saying, the bright form re-ascended 
 
 her pedestal : and four others, who stood on 
 
 each hand, being touched by the fairy w r and, 
 
 moved towards him. 
 
 The first was a young woman clothed in a 
 long white robe, perfectly neat and plain. 
 She had fine flaxen hair, and blue eyes, w r hich 
 were fixed on the ground. A white veil 
 shaded her face : and her colour went and 
 came every minute. She advanced with a 
 slow pace, and spoke in a voice very low, but 
 as sweet as the nightingale's. 
 
 My name, said she, is Modesty. I have 
 no merit, but perhaps as you are so young, it 
 may be in my power to be of some little use 
 to you* Before you get to the top of this 
 
A Fairy Tale. 293 
 
 castle, you will see many strange things, and 
 be bid to do many things, of which you do 
 not understand the reason. But remember, 
 that you are very young, and know nothing; 
 and that every body here is wiser than you. 
 Therefore observe attentively all that you see; 
 and do readily all that you are bid. As you 
 have recommended yourself to Truth, we her 
 handmaids are ready to give you all the assist- 
 ance we can ; and you will need it all • 
 
 Above all things fear Disgrace. It is 3 
 filthy puddle in the neighbourhood of this 
 castle, whose stains are not easily wiped off. 
 Those, who run heedlessly, or wilfully into 
 it, after repeated warnings, grow in time so 
 loathsome, that no body can endure them. 
 
 There is an enchantress, you will meet 
 with, called Flattery, who will offer you a 
 very pleasant cup. If you drink much of 
 it your head will turn : and while you fancy 
 yourself a most accomplished person, she will 
 touch you with her wicked wand, and imme- 
 diately you will be metamorphosed into a 
 butterfly, a squib, or a paper-kite. But as, 
 perhaps, you must taste her cup, take this 
 nosegay of violets : and as you find your head 
 a little giddy smell to it, and you will be so 
 refreshed, that she will have no power to hurt 
 
294 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 you. This little nosegay will defend you also 
 against the magician Pride, who in a thou- 
 sand shapes will try to introduce himself to 
 you, and persuade you to go with him to a high 
 rock, from whence, he will either throw you 
 down some frightful precipices, into the pool 
 of Disgrace, or else change you into a lion, 
 or a tyger, or a bear, or into such a huge 
 dropsical figure, that every body shall hate to 
 look upon you : and that you shall not be able 
 to pass through the gates that lead to Hapjii- 
 ness. When you suspect his coming smell to 
 your violets, and you will immediately see 
 through his disguise, and at the same time, they 
 shall make you so little, he shall not see you: 
 and when you are in a crowd, smell to them 
 again, and you shall pass through it without 
 difficulty. I wish I had a better gift to be- 
 stow ; but accept of my all. 
 
 Little George thanked her kindly, and 
 stuck the nosegay in his bosom. 
 
 On the pedestal of the next figure, was in- 
 scribed Natural Affection. Her countenance 
 was sweet and engaging : her garment em- 
 broidered with storks, doves, and various 
 pretty animals. She had bracelets on her 
 arms, and fine rings on every finger: every 
 one was the gift of some beloved friend or re- 
 5 
 
A Fairy Tate. 295 
 
 lation. My dear George, said she, I love you 
 for the sake of your parents. I have a thou- 
 sand pretty gifts to bestow, and this particu- 
 larly will be of use to you. She then gave him 
 a small enamelled box, with pictures on every 
 side. When, said she, you are in doubt how 
 to behave, look upon the pictures. They are 
 those of your parents, relations, and friends : 
 being gifted by a fairy, you will see every 
 figure in motion : and as your papa and 
 mamma, your brothers and sisters seem 
 affected by your behaviour, you will judge 
 whether you are acting right or wrong. I 
 am sure it is your desire always to give them 
 pleasure, and not pain, to be an honour to 
 them, and not a reproach. 
 
 The next image that spoke was entirely 
 made of sugar, but a sugar as firm, and almost 
 as clear as chrystal. Her name was Good 
 Temper. In her bosom, she had a nosegay 
 of roses without thorns. She took our little 
 friend by the hand, and seeing it scratched 
 from a scufHe he had with his companions, 
 she healed it with a touch; and gave him a 
 small amethyst phial filled with honey and 
 oil of a peculiar kind. Touch your lips with 
 this julep, said she, every morning. Though 
 the phial is small, it is inexhaustible, and you 
 
296 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 will never more be liable to harm, from any 
 idle quarrel; as you will never say any thing 
 peevish, or provoking, all your companions 
 will love you : and your servants will think it 
 a blessing to live with you. 
 
 One figure more remained, and the fairy 
 had no sooner touched it, but down from her 
 pedestal jumped sprightly Diligence. She 
 was drest like a huntress. Activity and 
 nimbleness appeared in every limb. She 
 sprung to George, clapped her hands on his 
 shoulders, and immediately there appeared a 
 couple of little wings. These wings, said 
 she, will be of great use to you in ascending 
 the steep steps you will have to go up, by and 
 bye. But all wings need frequent pluming: 
 and these will lose all their virtue, if you do 
 not keep them in order every day, by using 
 the talisman, I am going next to give you. 
 This talisman was a golden spur. This, said 
 she, whenever your wings are drooping, (as 
 they will very often, when the old witch La- 
 ziness approaches, who would metamorphose 
 you into a dormouse) you must run gently 
 into your aide, and they will be ready imme- 
 diately to carry you out of her reach. I am 
 sure, you have too much true courage to fear 
 a little trifling pain, when it will be the means 
 
A Fairy Tale. 297 
 
 of gaining you every improvement. Good 
 night, good night, my love. I see you are 
 sleepy, but as soon as you wake in the morn- 
 ing, be sure to make use of your spur. 
 
 The good old fairy then led Henry and 
 George into a little neat room, where they 
 went to bed and slept to day-break, dreaming 
 of all the agreeable things they had seen and 
 heard. George did not wake, till Henry was 
 already up and drest: but he waked disturbed, 
 and began to tell his friend his dreams. I 
 thought, said he, that looking out of the win- 
 dow, I saw all my companions at play, and 
 flew out to them directly, to show them those 
 fine things, that the statues had given me. 
 Instead of admiring me, they fell upon me : 
 one seized one fine thing, and another, ano- 
 ther ; till poor I had nothing left but my wings. 
 What vexed me too, in the scuffle my violets 
 were scattered, the books torn, the pictures 
 spoilt, the glass broke, and the julep spilt. 
 So that they were never the better, though 
 I was so much the worse. Well, I took to 
 my wings however, and thought I might as 
 easily fly in, as out, and then the good Fairy 
 would give me more pretty things. But no 
 such matter: the windows were shut, the 
 
298 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 doors were barred and bolted. Owls and 
 bats flew about my head : geese hissed at me, 
 asses brayed at me, monkies chattered in my 
 ears, and I fell down nobody knows whither. 
 Be thankful, said Henry, that it was only a 
 dream ; here are all your pretty things safe ; 
 and so saying he gently touched his side, like 
 a true friend, with the spur, and up jumped 
 little George all alive and merry. He read 
 in his books : He with pleasure saw his own 
 honest face in the Glass of Truth : He obser- 
 ved with delight, the pictures of his friends 
 and relations all smiling upon him. While he 
 was thus employed, in stept a sober-looking 
 man, leaning on a staff. My young friends 
 said he, I am sent to conduct you through 
 the noble apartments of this Castle. A fine 
 conductor indeed, said little George, who had 
 unfortunately forgot both his violets, and his 
 phial, your crutch, honest man will keep up 
 rarely with my wings. Your wings young- 
 ster, replied Application (for that was his 
 name) will be of little service, unless I lend 
 you a staff to rest upon, which wherever you 
 set it down, will make your footing sure. 
 This speech was unheeded by little George, 
 who already upon the wing, fluttered away. 
 Henry soon overtook him, having quite as 
 
A Fairy Tale. 299 
 
 good pinions, though he did not boast of 
 them, but stayed first to bring with him the 
 staff, the phial, and the nosegay, against his 
 friend should need them. Little George was 
 now trying to mount up a steep stair-case, 
 which he saw multitudes of his own age as- 
 cending. Very eagerly he stretched his 
 wings, whose painted plumage glittered in 
 the sun-beams, and very often just reached the 
 top : but he was greatly surprized to find that 
 he always slid back again, as if he had stood 
 upon a slope of ice, so that hundreds and 
 hundreds had got through the folding doors 
 above, while he was still but at the bottom. 
 He cried for vexation : gave hard names to the 
 boys that got before him, and was laughed 
 at by them in return. The box of pictures 
 gave him no comfort, for there he saw his 
 father frowning and his mother looking un- 
 happy. At this minute, friendly Henry came 
 to his relief, and giving him the violets, the 
 phial, and the staff, make use of these, said he, 
 and you will easily get up with them, who are 
 now before you. Observe, that they have, 
 every one of them, just such a staff, and tliat, 
 notwithstanding their wings, they can rise but 
 one step at a time. George, who had now 
 touched his lips with the phial, thanked him 
 
500 A Fairy Talc. 
 
 very kindly, and they mounted several steps* 
 hand in hand. On some were inscribed, Pro- 
 pria qnce Maribus : on others As in Prcesenti, 
 and various other magic verses, which, they 
 just rested long enough on every step to read 
 and as they ascended, the steps grew easier 
 and easier. George however was a little out 
 of breath, and more than once wished himself 
 out of the Castle. Yet he was delighted to 
 find himself almost overtaking the foremost, 
 who had, some of them, loitered by the way. 
 
 And now he entered into an apartment, 
 more magnificent than any he had ever seen. 
 Thousands of rooms opened, one beyond ano- 
 ther, furnished with all the elegance of taste. 
 From every one of these were delightful 
 prospects: but then, for a long while, he had 
 not leisure to attend to the strange varieties 
 of rich and uncommon furniture, exciting his 
 curiosity every minute. One long gallery 
 was hung with paintings, so exquisitely fine, 
 that every figure seemed alive : and some of 
 them actually spoke, and amused him with a 
 thousand agreeable stories. Here he saw all 
 the metamorphoses of the Heathen Gods, the 
 adventures of iEneas, and a number of other 
 things that I have not time describe. A 
 young damsel attended him drest in a gown 
 
A Fairy Tale. 301 
 
 made of feathers, more gay than the rainbow,. 
 She had wings upon her head : she gave him 
 the most delicious sweet-meats, and he drank 
 out of a sparkling cup, the pleasantest liquor 
 imaginable. This light dish did not quite 
 satisfy a hungry stomach : so that George 
 was not very sorry when, past through the 
 gallery of Fiction, his fair conductress Poetry 
 consigned him over to the care of a good 
 hospitable old man, in the next apartment, 
 whose table was covered with wholesome and 
 substantial food. This apartment, called the 
 Saloon of History, was by no means so gay 
 as the former: but deserved examination bet- 
 ter. The walls were covered with marble, 
 adorned with the finest basso relievos, statues 
 and bustos, of every celebrated hero and le- 
 gislator, struck the observing eye with vene- 
 ration. The master of the feast was ex- 
 tremely good-natured, and communicative : 
 and ready to answer every question, that 
 George's curiosity prompted him to ask. He 
 commended him for his love of Truth, and 
 toasted her health, as his own patroness. 
 But, as the old gentleman was, sometimes, a 
 little prolix in his stories, our young traveller 
 amused himself, every now and then, with 
 looking over his treasures. Surveying the 
 
302 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 box of pictures, he could not help wishing 
 for a nearer sight of the friends they repre- 
 sented. A window, that stood open just by 
 him, and overlooked a delightful play-field, 
 reminded him of his wings. But the recol- 
 lection of his frightful dream, prevented him 
 from attempting an escape. 
 
 At this minute, the Fairy Instruction ap- 
 peared, with a smiling look. I know your 
 thoughts, my dear, said she, and am willing 
 to allow you every reasonable indulgence. 
 I have, in my service, a number of little 
 winged beings, whose business it is to convey 
 my young friends, from time to time, to their 
 beloved homes. In order to your returning 
 safely, accept this key. You must be sure to 
 rub it every morning, that it may not grow 
 rusty, else the characters, that are engraved 
 upon it, will disappear. If your key is kept 
 bright, you need only read the inscription 
 aloud, and, without difficulty you will return 
 to this very apartment, and be intituled to an 
 honourable reception. But if the key should 
 grow rusty, beware of a disgraceful fall. Let 
 your dream warn you to take care of your 
 precious gifts, and to make a due use of them. 
 
 She had scarcely done speaking, before 
 there was a general voice of joy heard through 
 
A Fairy Tale. 303 
 
 the whole apartment ; " the holidays are 
 " come, the holidays are come:" and imme- 
 diately a number of little cherubims appeared, 
 in the air, crowned with garlands, and away 
 with them flew little George: but unluckily 
 in his haste, left both the staff, and the spur 
 behind him. Indeed at this minute they were 
 needless. 
 
 His friends were all ready to receive him 
 with affectionate joy* They commended his 
 improvements, and listened with delight, to 
 his account of the surprising things he had 
 seen: and rejoiced in the marks of favour he 
 had received from excellent and powerful 
 Fairies. He played about all day with his 
 companions, and every thing was thought of r 
 that could best divert him. In the midst of 
 these amusements, the poor key was in a few 
 days forget: nor did he recollect it, till one 
 day he saw Henry sitting under a tree, and 
 very diligently brightening up his own. Stu- 
 pid boy, said giddy George, what do you sit 
 moping there for ? Come and play. So I will 
 presently, said Henry: but I must not neglect 
 the means of returning honourably to the 
 good Fairy. Hang the old Fairy, cried 
 George: besides, my key will keep bright 
 enough, I warrant it, without all this ado. 
 
304 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 However, looking at the key, he found it 
 brown with rust: and sadly his arm ached 
 with the vain endeavour of rubbing it bright ; 
 for as he could not succeed in five minutes, 
 down he flung it in despair. 
 
 What do you cry for, my pretty master r 
 said a man in a fine coat, who was passing by. 
 George told him his distress. Be comforted, 
 said the man, I will give you a gold key set 
 with emeralds, that shall be better by half, 
 and fitter for a young gentleman of your rank, 
 than that old woman's rusty iron. 
 
 Just then, George, who did not want cle- 
 verness, began to suspect something: and 
 smelling to his violets, the fine man appeared 
 in his true shape, which was, indeed^ no other 
 than that of the magician Pride. He was 
 immoderately tall and bloated : his eyes were 
 fierce and malignant: his cheeks were painted, 
 a peacock sat upon his head, a bear and a 
 leopard followed him. In one hand he held an 
 empty bladder, and in the other a fatal wand. 
 His under vest was stained and ragged ; but 
 over it he had a pompous herald's coat, with a 
 long train supported by an ugly dwarf, and a 
 limping idiot, whom he turned back con- 
 tinually to insult and abuse. Well was it for 
 little George, that his violets had rendered 
 
 8 
 
A Fairy Tale. 305 
 
 him invisible. He saw the magician go on 
 to one of his companions, who being destitute 
 of such a defence, immediately became his 
 prey. Take this nosegay, my child, said the 
 wicked wretch, and presented him with a 
 bunch of nettles, finely gilded, but very sting- 
 ing. The poor boy had no sooner touched 
 them than his countenance exprest pain : he 
 quarrelled with every body round him : yet 
 the simpleton kept continually smelling to his 
 nosegay, and the more he was nettled, the 
 more quarrelsome he grew. His size too in- 
 creased in proportion : he became swelled and 
 bloated. He grew tail, too tall at once, but 
 it was only by being raised on an enormous 
 pair of stilts, on which he could not walk a 
 step, without danger of tumbling down. 
 
 George could not help laughing at his 
 ridiculous figure, but would, out of good na- 
 ture, have offered him his own bunch to 
 smell to, if those unfortunate stilts had not 
 raised him quite out of his reach. He there- 
 fore was making the best of his way back, 
 having first secured his key, when a laughing 
 giddy hoyden called out to him, that she had 
 found a bird's nest. Away with her he ran 
 upon this new pursuit : and from bird's nest 
 to bird's nest, and from butterfly to butterfly 
 
 x 
 
306 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 they scampered over the flowery fields, till 
 night drew on. She then persuaded him to 
 go with her to her mother's house, which was 
 but just by, and rest himself. 
 
 He found there a lady lolling in an easy 
 chair, who scarce raised her head to bid him 
 welcome. A table however stood by her, ready 
 spread with every kind of dainty, where Idle- 
 ness, for so was his play-fellow called, invited 
 him to sit down : and after supper, he was con- 
 ducted into a chamber, set round with shelves of 
 play-things, where, in a soft down bed, he slept 
 till very late the next day. At last, though 
 unwillingly, he got up : but for no better 
 purpose than to look over those worthless toys, 
 which he half despised all the while. What, 
 thought he, is this tinsel, and glass, and wood, 
 to compare with the rich treasures of the old 
 Fairy's Castle ? Neither the old woman here, 
 nor the simpleton her daughter, will answer 
 me a question I ask, nor divert me with such 
 stories, as the very pictures and statues there 
 were full of. Thus thinking, he continued 
 nevertheless to divert himself with the play- 
 things, and was growing fast back into the 
 love of rattles, and bells, when a sudden panic 
 seized him on seeing in the corners of every 
 shelf, fillagree cages full of dormice. Misera- 
 
 3 
 
A Fairy Tale. . 307 
 
 ble boy that I am, cried he, this must cer- 
 tainly be the den of Laziness ! How shall I 
 escape? He tried to stretch his wings: but 
 alas, they drooped, and now, for the first 
 time, he found, and lamented the want of 
 his spur. He ran to the windows : every 
 prospect from thence was desolate and bar- 
 ren, resembling exactly what he had read 
 in his ruby-clasped book, of the field of the 
 sluggard. 
 
 In vain did he look for the holidays to 
 transport him from this wretched place. The 
 last of them was already on the wing, and 
 almost out of sight : for it is peculiar to these 
 little being9 to approach slowly, but to fly- 
 away with amazing swiftness. However, he 
 met with assistance, where he least expected 
 it. A dismal cloud hung almost over his 
 head, which he feared would every minute 
 burst in thunder ; when out of it flew a black 
 eagle, who seized little George in her talons^ 
 and in a moment he found himself at the gates 
 of the Castle of Instruction. 
 
 Perhaps you may not think his case now, 
 much better than it was before. A little 
 dormouse could have lain snug and warm, in 
 cotton : whereas poor George was forced to 
 stand in the cold, among thorns and briars 
 
 x2 
 
308 A Fairy Tale, 
 
 vainly endeavouring to read the inscription 
 on his key, which was now, alas, grown 
 rustier than ever. In the mean time he saw 
 most of his companions, his friend Henry one 
 of the foremost, fly over his head, while their 
 polished keys glittered like diamonds : and 
 all of them received into the apartments they 
 came out of, with joyful acclamations. The 
 boy upon stilts, indeed, did not make so good 
 a figure. He reached up to the window, but 
 his false key would not open it : and making 
 a false step, down he tumbled into the dirty 
 pooh 
 
 At this minute, the old Fairy looked out 3 
 and calling to George, why do not you, my 
 child, said she make use of your wings and 
 your key ? I am impatient to have you amongst 
 us again, that you may receive finer gifts, 
 and see greater wonders, than any you have 
 met with yet. 
 
 Here a woman came to him, clothed in 
 hare-skins, and shivering with an ague. She 
 touched him with a cold finger, that chilled 
 his blood: and stammered out these terrifying 
 words, £) don't g go int t to the C castle, P 
 punishment is r ready for r y you, r run 
 away. 
 
 Scorn Punishment, and despise it, said 
 
A Fairy Tale. 309 
 
 Foolhardtness, a little pert monkey in a scarlet 
 coat, and mounted upon a goose. 
 
 Fear Disgrace, said Shame, and with a 
 rose-bush, which she carried, brushed the 
 monkey into the dirty pool, where he lay 
 screaming and chattering, while his goose 
 hissed at him. 
 
 Poor George knew not what to do. It once 
 came into his head to make a plausible excuse, 
 and say his key was very bright, but the lock 
 was out of order. But bethinking himself to 
 apply to his glass, he no sooner saw the ass's 
 ears, than, in honest distress, he called out, O 
 Truth, Truth, come to my assistance. I have 
 been very idle, and I am very sorry, Truth, 
 Truth, come to my assistance. 
 
 He fainted away with terror, as he spoke, 
 but, when he recovered, found himself within 
 the Castle, the bright figure of Truth smiling 
 upon him : and Forgiveness, another very 
 amiable form, distinguished by a slate, and a 
 spunge, with which she wiped out all faults, 
 caressing him. Indeed she had need, for he 
 felt himself a little stiff, and sore, with some 
 rough methods, that had been used to bring 
 him to himself. These two nymphs consigned 
 him to the care of Amendment, who promised 
 never to forsake him, till he got to the top of 
 4 
 
310 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 the Castle : and, under her guidance, he went 
 no very cheerfully. 
 
 Indeed he was a little vexed at the first 
 steps he came to, on finding himself struck 
 pretty hard by an angry looking man ; but 
 when he found, that it was only in order to 
 return him his staff, and his spur, he thank- 
 ed him for his friendly blow, and from that 
 time proceeded with double alacrity. He 
 soon overtook his companions again, and you 
 may imagine, how joyful was the meeting, 
 between him and Henry, who loved him too 
 well, not to go on very melancholy, while 
 George had staid behind. How I rejoiced, 
 said he, to see you under the conduct of the 
 lady Amendment : now nothing can ever part 
 us more. 
 
 The Poetical Gallery, the Saloon of His- 
 tory, afforded them new delight. In every 
 room, through which they past, were tables 
 covered with gems, medals, little images, seals, 
 intaglios, $nd all kinds of curiosities, of 
 which, they were assured, that the more they 
 took, the more welcome they should be. 
 
 Bat here George was a little perplexed 
 again. His pockets were filled over and over : 
 still, as he came to new treasures, he was 
 forced to throw aside the old ones, to make 
 
A Fairy Tale. Sfl 
 
 room: yet was told, that it would not be 
 taken well, if he did not keep them all. At 
 last he came fortunately into a room of po- 
 lished steel, where, on a throne of jasper, sat 
 a lady, with a crown upon her head, of the 
 brightest jewels. Upon her robe was woven, 
 in the liveliest colours and perfectly distinct 
 though in minature, every thing that the 
 world contains. She had steel tablets in her 
 hand, on which she was always engraving 
 something excellent : and on the rich diadem, 
 that encircled her forehead, was embroidered 
 the word Memory. 
 
 You could not, said she to George, have 
 applied to a properer person than to me, to 
 help you out of your present difficulty. She 
 then gave him a cabinet, so small, and so 
 light, that he could carry it without the least 
 inconvenience: and, at the same time, so rich 
 and elegant, that no snuff-box, set with dia- 
 monds, was ever more ornamented. It had 
 millions of little drawers, all classed and num- 
 bered : and in these, he found all the fine 
 things he had been so incumbered with, ranged 
 in their proper order. 
 
 The only thing I insist on, said she, is that 
 you will keep your drawers exactly clean, and 
 never litter them with trash. If you stuff them 
 
312 A Fairy Tale. 
 
 with what does not deserve a place, they will no 
 longer be capable of containing real treasures: 
 but the bottom of the cabinet will become di- 
 rectly like a sieve : and if Malice or Resentment 
 ever persuade you, to put in any thing out of 
 their shops, you will soon find every drawer 
 infested with snakes and adders, But, above 
 all things, value the gifts of Truth, Graiitude > 
 and Friendship, which will fill them with 
 constant perfume, that shall make you agree- 
 able to every body. 
 
 Thus furnished, George proceeded joyfully, 
 and ascended from one apartment to another, 
 till he become possest of all the treasures of 
 the Castle. Sometimes Imagination led him 
 into delightful gardens, gay with perpetual 
 spring. Sometimes from entrances dug into 
 the solid rock, (on the side of the apartments 
 opposite to the windows^ he wandered through 
 the mines of Science, and brought from thence, 
 riches that had not yet been discovered. The 
 holidays always found him cheerfully glad to 
 go with them : but not impatient for their 
 approach, and equally glad to return, when 
 they flew back. Whenever he returned, he 
 was received with honour, and crowned with 
 wreaths of bays and laurel. He became a. 
 favourite with the Virtues, and the Graces, 
 
A Fairy Tale. 313 
 
 and at last was led by them to the top of the 
 Castle : where Reputation and Prudence wait- 
 ed to receive him, and conduct him through 
 a fair plain, that was stretched out along the 
 top of the mountain, and terminated by the 
 glittering temple of Felicity *. 
 
 * This Fairy Tale, or perhaps more properly, Allegory* 
 which was the delight as well as the instruction of the 
 Editor's youth, would not disgrace even the modern highly 
 improved assistances to education. 
 
IMITATIONS OF OSS IAN 
 
IMITATION I. 
 
 Why dost thou not visit my hall, Daughter 
 of the gentle Smile? thou art in thy hall of 
 joy, the feast of shells is spread : the bars are 
 assembled around. Sad I sit alone, and listen 
 to the beating rain. The gale sounds hollow 
 in the east, but no music comes on the blast, 
 to my solitary ear. The red coals glow 
 sullenly in my grate, but they should blaze 
 cheerfully for thee. Why dost thou not visit 
 my hall, Daughter of the gentle Smile ? 
 
 Thy fame shall be heard in the song, for the 
 bards assemble at thy call. When I go to 
 the narrow house, silence shall rest upon my 
 memory. For lonely I sit all the day, and 
 listen to the dashing rain. The keen wind 
 whistles at my gate, and drives away the 
 timid guest. Dark boats pass by on the swift 
 stream, but no passenger lands at my hall. 
 Thou too, O sweet Daughter of the Smile, 
 didst sail by over the blue wave, when the 
 
318 Imitation i. 
 
 voice * of joy was in the hall of kings. But 
 Therina past the day silent and solitary. 
 When a thousand oaks flamed beyond the 
 stream, she saw the distant blaze, like the red 
 streaks of the setting sun. She heard the 
 murmur of the distant shouts; and at last 
 through the dark air, she saw the approaching 
 torch, that lighted back her friends, from the 
 feast of empty shells. She ran to meet them 
 through the lonely hall ; and the wind lifted 
 her cloak. 
 
 Will no voice reply to my song? I too have 
 a harp, which the winds sweep with its wings. 
 
 * The Coronation in 1760. Miss Talbot then was in 
 the 40th year of her age when she wrote this Imitation. 
 Only specimens of the Poems of Ossian had then been 
 published. Fingal was not printed till 1762, and Temora 
 not till the following year. 
 
IMITATION II. 
 
 THERINA AND CARTHONA. 
 
 Theruia. 
 
 Daughter of the song, why is thy look so 
 pensive ? Why dost thou regard me with an 
 eye of compassion ? 
 
 Carthona. Thy melancholy strain pierced 
 my heart. I view thee already as in the 
 narrow house, where all is silence and dark- 
 ness. I look upon thee as a diamond buried 
 deep in the rock, when it ought to be flaming 
 on an imperial diadem. 
 
 Therina. Partial is thine eye, kind Daughter 
 of Harmony, and idly fictitious was my plain- 
 tive strain. My expectations look beyond the 
 narrow house, and the view terminates in 
 splendour. Yet I am not a diamond, O 
 Carthona, but a feeble glow-worm of the 
 earth, whose sickly lustre would go out in 
 open day, and is beheld to advantage, only 
 from being judiciously placed amidst obscu- 
 rity'. 
 
320 Imitation n. 
 
 Carthona. Lowly Daughter of Indolence, 
 thou dost not well to acquiesce in tire meanest 
 and most useless form of being, who mightest 
 warble on a bough with the songstresses of 
 the grove, or shine on gay wings, with the 
 flutterers of the air. 
 
 Therina. I was once a butterfly, O Car- 
 thona, and my existence was most despicable. 
 The glow-worm in its low estate, is pleasing 
 to the eye, that approaches it near : is useful 
 sometimes, to direct the steps of the benighted 
 traveller. 
 
 Carthona. Daughter of Indolence ! Thy 
 discourse is idle and ungrateful. 
 
 Therina. Hear then, O Carthona! the 
 reverse of my plaintive strains, and may it 
 sound sweet in thine ears. Thou art pleased 
 with the tale of Malvina, who attended the 
 blind age of Ossian, emphatically blind ! Her 
 form rises elegant to thy mind, and the voice 
 of her praise sounds melodious to thy fancy. 
 Yet what is the fame of Malvina ? And what 
 was the merit of Ossian ? The threads of my 
 life, O Carthona, though homely, are woven 
 amid others of inestimable tincture. The 
 ties of indissoluble friendship have mingled 
 them among threads of purest gold, the richest 
 purple, and the brightest silver. Such are the 
 
Imitation ii. 321 
 
 durable textures, which heaven has framed in 
 the loom of civilized society : While the 
 scattered threads of Fingal's days are like 
 autumnal cobwebs, tost by winds from 
 thorn to thorn : whence some few of peculiar 
 whiteness are collected by the musing bard, 
 when solitary he roams amid the pathless 
 wild. 
 
IMITATION lit. 
 
 True Ossian, I delight in songs : harmony 
 sooths my soul. It sooths it O Ossian, but it 
 raises it Far above these grassy clods, and 
 rocky hills. It exalts it above the vain phan- 
 toms of clouds, the wandering meteors of the 
 night. 
 
 Listen in thy turn, thou sad son of Fingal, 
 to the lonely dweller of the rock. Let thy 
 harp rest for a while, and thy thoughts cease 
 to retrace the war and bloodshed, of the days 
 that are past. Sightless art thou O Ossian, 
 and sad is thy failing age. Thine ear is to the 
 hollow blast, and thy expectation is closed in 
 the narrow house. Thy memory is of the 
 deeds of thy fathers, and thy fathers, where 
 are they? What O Ossian, are those deeds of 
 other times ? they are horror, and blood, and 
 desolation. 
 
 Harp of Ossian be still. Why dost thou 
 sound in the blast, and wake my sleeping 
 fancy? Deep and long ha* been its repose. 
 
Imitation hi. 323 
 
 Solid are the walls that surround me *. The 
 idle laugh enters not here : why then should 
 the idler tear ? Yet Ossian I would weep for 
 thee : I would weep for thee, Malvina. — But 
 my days are as the flight of an arrow, Shall 
 the arrow turn aside from its mark ? 
 
 Bright was thy genius, Ossian ! but darkness 
 was in thy heart : It shrank from the light of 
 heaven. The lonely dweller of the rock sang, 
 in vain, to thy deafened ear. The Grecian 
 was not blind like thee. On him the true sun 
 never dawned : yet he sung, though erroneous, 
 of all-ruling Providence, and faintly looked 
 up to the parent of gods and men. Thy 
 vivid fancy O Ossian, what beheld it but a 
 cloudy Fingal ? Vain in the pride of ancestry, 
 thou remainest by choice an orphan, in an 
 orphan world. Did never the dweller of the 
 rock point out to thy friendless age, a kindred 
 higher than the heaven ? A brotherhood wide 
 as the world ? A staff to thy failing steps ? A 
 light to thy sightless soul ? And didst thou re- 
 ject them, Ossian ? What then is genius, but 
 a meteor brightness ? The humble, the mild, 
 the simple, the uneloquent, with peaceful steps 
 
 * She was then residing in Lambeth Palace ; and who- 
 erer has seen that noble work ofothzr times will allow that 
 the epithet is not misapplied. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 Imitation in. 
 
 followed their welcome pastor, into fair meads 
 
 of everlasting verdure. While thou sittest 
 
 gloomy on the storm-beaten hill, and repeating 
 to the angry blast, the boast of human pride : 
 the tales of devastation of war: the deeds 
 
 of other times. Far other times are these 
 
 Ah would they were! For still destruction 
 spreads : still human pride rises with the tygers 
 of the desart, and makes its horrid boast * ! 
 
 * Consequently this was written before the Peace of 
 1763. This last imitation is by much the finest. It shows 
 a mind accustomed to think, and to think upon the best 
 and truest principles ; undazzled by the glare and splendour 
 of language, though deeply sensible to its charms. Sup- 
 posing the Poems of Ossian to be genuine, these Reflections 
 are peculiarly just and affecting. 
 
ALLEGORIES, 
 
ALLEGORY I. 
 
 Life compared to a Play. 
 
 If I was not quite sick of the number of 
 stupid dreams, which have been writ in 
 imitation of those excellent ones published in 
 the Spectators, Tatlers, and some later peri- 
 odical papers, I should be exceedingly tempted 
 to fall into some allegorical slumbers. After 
 this declaration, I know not why I may not 
 actually do it ; since I see people in a hundred 
 other instances, seem to imagine that censuring 
 any thing violently, is amply sufficient to ex- 
 cuse their being guilty of it. 
 
 Suppose me then composed in my easy- 
 chair, after having long meditated on that 
 old and threadbare comparison of human Life 
 to a Play. To this, my imagination furnishes 
 abundance of scenery; and the train of my 
 thoughts go on just as well, after my eyes are 
 closed, as it did before. 
 
 As I have yet but a very inconsiderable 
 part in the performance, I have leisure enough 
 
328 Allegory /. 
 
 to stand between the scenes, and to amuse 
 myself with various speculations. Fortunately 
 for me, I am placed near a person, who can 
 give me sufficient information of the whole 
 matter ; since indeed this venerable person is 
 no other, than the originally intended direc- 
 tress of the theatre. Wisdom by name : but 
 being of a temper above entering into all the 
 little disputes of the actors, she has suffered her 
 place to be usurped by a multitude of preten- 
 ders, who mix the vilest of farces, and the 
 absurdest of tragedies, with the noblest drama 
 in the world. 
 
 These destructive interlopers were busily 
 instructing all the actors as they appeared upon 
 the stage, and indeed one might easily see the 
 effects of their teaching. Scarce one in fifty 
 repeated a single line with a natural and un- 
 affected air. Every feature was distorted by 
 grimace : many a good sentiment entree, by 
 the emphasis with which it was pronounced. 
 
 Would it not put one quite out of patience, 
 said my neighbour, to see that fellow there, so 
 entirely spoil one of the finest passages in the 
 play, by turning it into a mere rant? Is there 
 any bearing that man, who pretending to act 
 the lover, puts on all the airs of a mad-man ? 
 Wbv sir, do you think that graceful figure. 
 
Alkgory /. 329 
 
 that sense, and all those advantages you were 
 dresi with, in order to do honour to my com- 
 pany, were given yon, only that you might 
 walk about the stage, sighing and exclaiming? 
 Pray let me cast an eye upon your part. — 
 Look ye, are here any of those soliloquies that 
 you are every moment putting in ? — Why, 
 here is not a single word of misery, death, 
 torment. — The lover waking out of his reverie, 
 pointed to a prompter that stood at a little 
 distance, when Wisdom perceived it to be 
 busy Imagination. She only, with an air of 
 compassion, drew the poor youth to her side 
 of the stage, and begged he would keep out 
 of the hearing of so bad a director. 
 
 The next, we happened to attend to, was 
 a young woman, of a most amiable figure, 
 who stood pretty near us, but the good-nature 
 in her countenance was mixed with a kind of 
 haughty disdain, whenever she turned towards 
 Imagination, that did not absolutely please 
 me. I remarked upon it to my friend, and we 
 jointly observed her stealing leisure from her 
 part, to look over the whole scheme of the 
 Drama. That actress, says she, has a most 
 charming genius, but she too hcts a Travel's 
 in it. Because she has seen some love scenes, 
 in the play, ridiculously acted., and heard 
 
330 Allegory i. 
 
 them censured by those, whose judgment she 
 respects, and especially because she is very 
 justly displeased with all the bombast stuff, 
 Imagination puts into them, she will, ao^ainst 
 her senses believe, there is scarce a single 
 line about it, in the whole Drama : and there 
 you may see her striking out for spurious 
 passages that have warmed the noblest hearts 
 with generous sentiments, and gained a just 
 applause from Socrates and Plato themselves: 
 two of the finest actors I ever had. This is, 
 however, an error on the right side. Happy 
 for you, young actress, if you never fall into 
 a worse. She may indeed miss of saying an 
 agreeable thing, but she never will say an 
 absurd one. 
 
 Look yonder, and you will see more dan- 
 gerous, and more ridiculous mistakes. That 
 group of young actors, just entering on the 
 stage, who cannot possibly have beheld more 
 than half a scene, pretend already, in a deci- 
 sive way, to give their judgment of the whole. 
 They do not so much as wait for their cue, 
 (which years and discretion ought to give them) 
 but thrust forward into the verv middle of the 
 action. Some of them, displeased with the 
 decorations of their part of the theatre, are 
 busied in hurrying the tinsel ornaments, from 
 
 3 
 
Allegory i. 331 
 
 the other corners of it, where they were much 
 more becomingly placed. That man yonder, 
 who ought to be acting the part of a hero, is 
 so taken up with adjusting his dress, and 
 that of his companions, that he never once 
 seems to think of the green-room, where all 
 these robes must soon be laid aside. 
 
 Look yonder, look yonder ! This is a pitia- 
 ble sight indeed. Behold that woman exqui- 
 sitely handsome still, though much past the 
 bloom of youth* and formed to shine in any 
 part, but so unhappily attached to that she 
 lias just left, that her head is absolutely turned 
 behind her: so unwilling is she to lose sight 
 of her beloved gaieties. 
 
 In another place you may see persons, who, 
 sensible that the splendid dresses of the theatre 
 are only lent them, for a time, disdain, with a 
 sullen ill-judged pride, to put them on at all. 
 and so disgrace the parts that were allotted 
 them for their own advantage. 
 
 Alas! what a different prompter has that 
 actor got ! He was designed to represent a 
 /character of generosity, and, for that purpose, 
 furnished with a large treasure of counters, 
 which it was his business to dispose of in the 
 most graceful manner, to those actors engaged 
 in the same scene with him. Instead of this, 
 
332 Allegory r. 
 
 that old fellow, Interest, who stands at his 
 elbow, has prompted him to put the whole 
 bag into his pocket, as if the counters them- 
 selves were of real value: whereas the mo- 
 ment he sets his foot off the stage, or is hurried 
 down, through some of those trap-doors, that 
 are every moment opening around him, these 
 tinsel pieces are no longer current. To con- 
 ceal, in some measure, the falseness of this 
 behaviour, he is forced to leave out a hundred 
 fine passages, intended to grace his character, 
 and to occasion unnumbered chasms, and in- 
 consistencies, which not only make him hissed, 
 but the very scheme of the Drama murmured 
 at. Yet still he persists : and see ! just now, 
 when he ought to be gracefully treading the 
 stage with a superior air ; he is stooping down 
 to pick up some more counters that happen to 
 be fallen upon the dirty floor, made dirty on 
 purpose for the disgrace of those who chuse 
 to grovel there. 
 
 You can scarce have an idea, added my 
 instructress, how infinitely the harmony of the 
 whole piece is interrupted, by the misuse 
 which these wrong-headed actors make of its 
 mere decorations. The part you have to act> 
 child, is a very small one. But remember, 
 it is infinitely superior %) every such attach- 
 
 9 
 
Allegory j. 333 
 
 ment. Fix your attention upon its meaning ; 
 not its ornaments. Let your manner be just, 
 and unaffected ; your air cheerful and disen* 
 gaged. Never pretend to look beyond the 
 present page : and above all, trust the great 
 Author of the Drama, with his own glorious 
 work : and never think to mend what is above 
 your understanding, by minute criticisms, that 
 are below it. 
 
ALLEGORY It 
 
 The Danger of Indulgence of the Imag-ina- 
 nation, 
 
 Methought as I was sitting at work, a 
 young woman came into the room, clothed in 
 a loose green garment. Her long hair fell in 
 ringlets upon her shoulders: her head was 
 crowned with roses and myrtles. A prodigious 
 sweetness appeared in her countenance, and 
 notwithstanding the irregularity of her fea- 
 tures, and a certain wiklness in her eyes, she 
 seemed to me the most agreeable person I had 
 ever beheld. 
 
 When she was entered, she presented me 
 with a little green branch, upon which was a 
 small sort of nut enclosed in a hard black 
 shell, which she said was both wholesome and 
 delicious, and bid me follow her, and not be 
 afraid, for she was going to make me happy. 
 
 I did as she commanded me, and immedi- 
 ately a chariot descended, and took us up. 
 It was made of the richest materials, and 
 drawn by four milk-white turtles. Whilst 
 we were hurried with a rapid motion, over 
 
Allegory iU 335 
 
 vast oceans, boundless plains, and barren de- 
 sarts, she told me, that her name was Imagi- 
 nation ; that she was carrying me to Parnas- 
 sus, where she herself lived. 
 
 I had scarce time to thank her, before we 
 arrived at the top of a very high mountain, 
 covered with very thick woods. Here we 
 alighted: and my guide taking me by the 
 hand, we passed through several beautiful 
 groves of myrtle, bays, and laurel, separated 
 from one another by little green alleys, ena- 
 melled with the finest flowers. Nothing was 
 to be heard but the rustling of leaves, the 
 humming of bees, the warbling of birds, and 
 the purling of streams: and in short, this spot 
 seemed to be a Paradise. 
 
 After wandering some time in this delight- 
 ful place, we came to a long grass walk ; at 
 the further end of which, in a bower of jessa- 
 mins and woodbines, strewed with flowers, sat 
 a woman, of a middle age, but of a pleasing 
 countenance. Her hair was fineiy braided : 
 and she wore a habit of changeable silk. 
 
 When we approached her she was weaving 
 nets of the finest silk, which she immediately 
 threw down, and embraced me. I was sur- 
 prized at so much civility from a stranger ; 
 
338 Allegory ir. 
 
 which she perceiving, bid me not wonder at 
 the kindness she showed for me, at first sight, 
 since, besides my being in Ihe company of 
 that lady, (pointing to Imagination) which 
 was recommendation enough, my own person 
 would entitle me to the favour of all who saw 
 me : but, added she, you have had a long: 
 walK, and want rest ; come and sit down in 
 my bower. 
 
 Though this offer would, at another time, 
 have been very acceptable to me, yet so great 
 was my desire of seeing the Muses, that I 
 begged to be excused, and to have permission 
 to pursue my journey. Being informed by 
 Imagination where we were going, she com- 
 mended my laudable curiosity, and said, she 
 would accompany us. As we went along, she 
 told me her name was Good-Will, and that 
 she was a great friend to the Muses, and to 
 the lady who brought me hither, whom she 
 had brought up from a child; and had saved 
 her from being carried away by Severity and 
 Ill-humour y her inveterate enemies. 
 
 When she had done speaking, we arrived 
 at the happy place I had so much wished to 
 see. It was a little circular opening, at the 
 upper end of which sat, on a throne of the 
 most fragrant flowers, a young man in aflame- 
 
Allegory n. 337 
 
 coloured garment, of a noble, hut haughty 
 countenance. He was crowned with laurel, 
 and held a harp in his hand. Round him sat 
 nine beautiful young women, who all played 
 upon musical instruments. These, Imagina- 
 tion told me, were Apollo and the Muses. 
 But above all the rest, there were three that 
 I most admired, and who seemed fondest of 
 me. 
 
 One of these was clothed in a loose and 
 careless manner : she was reposed on a bank 
 of flowers, and sung with a sweeter voice than 
 any of the others. The garment of the se- 
 cond was put on with the greatest care and 
 exactness, and richly embroidered with the 
 gayest colours, but it did not seem to fit her. 
 But it was the third whom I most admired. 
 She was crowned with roses and a variety of 
 other flowers. She played upon all the in- 
 struments, and never staid five minutes in a 
 place. 
 
 Just as I was going to sit down to a fine 
 repast, which they had prepared for me of the 
 fruits of the mountain, w r e saw two grave* 
 looking men advancing towards us. Imme- 
 diately Imagination shrieked out, and Good- 
 Will said she had great reason, for those 
 were Severity and Ill-Humour, who had like 
 
 z 
 
338 Allegory u. 
 
 to have ran away with her, when but a child, 
 as she had told me before. You too, added 
 she, may be in danger, therefore come into 
 the midst of us. 
 
 I did so: and by this time the two men were 
 come up, One of them was completely 
 armed, and held a mirror in his hand. The 
 other wore a long robe, and held, in one hand, 
 a mariner's compass, and in the other a lan- 
 thorn. They soon pierced to the centre of 
 our little troop ; and the first, with much ado, 
 at length forced me from the only two, who 
 still held out against them, and made me 
 hearken to the other, who bid me not be 
 afraid, and told me, though I might be preju- 
 diced against him and his companion, by those 
 I had lately been with, yet they had a greater 
 desire of my happiness, and would do more 
 towards it. But, said he, if you have eat any 
 of that fruit, which you have in your hand* 
 of which the real name is Obstinacy, all I can 
 say will be ineffectual. 
 
 I assured him, I had not tasted this fatal 
 fruit. He said he was very glad of it, and 
 bid me throw it down and follow him, which 
 I did, till by a shorter way, we came to the 
 brow of the mountain. When we were there, 
 he told me, the only way to deliver myself 
 
Allegory ir. 339 
 
 from the danger I was then in, was to leap 
 down into the plain below. As the mountain 
 seemed very steep, and the plain very barren, 
 I could neither persuade myself to obey, nor 
 had I courage to disobey him. 
 
 I thus stood wavering for some time, till 
 the man in armour pushed me down, as Men- 
 tor did Telemachus. When I was recovered 
 from the first shock of my fall, how great was 
 my surprize to find this paradise of the world, 
 this delightful mountain, was raised to that 
 prodigious height, by mere empty clouds. 
 
 After they had given me some time to won- 
 der, he, who held the lanthorn in his hand, 
 told me that the place before me was the 
 Mount of Folly. That Imagination was 
 'Romance, Good- Will was Flattery, Apollo 
 was Bombast. That the two false Muses 
 who tried most to keep me from coming with 
 them, were Self -Conceit, and Idleness : that 
 the others were Inconstancy, False-Taste, 
 Ignorance, and Affectation her daughter, 
 Enthusiasm of Poetry, Credulity a great pro- 
 moter of their despotic dominion, and Fan- 
 tasticalness, who took as many hearts as any 
 of the rest. 
 
 I thanked him for this information, and 
 told him, that it would almost equal the joy of 
 
 z % 
 
340 J lie gory //. 
 
 my deliverance, to know the names of my 
 deliverers. He told me his own was Good- 
 Advice, and his companion's Good-Sense, his 
 brother, and born at the same time. He 
 added, that if I liked their company, they 
 would, after having shewn me the many thou- 
 sand wretches, whom my false friends had 
 betrayed, conduct me to the abode of Appli- 
 cation and Perseverance, the parents of all 
 the virtues. 
 
 I told him that nothing could afford me a 
 more sensible pleasure. Then, said he, pre- 
 pare yourself for a scene of horror : and im- 
 mediately, with the help of his brother, he 
 lifted up the mountain, and discovered to my 
 sight a dark and hollow vale, where, under 
 the shade of cypress and yew, lay in the ut- 
 most misery, multitudes of unhappy mortals, 
 mostly young women, run away with by Ro- 
 mance. When I had left this dreadful spot, 
 and the mountain was closed upon them, just 
 as I was going to be good and happy, some 
 unhappy accident awakened me. 
 
POETRY. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 Awake, my Laura, break the silken chain, 
 Awake, my Friend, to hours unsoil'd by pain : 
 Awake to peaceful joys and thought refin'd, 
 Youth's cheerful morn, and Virtue's vigorous mind : 
 Wake to all joys, fair friendship can bestow, 
 All that from health, and prosp'rous fortune flow. 
 Still dost thou sleep ? awake, imprudent fair, 
 Few hours has life, and few of those can spare *. 
 
 Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise 
 While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies : 
 While yet the birds their early mattins sing, 
 And all around us blooming as the spring. 
 Ere sultry Phoebus with his scorching ray 
 Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay, 
 Scorch'd ev'ry flow'r, embrown'd each drooping green, 
 Pall'd the pure air, and chas'd the pleasing scene. 
 Still dost thou sleep ? O rise, imprudent fair, 
 Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare. 
 
 But this, perhaps, was but a summer song, 
 And winter nights are dark, and cold, and long : 
 Weak reason that, for sleeping past the morn 
 Yet urg'd by sloth, and by indulgence born. 
 
 * For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise 1 
 To lie in dull oblivion, losing half 
 The fleeting moments of too short a life ! 
 
 Thomson's Summer, 
 
344 POETRY. 
 
 Oh rather haste to rise, my slumb'ring friend, 
 While feeble suns their scanty influence lend ; 
 While cheerful day-light yet adorns the skies, 
 Awake, my Friend ! my Laura haste to rise. 
 For soon the uncertain short-liv'd day shall fail, 
 And soon shall night extend her sooty veil # : 
 Blank nature fades, black shades and phantoms drear 
 Haunt the sick eye, and fill the court of feas. 
 O therefore sleep no more, imprudent fair, 
 Few hours has day, few days the circling year, 
 Few years has life, and few of those can spare. 
 
 Think of the task those hours have yet in view, 
 Reason to arm, and passion to subdue ; 
 While life's fair calm, and flatt'ring moments last, 
 To fence your mind against the stormy blast : 
 Early to hoard blest Wisdom's peace-fraught store, 
 Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore, 
 And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. 
 Imperfect beings ! weakly arm'd to bear 
 Pleasure's soft wiles, or sorrow's open war ; 
 Alternate shocks from different sides to feel, 
 Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel : 
 Yet fram'd with high aspirings, strong desires, 
 How mad th' attempt to quench celestial fires ! 
 Still to perfection tends the restless mind, 
 And happiness its bright reward assign'd. 
 And shall dull sloth obscure the Heav'n-beam'd ray 
 That guides our passage to the realms of day, 
 Cheers the faint heart, and points the dubious way ! 
 Not weakly arm'd, if ever on our guard, 
 Nor to the worst unequal if prepar'd : 
 
 * The night cometh when no man work. John ix. 4. 
 
POETRY. 345 
 
 Not unsurmountable the task, if lov'd, 
 
 Nor short the time if ev'ry hour improv'd. 
 
 O rouse thee, then, nor shun the glorious strife, 
 
 Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life : 
 
 Assert thy reason, animate thy heart, 
 
 And act thro' life's short scene the useful part : 
 
 Then sleep in peace, by gentlest mem'ry crown'd, 
 
 Till time's vast year has fili'd its perfect round. 
 
ON READING THE LOYE ELEGIES, 1742* 
 
 Hither your wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring 
 The short-liv'd rose f, that blooms but to decay ; 
 
 Love's fragrant myrtles, that in Paphos spring, 
 And deathless Poetry's immortal bay. 
 
 And oh thou gentlest shade accept the verse, 
 Mean tho' it be, and artlessly sincere, 
 
 That pensive thus attends thy silent hearse, 
 And steals, in secret shades, the pious tear. 
 
 What heart, by Heav'n with gen'rous softness blest, 
 But in thy Lines its native language reads ? 
 
 Where hapless Love, in classic plainness drest, 
 Gracefully mourns, and elegantly bleeds. 
 
 In vain, alas, thy fancy fondly gay 
 
 Trac'd the fair scenes of dear domestic life, 
 
 The sportives forsook their wanton play, 
 
 To paint for thee the Mistress, Friend, and Wife. 
 
 * These Lines were written after reading Hammond's Elegies in 
 M.S. a year before they were published. See his Life prefixed to 
 FouhY edition, fol. 1787, in which these Lines are printed. Miss 
 Talbot was then only 22 years, of age. Later in life she would pro- 
 bably have admired them less. 
 
 f nimium breves 
 
 Flores amsense ferre jube rosae. Hon. II, Ode 3. 
 
 6 
 
POETRY. 347 
 
 One caught from Delia's lips the winning' smile, 
 One from her eyes his little soul inspir'd ; 
 
 Then seiz'd thy pen, and smooth'd thy flowing style, 
 Then wept, and trembled, and with sobs admir'd. 
 
 O luckless Lover ! form'd for better days, 
 
 For golden years, and ages long ago, 
 For Thee Persephone impatient stays *, 
 
 For Thee the willow and the cypress grow. 
 
 * Oh spare, Persephone, this guiltless head. 
 
 Hammond, Eleg< IV. 
 
WRIT ON NEW-YEARS-EVE, WHILE THE BELLS WERE 
 RINGING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 Again the smoothly circling year, 
 Beneath fair skies serene and clear, 
 
 Completes its gentle round; 
 Sweet bells in tuneful sounds express 
 Gay thanks for rural happiness, 
 
 And months with plenty crown'd, 
 
 II. 
 
 While yet remains the courteous guest, 
 
 be my grateful thoughts exprest 
 
 Unmixed with grief or fear. 
 Farewell ye seasons ! roll away, 
 
 1 wish not to prolong your stay, 
 
 Tho' age brings up the rear. 
 
 III. 
 
 Cheerful I trust, for future good, 
 The hand which all the past bestow'd, 
 
 Nor heed life's shifting scene. 
 Farewell kind year, which still Jias blest 
 My days with peace, my nights with rest, 
 
 And leav'st my mind serene. 
 
POETRY, 349 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not yet — but now impends the stroke, 
 The far resounding midnight clock 
 
 Has summon'd thee away ; 
 Go mingle with the countless past, 
 Till time himself has liv'd his last, 
 
 In soft oblivion stay. 
 
 V. 
 
 But then with smiling grace appear, 
 Thou blameless, grief-unsullied year, 
 
 O smile once more on me, 
 And witness that thy golden hours 
 Have all been priz'd, as summer flow'rs 
 
 By some industrious bee. 
 
TO CHEERFULNESS. 
 
 Fair Cheerfulness, nymph who all nymphs dost excel, 
 Ah tell me, sweet Cheerfulness, where dost thou dwell ? 
 I would search the world round, thee dear charmer to find ? 
 And with thy rosy chaplet my forehead to bind. 
 
 II. 
 
 When with thee, shall I drink of the clear crystal spring, 
 While birds on the branches rejoicingly sing I 
 When, with thee, on the sun-shiny hills shall I play ? 
 When all nature around us, looks flow'ry and gay ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh why have I lost thee ? What heedless offence, 
 Delightful companion, has banish'd thee hence ? 
 This heart, still thy own, has admitted no guest 
 By whom thou, dearest charmer, should be dispossest. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou ever wert known with Religion to dwell, 
 And gild with thy smiles her contemplative cell : 
 With Innocence thou trippest light o'er the green, 
 While the blue sky above shines all clear and serene. 
 
POETRY. 351 
 
 V. 
 
 With Philosophy oft thy gay moments were past, 
 When Socrates heighten' d the pleasing repast, 
 With Industry ever thou lovest to go, 
 Tho' she carry the milk-pail, or follow the plough. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Far away from my bosom I banish'd thy foes, 
 Nor admitted one thought, that could hurt thy repose 
 Unresting Ambition, wild Passions excess ; 
 Anxiety vain, and romantic Hisfress. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Indeed giddy Mirth, and her frolicsome crew 
 
 But little, if ever, thy Rosalind knew : 
 
 Yet my solitude often by thee has been blest, 
 
 My days thou hast brighten'd, and sweeten'd my rest, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Why then art thou gone ? oh inconstant as fair, 
 Art thou only a tenant of Summer's soft air ? 
 Full well did I hope thy perpetual ray, 
 Should gild with mild lustre, life's most gloomy day. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sweet songstress dost thou with sad Philomel fly, 
 To seek in new climes a more temperate sky ? 
 While the Redbreast all Winter continues to sing, 
 And gladdens its snows with the music of Spring. 
 
352 POETRY. 
 
 X. 
 
 Tliou should st be, thro' life my companion and guide, 
 Come sickness, come sorrow, whatever betide : 
 Gift of heav'n to shorten our wearisome way, 
 Thro* the valley of toil, to the regions of day. 
 
 XI. 
 
 But methinks, in my heart still, (I hear thee reply) 
 I cherish one guest, who constrains thee to fly ; 
 Grey Memory famous, like Nestor of old, 
 For honied discourses, and stories twice told # . 
 
 XII. 
 
 Old Memory often will dwell on a tale, 
 That makes the fresh rose in thy garland grow pale : 
 Yet what can he tell, that may justly displease 
 Thee, whose cloud-piercing eye all futurity sees? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He speaks but what gratitude dictates, and truth, 
 Recalls the gay moments of friendship and youth : 
 He tells of past pleasures securely our own, 
 And so much of our journey how happily gone. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thou knowest, fair charmer of lineage divine, 
 That soon the clear azure unclouded shall shine : 
 That life's transient blessings the earnest but give 
 Of such as from time shall no limits receive. 
 
 * — u^ivcc pvQoXoytvtiv. Hom. Od. XII. 
 
 Human nature has in all ages been the same ; and this has hcen 
 the complaint of youth against age, and of cheerfulness against 
 melancholy, from the earliest times. 
 
POETRY. 353 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh come then, dear source of good-humour and ease, 
 Who teachest at once to be pleased and to please : 
 And ever henceforth, with thy Rosalind dwell, 
 Sweet Cheerfulness, nymph, who all nymphs dost excel. 
 
 a a 
 
MORAL STANZAS, 
 
 Welcome tbe real state of things 
 
 Ideal world adieu, 
 Where clouds piFd up by fancy's hand 
 
 Hang lou'ring o'er each view. 
 
 II. 
 
 Here the gay sunshine of content 
 Shall gild each humble scene : 
 
 And life steal on, with gentle pace, 
 Beneath a sky serene. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hesperian trees amidst my grove 
 
 I ask not to behold, 
 Since e\ 'n from Ovid's song I know, 
 
 That dragone guard the gold. 
 
 Nor would I have the phoenix build 
 In my poor elms his nest, 
 
 For where shall odorous gums be found 
 To treat the beauteous guest? 
 
 V. 
 
 Henceforth no pleasure I desire 
 
 In any wild extreme, 
 Such as should lull the captiv'd min«l 
 
 In a bewitching dream. 
 
POETRY. 355 
 
 VI. 
 
 friendship I ask, without caprice, 
 When faults are over-seen ; 
 
 Errors on both sides mix'd with truth 
 And kind good-will between. 
 
 VII. 
 
 ^Health, that may best its value prove. 
 By slight returns of pain : 
 
 Amusements to enliven life, 
 Crosses to prove it vain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thus would I pass my hours away, 
 Extracting good from all : 
 
 Till time shall from my sliding feet 
 Push this uncertain ball. 
 
 Aa 2 
 
LINE S, 
 
 Writ in the Country towards the End of Autumn. 
 
 Spring, gay season, is no more, 
 Summer's golden reign is o'er, 
 Soon to close the varied year, 
 Hoary Winter shall appear. 
 
 When the northern tempests blow, 
 When the hills are hid in snow, 
 Where shall drooping fancy find 
 Scenes to soothe a rural mind ? 
 
 When the busy world resort 
 
 To the gay, the festive court, 
 
 Say, within the lonely cell, 
 
 How shall sweet contentment dwell I 
 Shall not all the tedious day 
 Sad and silent wear away ? 
 Shall not all the darksome night 
 Fondly dream of vain delight I 
 
 Shining scenes shall vex the mind 
 
 To delusive sleep resign'd, 
 
 Chas'd by chirping birds away, 
 
 At the chilly dawn of day. 
 
 Then to torn the studious page 
 Shall the morning hours en^aoe; 
 When Ihe lamps at evening burn, 
 Still the studious page to turn. 
 
POETRY. 357 
 
 Or intent with hand and eye 
 The laborious loom to ply, 
 There a mimic spring to raise, 
 Vain pursuit of trifling praise, 
 
 Hence will fancy often stray 
 
 To the circles of the gay. 
 
 — Shall she not? — then prithee bind 
 
 In thy chains the veering mind. 
 
 As it lists the wind may blow. 
 Fancy shall her ruler know, 
 Idle being, shadowy queen, 
 Empress of a fairy scene. 
 
 Summer, spring, and autumn past, 
 
 Welcome winter comes at last, 
 
 Winter comes, with sober cheer, 
 
 Winding up the varied year. 
 
 When the verdant scenes are lost, 
 When the hills are white with frost, 
 Fancy's idle reign is done, 
 Reason's empire is begun. 
 
 Happy, gay ones, may you be 
 
 All your hours from sorrow free. 
 
 To the happy, to the gay, 
 
 Unreprov'd my thoughts shall stray. 
 
 Pleasant is it to behold 
 Distant mountains tipp'd with gold, 
 Sunny landscapes round us spread, 
 While our path is in the shade. 
 
 Welcome Morpheus, with thy train, 
 
 Pleasing phantoms of the brain : 
 
 Welcome Sol's returning ray, 
 
 Chirping birds and dawning day. 
 6 
 
358 POETRY. 
 
 Welcome then tbe sacred lore s 
 Peaceful wisdom's endless store ; 
 Hours inestimably dear, 
 Welcome happiest of the year l . 
 Then the pencil, then the loom, 
 Welcome ev'ry mimic bloom. 
 Health, and industry, and peace, 
 — Muse enough, thy labour eease, 
 
ELEG Y r * 
 
 O form'd for boundless bliss ! Immortal soul. 
 Why dost thou prompt the melancholy sigh, 
 
 While evening shades disclose the glowing pole, 
 And silver moon-beams tremble oe'r the sky. 
 
 These glowing stars shall fade, this moon shall fall* 
 
 This transitory sky shall melt away, 
 Whilst thou triumphantly surviving all 
 
 Shalt glad expatiate in eternal day. 
 
 Sickens the mind with longings vainly great, 
 To trace mysterious wisdom's secret ways, 
 
 While chain'd and bound in this ignoble state, 
 Humbly it breathes sincere, imperfect praise? 
 
 Or glows the beating heart with sacred fires, 
 And longs to mingle in the worlds of love I 
 
 Or, foolish trembler, feeds its fond desires 
 Of earthly good ? or dread life's ills to prove-? 
 
 Back does it trace the Sight of former years, 
 The friends lamented, and the pleasures past? 
 
 Or wing'd with forecast vain, and impious fears, 
 Presumptuous to the cloud bid future haste ; 
 
 * In this Elegy, of which the date is uncertain, the train of thought 
 seems very similar to that which Mrs. Carter addressed to Miss Sutton 
 in 1763. There is also some kind of general resemblance in them 
 both (though on a subject much more sublime) to the opening 1 of 
 Sbenstone's xxth Elegy ; " why droops this heart" &c* 
 8 
 
060 POETRY. 
 
 Hence, far begone, ye fancy-folded pains, 
 
 Peace, trembling heart, be ev'ry sigh supprest : 
 
 Wisdom supreme, eternal goodness reigns, 
 Thus far is sure : to Heav'n resign the rest *. 
 
 * Thus far was right; the rest belongs lo Heaven. Pope. 
 
 Prol. to the Sat, 
 
O D E. 
 
 What art thou, Memory of former days, 
 That dost so subtly touch the feeling heart ? 
 
 Thou know'st such pleasing sadness to impart, 
 That dost such thrilling dear ideas raise ? 
 Each wonted path, each once familiar place, 
 
 Each object, that at first but common seem'd, 
 Beheld again some sacredness has gain'd, 
 With fancy's hues inexplicably strain'd, 
 
 And by Remembrance venerable deem'd. 
 Nor idle workings these of fancy fond, 
 
 Some solemn truth the Heav'n-sent visions teach, 
 Stretching our thoughts these bounded scenes beyond, 
 
 And this their voice, and this the truth they teach, 
 Time past to man should be an awful theme, 
 
 No magic can the fugitive recall ; 
 If idly lost in pleasure's noon-day dream, 
 
 Or vainly wasted, passion's wretched thrall. 
 
 Know, thou Profuse ? that portion was thy all, 
 That narrow Pittance of some scanty years, 
 
 Was giv'n thee, O unthinking fool to buy 
 
 The priceless treasures of eternity. 
 Hence fond remembrance prompts unbidden tears., 
 And something sadly solemn mingles still, 
 
 With ev'ry thought of time for ever gone, 
 Distinct from past events of good or ill, 
 
 Or view of Life's swift changes hastening on, 
 
$62 f»OETRY. 
 
 The sadness hence : but hence the sweetness too ; 
 
 For well spent time soft whispers to the mind 
 
 Hopes of a blest eternity behind, 
 That ev'ry happy moment shall renew. 
 Now pleasing Fancy lend thy endless clue, 
 
 And thro' the maze of bliss our path-way guida 
 
 Where bloom unfading joys on ev'ry side, 
 And each gay winding offers to the view, 
 Here, boundless prospects opening to the sight, 
 In full celestial glory dazzling bright, 
 Increasing still, and ever to increase : 
 There, the soft scenes of innocence and peace. 
 Thro' which, in early youth, or riper age, 
 
 A hand all gracious leads the virtuous few, 
 That graceful tread on Life's important stage, 
 
 But fairer now and brighter ev'ry hue : 
 
 For stormy clouds too often intervene, 
 
 And throw dark shadows o'er this mortal scene, 
 Blast the fair buds of hope, or snatch from sights 
 
 The dear companions of our social way, 
 Absorb'd at once in death's impervious night. 
 Lost for a while — but when eternal day 
 Shall gladsome dawn at once its glorious ray. 
 Shows the fair scene of happiness complete*: 
 
 Then Friends, Companions, Lovers joyful meet 
 Thence never more to part : and fully blown 
 The buds of hope their lasting bloom display, 
 Then sweet Remembrance wakes without regret* 
 And back each human path they fondly trace, 
 That led thro' steady Wisdom's peaceful ways, 
 
 * See the same delightful idea, but expressed in different word*, 
 in Mrs. Carter's Poem to > P. 85, Vol. n. Svo. edit. Stanza 7. 
 
POETRY. 86$ 
 
 Thro' the still vale of dear domestic lifef: 
 Or thro' the toils of virtue's arduous strife, 
 To this blest Paradise, this beamy crown, 
 
 This cloudless day, whose sun shall never set. 
 
 f Secretum iter, etfallentis semita vitae. Hon. Lib. Epist. 18. 
 
 THE. END. 
 
 H. Gilbert, Printer, St. JolmVSquarc, London; 
 

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