So | OS ia pee Len \ eee Po a a rl SL LLL LS LIS LGLDLIS LILLPLILDS GILES LE LESSONS IN ELOCUTION : SELECTION OF PIECES, Prose and Verse, FOR THE Improvement of Y auth IN Reapine and SPEAKING. — BY. WILLIAM SCOTT. eee eee To which are prefixed, ELEMENTS OF GESTURE. Mlustrated by FOUR PLATES;—and RULES For expressing with propriety the various Passions, &c. oF THE Mrwnp. ALSO, AN A PPENDIX, CONTAINING LESSONS ON A NEW PLAN. ——- Boston Edition : PUBLISHED BY LINCOLN & EDMANDS, No. 53 Cornhill,.,,..1820, William Greenough, Pee 5 grerrer LOLOL LEO LGD OL ILED IE ELE LG ELE L LILLE ELE LLL OE GE LEL ILE LD EEL ELE neesrers &. PLL. SAI OL LL LAD LL LLOLE , LLL LIL LA oe oe ) Ne: ee e = Sa a he : €ONTENTS. Lf IL INTRODUCTORY LESSONS. t. ON the speaking of speeches at schools, 2: On the acting of plays at schools, - - 3. Rules for expressing with propriety, the princi- pal passions and humors, which occur in read- ing or public speaking, - - - - 4, Rules respecting elocution, - - - SECTION. I. J—5. Selectsentences, - = = Art of Thinking, 6. The fox and the goat, - - - Dodsley’s Fables, 7. The fox and the stork, och - ibid. 8, The courts of death, - . ~ - rid. 9. The partial judge, - - - - ibid. 10. The sick lion, the fox and the-wolf, - tbid. Walker, ibid. Burgh, - Walker, B PART I.—LESSONS IN READING. 11. Dishonesty punished, - - - Kane’s Hints, 12. The picture, - - < : a = ibid. 13. The two bees, - ° - - Dodsley’s Fables, 14. Beauty and Deformity, - - Percival’s Tales, 15. Remarkable instance of friendship, Art of Speaking, =~. abid. 16. Dionysius and Damocles, . * 17. Character of Cataline, - : - Sallust, 18. Avarice and Luxury, - = - Spectator, 19, Hercules’ Choice, - - . . Tatiler, - 20 Will Honeycomb’s Spectator, ° - . Spectator, = 21. On good breeding, : - “ Chesterfield, 22, Address to a young student, . - Knox, - 23. Advantages of, and motives to cheerfulness, Spectator, SECTION II: i; The bad reader, . = - Percival’s Tales, 2. Respect due to old age, - . Spectator, - 3. Piety to God recommended to the young, Blair, =~ 4, Modesty and docility, - - ibid, 5. Sincerity, < . - - ° ibid. = 6. Benevolence and humenity, . - 2bid, 7. Industry and application, : + - tbid, = 8, Proper employment of time, - - ibid. 9, The true patriot, ~ + » drt of Thinking, 10. On contentment, il. Needle work recommended to t 12. On pride, - - 13. Journal of the life of 14, Character of Julius Czsar, ~y PE Br: \ On mispent time, - Character of Francis I. The supper and grace, . Rustic felicity, . . House of mourning, CONTENTS, SECTION III, he ladies, Alexander Severus, Sterne, ibid tbid> - The honour and advantages of a constant adherence to truth, . Impertinence in discourse, » Character of Addison as a writer, . Pleasure and pain, . Sir Roger de Coverly’s family, . The folly of inconsistent expectations, - Description of the yale of Keswick in” Cumberland, - Pity, an allegory, - . Advantages.of Commerce, . On public speaking, . Advantages of history, . On the immortality of the soul, . The combat of the Horatii and the Curiatii, the . On the power of-custor - On pedantry, - » The journey. of a day—a human life, ° picture.of SECTION IV. - Description of the amphitheatre of Titus, 2. Reflections in Westminster Abbey, - Spectator, . abid, Aitken, Brown, Aitken, abid. Hume, Spectator, Livy, Spectator, Mirror, . The character of Mary queen of Scots, . The character of queen Elizabeth, . Charies V's resignation of his dominions, . Importance of virtue, Address to art, - 8, Flattery, - - 9. The absent man, - 10. The Monk, - - Xi. On the head dress of ladies, 12. On the present and future state, 13, Uncle Toby’s bevevolence, 14, Story ofthe siege of Calais, . Raméler, Gibbon, Spectator, Spectator, abid, Guardian, Gibbon, Middleton, Guardian, Robertson, Robertson, ~ Hume, Robertson, - Price, Harris, Theophrastus, Spectator, Sterne, + Spectator, rbid, Sterne, Faolof Quality Percival’s Tales, Theophrastus, Fohnson, Spectator, &- SECTION V. Pages 1: On grace in writing, - - Fitzborne’s Letters, 156 2. On the structure of animals, - - Spectator, 157 3. On natural and fantastical pleasures, Guardian, 160 4. The folly’and madness of ambition illustrated, World,* 164 5 Battle of Pharsalia andthe death of Pompey, Goldsmith, 167 6, Character of king Alfred,: - « - Hume, 172 7. Aukwardness in company, . - Chesterfield, 173 8, Virtue’ man’s highest interest, - -\ Harris, ib. 9, On the pleasure arising from objects of sight, Spectator, 175 10, Liberty and slavery, - - - - Sterne, 177 11. The cant of Criticism, : - + ibid. - 178 12. Parallel between Pope and Dryden, - SFohnson, 179 13. The stery of Le Fever, - - - Sterne, 180 SECTION: VI. t. The shepherd and the philosopher, > + Gay, 188 2. Ode to Leven water, - - - - Wmollet, 189 3. Ode from the 19th Psalm, - - =" Spectator, 490 4. Rural Charms, - - : - - Goldsmith, ib. -5, The painter who pleased nobody and every hody, Gay, 191 6, Diversity in the human character, - Pope, 192 - 7. The toilet, - - ~ = - - ibid, 194 8. The hermit, - - - - - Parnell, - ib. 9, On the death of Mrs. Mason, - - Mason, 199 © 40, Extract from the temple of fame, - - Pope, ib. 11. A panegyrick on great Britain, : Thomson, 201% 12, Hymn to the Deity, on the seasons of the year, 2bid.- 203% SECTION VII: 1. The Cameleon, - - <-. - - Merrick, 206° 2, On the order of nature; - - - Pope, 207 3. Description of a country alehouse, - Goldsmith,.. 208 4. Character of a country schoolmaster,- = ibid, ib. 5. Story of Palemon and Lavinia, - - Thomson, 209 6, Celadon*and Amelia, ~ - Pee ibid. = - 942 7. Description of Mab, queen of the Faries, Shakespeare, 213 8 On the existence of a Deity, -- = - Young, ib. 9; Evening in Paradise described, - Milton, “214 40. Elegy written in a country chureh-yard, - Gray, 216 {t. Scipio restoring the captive lady to her lover, Thomson, 21§ 42. Humorous complaint to Dr, Arbuthnot of the: impertinence of scribblers, - - - Pope; 220 13. Hymn to adversity, - - : - Gray, — 221 14, The passions—An ode, we - Collinss - 223 - AS CONTENTS. CONTENTS. SECTION VIII. 1. Lamentation for the loss of sight, Milton, 2. L’Allegro, or the merry man, . ° ibid, 3. On the pursuits of mankind, de Sei Hie Ope, 227 A, Adam and Eve’s morning hymn, . Milton, 229 5. Parting of Hector and Andromache, - Homer, 230 6. Facetious history of John Gilpin, » - Cowper, 233 7. The creation of the world, . - Milton, 238 8. Overthrow of the rebel angels, - - thid, 239 9. Alexander’s feast, or the power of music, Dryden, 240 PART IL.—LESSONS IN SPEAKING. SECTION I. ELOQUE NGE OF THE PULPIT. ; On truth and integrity, - ‘ Tillotson, 245 . On doing ag we would be done unto, - A man’s fortune is more frequently made bs his tongue, than by his virtues ; and more frequently crushed _by it, than by his vices, ¥. EVEN self interest is a moiive for benevolence. There are none so low, but may have it in their power to return a good office. To deal with a man, you must know his temper, by which you can lead him ; or his ends, by which you can persuade him ; er his friends, t by whom you can govern him, 52 LESSONS IN [Parrl. The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next, good sense; the third, good humor ; the last, wit. The great error in conversation is, to be fonder of speak- ing than of hearing. Few show more complaisance than to pretend to hearken, intent all the while upon what they themselves haye to say, not consideying, that to seek one’s own pleasure, so passionately, isnot the way to please others, To bean Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Paris, a Spaniard in Madrid, is no easy matter, and yet it is necessary. A man entirely without ceremony has need of great merit. He who cannot bear a jest, ought never to make one. In the deepest distress, virtue is more illustrious than vice in its highest prosperity. No man is so foolish but he may give good counsel at a time; no man so wise but he may err, if he takes no counsel but his own, : He whose ruling passion is love of praise, is a slave to ev- ery one who has a tongue for detraction. Always to indulge our appetites, is to extinguish them. Abstain, that you may enjoy. To have your enemy in your power, and yet ta do him good, is the greatest heroism. Modesty, were it to be recommended fer nothing else, leaves a man at ease, by pretending to little; whereas vain glory requires perpetual kbour, to appear what one is not. If we have sense, modesty best sets it off; if not, best hides the want. When, even in the heat of dispute, T yield to my antago- nist, my victory over rayself is more illustrious than over him, had he yielded to me. The refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the bedy, poison that very pleasure they are intended to pro= mote ; for, by soliciting the appetite, they exclade the great- est pleasure of taste, that which arises from the gratification of hunger, VI-—-The Fox and the Goat. A FOX and a Goat travelling together, in a very suitry day, found themselves exceedingly thirsty ; when looking round the country in order to discover a place where they might probably meet with water, they at length descried a clear spring at the bottom of a-well... They both eagerly descended: and having sufficiently allayed their thirst, be- gan to consider how they should get out, Many expedi- Seer, [.] READING. 33 ents forthat purpose, were mutually proposed and rejected, At last the crafty Fox cried out with great joy—-l havea thought just struck into my mind, which, I am confident, will extricate us out of our difficalty : Do you, said he to the Goat, only rear yourself up upon your hind legs, and rest your fore feet against thesidé of the well. In this pos- ture, I will climb up to your head, from which 1 shall be able, with a spring, to reach the top; and when I am once there, you are sensible it will be very easy for me to pall you out by the horns. ‘The simple Goat liked the proposal well, and immediately placed himself as directed ; by: means of ohich, the Fox, without much difficulty, vained the top, Aud now, said the Goat, give me.the assistance you prom- ised. ‘Thou old fool, rephéd the Fox, hadst thou but half as much brains as beard, thou wouldst never have believed, that I woald hazard my own life to save thine, However, i will leave with thee a piece of advice, which may be of service to thee hereafter, if thou shouldst have the good fortune to make thy escape: Never venture into a we ell again, before thoa hast well Considered how to get out of it. VII.—The Fox and the Stork. THE Fox, though in general more inclined to roguery than wit, had once a ‘strong inclination to play the wag width his neighbour, the Stork. He accordingly invited her to dinner in great form ; but when it came upon the table, the Stork found it consisted entirely of different soups served up in broad shallow dishes, so that she cculd only dip in the end of her bill, but poald not possibly satisfy her hunger, ‘The Fox lapped it up very readily ; and every now and then addressing himself to his guest, desired to know how she liked her entertainment; hoped that every thing was sea- soned to her mind 3 and ‘protested he was very sorry to see her eat so sparingly. The Stork perceiving she was played upon, took-no notice of it, but pretended to like every dish extremely ; and, at parting, pressed the Fox so earnestly to return her visit, that he could not in civility refuse. The day arrived, and. he repaired to his appointment ; but to his great mortification; when dinner appeared, he found it composed of minced meat, served up in long narrow necked glasses; so that he was only tantalized with the sight of what it was nel ossibie for him to taste. ‘The Stork thrust in ber tong bill, and helped herself very plentitully > then “turning to Reynard, who was eagerly Lethal terpuiside of he : f 54 LESSONS IN {Parr i. 4 jar, where some sauce had been spilled—I am very glad,, said she, smiling, that you seem to have so good an appetite 5 I hope you will make as hearty a dinner at my table, as I did the other day at yours. Reynard hung down his head, and looked very much displeased. Nay, nay, said the Stork, don’t pretend to be out of humor about the matter; they that cannot take a jest shoald neyer make one. VUI.—The Court of Death. DEATH, the king of terrors, was determined to choose a prime minister ; and his pale courtiers, the ghastly train of diseases, were all summoned to attend ; when each pre- ferred his claim to the honor of this illustrious office. Fe- ver urged the numbers he had destroyed ; cold Palsy set forth his pretensions, by shaking all his limbs; and Dropsy, by his swelled, unwieldy carcase. Gout hobbled up, and alledged his great power in racking every joint ; and Asth- ma’s inability to speak, was a strong, though silent argu~ ment in favour of his claim. Stone and Cholic pleaded their violence ;. Plague his- rapid progress if destruction }, and Consumption, though slow, insisted that he was sure. In the midst of this contention, the court was disturbed with the noise of music, dancing, feasting and revelry ; when immediately entered a lady, with a bold lascivious air, and: a flushed and jovial countenance: she was attended on one hand, by a troop of cooks and bacchanals ; and on the other by a train of wanton youths and damsels, who danced, half naked, to. the softest musical instruments ; ber name was InTEMPERANCE, She waved her haud, and thus addressed. the croud of diseases: Give way, ye sickly band of pretend- ers, nor dare to vie with my superior merits in the service: of this great monarch, Am I not your parent? the author of your beings ? do you wot derive the power of shortening human life almost wholly from me? Who, then, so fit as myself for this important office ? The grisly monarch grin- ned a smile of approbation, placed her at his right. band, and she immediately became his principal favourite and prime minister. TX.—The Partial Judge. A FARMER came to a neighbouring lawyer, express- ing great concern for an accident which, he said, had just happened, Qne of yonr oxen, continued he, has been gored by an unlucky bull of mine; and I should be glad to know Secr. 1. READING. 55 how I am to make you reparation, Thou art a very honest fellow, replied the Lawyer, and wilt not think it unreason- able, that | expect one of thy oxen in return. It is no more than justice, quoth the Farmer, to be sure : But, what did. I say ?—-] mistake, It is your bull that has killed one of my oxen, Indeed! says the Lawyer; that alters the case; I must inquire into the affair; and if—And 1F! said the Farmer—the business, I find, would have been concluded without an IF, had you been as ready to do justice to others as to exact it from them. X.—The sick Lion, the Fox, and the Wolf. A LION, having surfeited himself with feasting too lux- vriously, on the ecarcase of a wild boar, was seized with a violent and dangerons disorder. The beasts of the forest flocked, in great numbers, to pay their respects to him up- on the occasion, and scarce one was absent except the Fox. The Wolf, an illnatured and malicious beast, seized this opportunity to accuse the Fex of pride, ingratitude, and disaffection to his majesty. in the midst of this invective, the Fox entered ; who having heard part of the Wolf’s ac- cusation, and observed the Lion’s countenance to be kin- died into-wrath, thus adroitly excused himself, and retorted upon his accuser: 1 see many here, who, with mere lip service, have pretended to show you their ‘vyalty ; but, for my part, from the moment J heard of your majesty’s illness, neglecting useless. compliments, 1 employed myself, day aid night, to inquire, among the most learned physicians, an infallible remedy for your disease ; and have, at length, happily been informed of ove. It is a plaster made of part of a wolf’s skin, taken warm from his back, and laid to your majesty’s stomach. This remedy was no sooner. proposed, than it was-determined that the experiment should be tried ; and whilst the operation was performing, the Fox, with a sarcastic smile, whispered this useful-maxim in the Wolf’s ears If you would be safe from harm yourself, learn for the future, not to meditate mischief against others. . X1.—Dishonesiy punished. AN usurer, having lost a handred pounds ina bag, pro - mised.a.reward of ten pounds to the person who should re= store it,. Aman, having brought it to him, demanded the reward. ‘The usurer, loth to give the reward, now that he had got the bag, alledged, after the bag was o ened, that 56 LESSONS IN [Parr lL there was 2 hundred and ten pounds in it, when he lost it, The usurer, being called before the judge, unwarily ac- ‘koowledged that the seal was broke open im his presence, and that there were no more at that time but a hundred pounds inthe bag, ‘* You say,” says the judge, “* that the bag you lost had a hundred and ten pounds in it.” > * Yes, my lord.” * Then,” replied the judge, ‘ this cannot be your bag, as it contained but a hundred pounds; therefore the plaintiff must keep it till the true owner appears; and you must look for your bag where you ean find it.” X1IL—The Picture. SIR Wititam Lexy, a famous painter in the reign of Charles I, agreed beforehand, for the price of a picture he was to draw for a rich London Alderman, who was not ine debted to-nature, either for shape or face. The picture being finished, the Alderman endeavoured to beat down the price, ailedging, that if he did not purchase it, it would lie on the painter’s hand. ‘* That’s your mistake,” says Sir William ; “ for I can sell it at double the price | demand.” *¢ How can that be,” says the Alderman, ‘ for ’tis like no« body but myself?’ “True,” replied Sir William, ‘ but I can draw a tail to it, and then it will be ay excellent monkey.” Mr, Alderman, to prevent being exposed, paid down the money demanded, and carried off the picture. XHI.—The Two Bees. : ON a fille morning in May, two Bees set forward in quest of honey 5 the one wise and temperate, the other careless and extravagant, They soon arrived at a garden enriched with aromatic herbs, the most fragrant fiowers, and the most delicious fruits, They regaled. themselves for a time, on the various dainties that were spread before them ; the one loading his thigh, at intervals, with provisions for the hive, against the distant winter; the other revelling in sweets, without regard to any thing but his present gratification. At length they found a wide mouthed phial,’that hang bes neath the bow of a peach tree, filled with honey, ready tem= pered, and exposed to their taste, in the most alluring mau- ner. ‘Phe thoughtless epicure, in spite of all his friend’s remonsirances, plunged headlong into the vessel, resolving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality. The philosopher, on the other hand, sipped a litele with caution, but, being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flow-~ Secr. I.j READING. 57 ers, where, by the moderation of his pac "he improved his relish for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to inquire whether he would return to the hive; but he found hiiis surfeited in sweets, which he was as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clog- ged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament, with his latest breath¢ that, though a taste of pleasure might quicken the relish of life, an unre- strained indulgence is inevitable destruction. XIV.—Beauty and Deformiiy. A YOUTH, who lived in the country, and whe had not acquired, either by reading or conversation, any knowledge of the animals which inhabit foreignvegions;icame to Man- chester, to see en exhibition of wild beasts. The size and figure of the Elephant struck him with awe; and he viewed the Rhinoceros with astonishment, But his attention was soon drawn from these animals, and directed to another of the most elegant and beautiful form; and he stood con- templating with stlent admiration the glossy smoothness of his hair, the blackness and regularity of the streaks with which he was marked, the symr metry of ‘his limbs, and, above all, the placid sweetness of his countenance. What is the name of this lovely animal, said he to the keeper, which you have placed near one of the ughest ‘beasts in your collection, as if you meant te contrast beauty with de-~ formity ? Beware, young mun, replied the intelligent keep- er, of being’so easily captivated with external appearance. The animal which you admire is called a Tyger ; and not- withstanding the neekness of his looks, be is fierce and sav- age beyond description ; I can neither terrify him by cor- yection, hor tame him by indulgence. But the other beast, which you Ccespise, is in the highest degree docile, affection~ ateand useful. For the benefit of Ten; he traverses the sandy deserts of Arabia, where drink and pasture are seldom to be-found; and will continue six or seven days without sustenance, yet still patient of Jabour. His hair is manu- factured into clothing ; his flesh is deemed wholesome nour- ishment ; aod the milk of the female is much valued by the Arabs, The Camel, therefore, for such is the name given to this animal, is more worthy of your adimiration than the Tyger ; notwithstanding the inelegance of his make, and the two bunches upon his back, For mere external beauty > LESSONS IN [Parr l, is of little estimation ; and deformity, when associated with amiable dispositions and useful qualities, does not preclude our respect and approbation. XV.—Remarkable Instance of Friendship. DAMON and Pythias, of the Pythagorean sect in phi-. losophy, lived in the time of Diowysius, the tyrant of Sicily, Their mutual friendship was so strong, that they were ready. to die for one another. One of the two (for it is not known which) being condemned to death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go into his own country, to settle his affairs, oa condition that the other should consent to be imprisoned in his stead, and put to death for him, if he did not return be« fore the day of execution. The attention of every one, and especially of the tyrant himself, was excited to the highest pitch, as every body was curious to see what would be the event of so strange an affair. When the time was almost elasped, and. he who was goue did net appear; the rashness of the other, whose sanguine friendship fad put him upon running so seemingly desperate a hazard, was universally blamed. But he still declared, that he had not the least shadow'of doubt in his mind, of his friend’s fidelity, The event shewed how well he knew him. He came in due time, and surrendered himself to that fate, which he had no reason to think he should escape; and which he did not desire to escape, by leaving his friend to suffer in his, place. Such fidelity softened even the savage heart of Dionysius himself. He pardoned the condemned ; he gave ihe two friends to one another, and begged that they would, take limselfin for a third.» XVI.—Dionysius and Damocles. DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, showed how far he was from being happy, even whilst he abounded in riches, and all the pleasures which riches can’ procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers,, was complimenting him upon -his power, his treasures, and the magnificence of his royal state, and affirming, that no monarch ever was greater oF happier thanhe. ‘‘ Have you a mind, Dawocles,” says the king, ‘to taste this happiness, and know by expe- rience, what my enjoyments are, of which you have so high an idea ?” Damocles gladly accepted the offer. Upon which the king ordered that a royal banquet should be pre- pared, anda gilded couch placed for him, covered with Sect. 1.] READING. 59 tich embroidery, and sideboards loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value, Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to wait on him at table, and to obey his com- mands with the greatest readiness, and the most profound submission, Neither ointments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes were wanting. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles fancied himself amongst the gods. In the midst of all his happiness, he sees let down from the roof, exactly over his neck, as he lay indulging himself in state, a glittering sword, hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction, thus threatening him from on high, soon put a stop to his joy aud revelling. The pomp of his attendants, and the glitter of the carved plate, gave him nia longer any pleasure, He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the tabie; he throws off the chaplet of roses ; he hastens to remove from his dan- gerous situation ; and, at last, begs the king to restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer, such a dreadful kind of happiness, XVII.—Character of Cataline. LUCIUS CATALINE, by birth a Patrician, was, by nature, endowed with superior advantages, both bodily and mental ; but his dispositions were corrupt and wicked. — From his yeuth, his supreme delight was in violence, slaughter, rapine, and intestine confusidns ; and such works were the employment of his earliest years. His constitu- tion qualified him for bearing hunger, cold, and want of sleep, toa degree exceeding belief. His mind was daring, subtle, unsteady. There was no character which he could not assume, and put offat pleasure, Rapacious of whag belonged to others, prodigal of his own, violently bent on whatever became the object of his pursuit... He possessed a considerable share of eloquence, but little solid know- ledge. His insatiable temper was ever pushing him to grasp at what was immoderate, romantic, and out of his reach. About the time of the disturbances raised by Sylla, Cata- line was seized by a violent lust of power ; nor did he at all hesitate about the-eans, so he could but attain his purpose of raising himself to supreme dominion. His restless spirit as in a continual ferment, occasioned by the confusion of his own private affairs, and by the horrors of his guilty couscience; both which he had bgt npor 4 60 LESSONS IN [Parr I. himself, by living the life above described. He was encot- raged in his ambitious projects by the general corruption of manners, which then prevailed amongst a people infest. ed with two vices, not less opposite to one another in their natures, than mischievous in their tendencies ; I mean Inxs ury and avarice. XVIIL.—Avarice and Luxury. THERE were two very powerful tyrants engaged ip a perpetual war against each other; the name of the first was Luxury, and of the second, Avarice. The aim of each of them, was no less than universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind, Luxury had many generals ander him, who did him great service; as Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp and Fashion. Avarice was likewise very strong in his officers, being faithfully served bs Hunger, Industry, Care and Watchfulness ; he had likewise a privy counsellor, who was always at his elbow, and whispering something or other in his ear; the name of this privy counsellor was Poverty. As Avarice conducted Himself by the counsels of Poverty, his antagonist was entirely guided by the dictates and advice ef Plenty, who was his first counsellor and minister of state, that concerted all his measures for him, and never departed out of his sight. While these two great rivals were thus contending for’empire, their conquests were very varlouss Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. The father of a family would often range himself ander the banners of. Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury. The wife and husband would often declare themselves of ihe two different parties; nay, the same person would very gften side with one in his youth, aud revolt to the other in old age, Indeed, the wise men of the world stood neu- ter; but alas! their numbers were not considerable. At length, when these two patentates had wearied themselves with waging war upon one another, they agreed upon a interview, at which neither of the counsellors was to be present. It is said that Lusury began the parley ; and af- ter having represented the endless state of war in which they were engaged, told hts enemy, with a frankness of heart which is natural to him, that he believed they two should be very good friends, were it not for the instigations of Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. To this Avarice replied, that he looked upon Secr. I.] READING. 61 Plenty, (the first minister of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive counsellor than Poverty ; for that he was perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the neces- sary cautions against want, and consequently undermining those principles on which the government of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they agreed upon this preliminary; that each of them should immediately dismiss his privy counsellor. When things were thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other differeuces were soon accommodated, insomuch, that forthe future, they resolved to live as good friends and confederates, and to share between them whatever conquests were made on either side. For this reason, we now. find Luxury and Av- arice taking possession of the same heart, and dividing the same person between them. To which I shail only add, that since the discarding of the counsellors above mentions ed, Avarice supplies Luxury, in the room of Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice, in the place of Poverty. XTX, —Hercules’s Choice. WHEN Hercules was in that part of his youth in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pursue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and solitude of the place very much favoured his meditations. As he was musing on his present condition, and very much perplexed in himself, on the state of life he shoald choose, he saw two women of a larger stature than _ ordinary, approaching towards him. One of them had a very noble air and graceful deportment ; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her ey es cast towards the ground, with an agreeable reserve, her notions and behaviour full of modesty, and her raiment was white as snow. The other had a great deal of health and floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red ; and she endeavoured to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mein, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures, She had a wonderful confi- dence and assurance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress, that she thought were the most proper to show her complexion to advantage, She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on those that were present to see how they liked her; and often looked on the figure she ‘made in her own shadow, Upon her nearer approach to Hercutes, she stepped before the other lady, =bo came F LESSONS IN [Part fF. forward with a regular composed carriage 5 and running up to him, accosted him after the following manner : ; « My dear Hercules,” says she, ‘*J find you are very much divided in your thoughts, upon the way of life that you ought to choose ; be my friend, and follow me; I will lead you into the possession of pleasufe, and out of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and dis- nietude of business. ‘The affairs of either peace or war, shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employ- ment shall be to make your life easy, and to entertain every sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readiness to receive you. Come along with me into this region of delights, this world of pleasure, and bid farewell forever, to care, to pain, to business.” Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her name ; to which she answered, ‘* My friends, and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Hap- piness ; but my enemies, and those who would. injure my reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure.” By this time the other lady came up, who addressed her- self to the young hero in a very different manner, «¢ FJercules,”’ says shte, ‘I offer myself to you, becanse I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that desceut by your love to virtue, and application to the # studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will — gain, both for yourself and me, ap immortal reputation. But, before T invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with you, and must lay down this, as an established-trath, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be parchased without pains and labour. The’ gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure, Jf you would gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at the pains of worshipping him : if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them : if you would be hon- ouréd by your country, you must take care to serve it. Iv short, if you s ould be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you «0, ‘Phese are’the only terms ‘and conditions apon which E can propose Happiness.” The goddess of Pleasure here broke in wpon her discourse: ‘* You see,” said she, ‘¢ Her- cules, by her. ow confession, the way to her ‘pleasures 1s long and difficult ; whereas, that which I propose is short and easy.” ** Alas!” said the ether lady, whese isage MUSe Secor. LJ READING. 63 glowed with passion, made up of scorn and pity, ‘* what are. the pleasures you propose ? "Toveat before you are hungry, drink before you are athirst, sleep before you are tired ; to gratify your appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted, You never heard the most delicious music, which is the praise of one’s own self ; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of one’s own hands, Your votaries pass away their youth ina dream of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, torment and remorse for old age. “© As for me, I am the friend of gods and of good men, an agreeable companion to the artisan, an household guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, an associate in ‘all true and generous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never costly, but always deli- cious ;’ for none eat and drink 2t them, who are not invited by hunger and thirst. ' Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those who are in years; and those who are in years, of being honoured by those who are young, “In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and after the close of their iabours, honoured by posterity.” We know by the life of this memorable hero, to which of these two ladies he gave up his heart ; and [believe every one who reads this, will do him the justice te approye his choice. ~ ; XX.— Will Honeycomb’s Spectator. MY friend, Will Honeycomb, has told me, for above this half year, that he had a great mind to try bis hand ataSpec- . tator, and that he would fain have one of his writings in my works, This morning [ received from him the following letter ; which, after having rectified some little orthograph- ical mistakes, | shall make a present of to the public. * Dear Spec—I was abort two nights ago in company with very agreeable young people, of both sexes, where, talking of some of your papers, which are written on con- jugal love, there arose a dispute among us, whether there. were not more had husbands in the world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was advocate for the ladies, took this oc- casion to tell us. the story of a famous siege in Germany, which I have since found related in my historical dictionary, after the following manner. When the emperor Conrad iit, had besieged Guelphus, duke of Bavaria, in the city of & Us 64 LESSONS IN [Parr I. Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could not pos- sibly hold out long, petitioned the emperor that they might depart out of it, with so much as each of them could carry, The emperor, knowing they, could not convey away many of their effects, granted them their petition ; when the wo- men, to lis great surprize, came out of the place, with every one her husband upon her back. The emperor was 80 moved at the sight, that he burst into tears; and after hay- ing very much extolled the women for their conjugal affece tion, gaye the men to their wives, and received the duke into his favour. ‘© The ladies did not a little triumph at this story ; ask- ing us at the same time, whether in our consciences, we be- Kieved that the men in any town of Great-Britain would, upon the same offer, and at the same conjuncture, have loaded themselves with their wives? Or rather, whether they would uot have been glad of such an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my very good friend, Tom Dap- perwit, who took upon him to be the mouth of our sex, re- plied, that they would be very much to blame, if they would not do the same good office for the women, considering that their strength would be greater, and their burdens lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with discourses of this nature, in order to pass away the evening, which now began to orow tedious, we fell into that laudable and primitive diversion of questions and commands. | was no sooner vested with the regal authority, but I enjoined ‘all the ladies, under pain of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenuonsly, in case they had been in the siege above mentioned, and had the same offers made them as the good women of that place, what every one of them would have brought off with hers and have thonght most worth the saving >There were sev- eral"merry answers made to my question, which efitertained us till-bed-time. This filled my mind with such a huddle of ideas, that upon my going to sleep, I fell into the follow- ing dream + _ ‘© Tsaw a town of this island, which shall be nameless, invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so straits ened-as to cry for quarter, The general refused any other terms than those granted to the above mentioned town of Hensberg ; namely, that the married women might come out, with what they could bring along with them. Imme- diately the city gates flew open, and a female procession appeared, multitudes of the sex following one another in a ” Sect. I.] READING, 6% row, and staggering under their respective burdens. I.took my staud apon an eminence, in the enemy’s camp, which was appointed for the general rendezvous of these female carriers, being very desirous tp look into their several lad. ings, The first of them had‘a huge sack upon her shoul- ders, which she set down with great care : upon the opening of it, when I expected to have seen hier husband shoot out of it, I found it was filled with china ware. The next ap- peared in a more decent figure, carrying a handsome young fellow upon her back : I could nor forbear commending the young woman for her conjugal affection, when to my great surprise, I found that she had left the good man at home, and brought away her gallant. I saw a third at some dis- tance, with a little withered face peeping over her shoulder, whom } could not suspect for any other but her spouse, till upon her setting him down, I heard her call him dear pug, and found him to be her favourite monkey, A fourth ” brought a huge bale of cards along with her; and the fifth a Bologna lapdog ; for her busband, it seems, being a very bulky man, she thought it would be less trouble for her to bring away little cupid. The next was the wife of a rich usurer, loaded with a bag of gold; she told us that her spouse was very old, and by the course of nature, could not expect to live long ; arid that to shew her tender regard for him, she had saved that which the poor man. loved better than his life. The next,came towards us with her son apon her back, who we were told, was the greatest rake in the place, but so much the mother’s darling, that she left ber husband behind, with a large family of hopefal sons and daughters, for thé sake of this graceless youth. ** It would be endless to mention the several persons, with: their several loads, that appeared to me in this strange vision. All the place about me was covered with packs of ribbands, broaches, embroidery, and ten thousand other materials, sufficient to have furnished a whole street of toyshops. One ofthe women, having a husband who was none of the heay- lest, was bringing him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her arm; bat finding herself so overloaden that she could not save both of them, she dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle, fn short, I found but one huse band among this great mountain of bageage, who was a lively cobler, that kicked and spurred sli the while hia wife was carrying him off, and, as it was said, had searce passed 2 Fe 66 LESSONS IN [Parr I. day im his life, without giving her the discipline of the strap. “ IT cannot conclude my letter, dear Spec, without tell- ing thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I saw, me- thought, a dozen women employed in bringing off one man? 1 could not guess who it should be, till, upon his nearer approach, I discovered thy short phiz. The women all declared that it was for the sake of thy works, and not thy person, that they brought thee off, and that it was on con- dition that thou shouldst continue the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will make a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, dear Spec, thine, sleeping and waking, «© WiLL Honeyooms.” The ladies will see, by this letter, what I have otten told them, that Will is one of those old fashioned men of witand pleasure’of the town, who show their parts by raillery on marriage, and one who has often tried his fortune in that way without success. I cannot, however, dismiss this letter, without observing, that the true story, on which it is built, does honour to the sex ; and that, in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have recourse to dream and fiction. XXI.—On Good Breeding. A FRIEND of: yours and mine has very justly defined good breeding to be, “ the result of much good sense, some good nature, and a little self-denial, for the sake of others; and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them.” Taking this for granted, (as | think it cannot be disputed) it is astonishing to me, that any body, who has good sense and good nature, can essentially fail in good breeding. AS, to the modes of if, indeed, they vary, according to persons, places and circumstances, and are only to be acquired by observation and experience ; but the substance of it is every where and eternally the same. Good manners are, to pat ticular societies, what geod morals are to society in general, —their cement and their security. And as laws are enact- ed to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent the ill ef fects of bad ones; so there are certain rules of civility, uni- versally implied and received, to enforce good manners, and punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me to be less difference both between the crimes and pénishments, than at first one would imagine. The immoral man, who invades another’s property, is justly hanged for it ; and the ill-bred man, who by his 111 manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of private life, is by con:mon consent as just)? Secor. 1.] READING 67 bavished society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little conveniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized ‘people, as protection and obedi- ence are between kings and subjects ; whoever, in either case, violates that compact, justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own part, I really think, that next to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doinga civil one is one of the most pleasing; aud the epithet whieh I should covet the most, uext to that of Aristides, would be that of well bred. Thus much for good breeding, in gen- eral; I will now consider some of the yarious modes and degrees of it. Very few, scarcely any, are wanting-in the respect which they should show to those whom they acknowledge to-be highly their superiors ; such as crowned heads, princes, and public persons of distinguished and eminent posts. It.is the manner of shewing that respect, which is different. Phe man of fashion and of the world, expresses it in its fullest extent: but naturally, easily, and without concern; w hereas aman who is not used to keep good company, expresses it awkwardly ; one sees that he is not used to it, and that it costs him a great deal; but I never saw the worst bred man living, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratcbivg his head, and such like indecencies, in company that he respected, In such companies, therefore, the only point to be attended to is, to shew that respest, which every, body means to shew, in an easy, unembarrassed, aud graceful manner. This is what observation and experience must teach you. In-mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make part of them, is for the time at least, supposed to he upon a foot- ing Of equality with the rest ; and consequently, as there is no one principal object of awe and respect, people are apt to take a greater latitude in their behaviour, and to be less upon their guard ; and so they iaay, provided it be within certain bounds, which are, upon no occasion, to be trans- gressed. But upon these occasions, though no one is enti= tled to distinguished marks of respect, every one claims, and very justly, every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is allowed, but carelessness and negligence are strictly forbidden. Tfa:man accosts you, and talks to you ever so dully or frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is brutality to shew him, by a manifest inattention to what he says, that you think hima fool, ora blockhead, and not worth hearing. itis much more so with regard to women, who, of whatever : LESSONS IN [Part I. rank they are, are entitled, in consideration of their sex, not only to an attentive, but an officious good breeding from men. Their little wants, likings, dislikes, preferences, an- tipathies and fancies, must be officiously attended to, and, if possible, guessed at and anticipated, by a well bred man, You must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and gratifications which are of common right, such as the best places, the best dishes, &c. but on the contrary, always de- celine them yourself, and offer them to others, who in thejr turns will offer them to you; so that upon the whole, you will, in your turn, enjoy your share of the common right. Tt would be endless for me to enumerate all the particular citcumstances, in which a well bred man shows his good breeding, in good company ; and it would be injurious to you to suppose, that your own good sense will not point them out to you ; and then your own goed nature will re- commend, and your self interest enforce the practice, There is a third sort of good breeding, in which people are the most apt io fail, froma very mistaken notion, that they cannot fail at‘all. I mean with regard to one’s most famihar frieuds and acquaintances, or those who really are our inferiors ; and there, undoubtedly, a greater degree of ease is not only allowable, but preper, and contributes much to the comforts of 2 private social life. But ease and free- dom have their bounds, which must by no‘means be violated. A certain degree of negligence and carelessness becomes injurious and insulting, from the real or supposed inferiority of the persons ; and that delightful liberty of conversation, among a few friends, is scon destroyed, as liberty often has been, by being carried to licentiousness. But example ex- plains things best, and 1 will put a pretty strong case. Sup- pose you and me alone together ; I believe you will allow that I have as good a right to unlimited freedoms in your company, as either you or I can possibly have in any other; and I am apt to believe, too, that you would indulge me in that freedom as far as any body would. But notwithstand- ing this, do you imagine that I should think there were no bounds to that freedom ? JT assure you I should not think so; and I take myself to be as much tied down, by a certain degree of good manners to you, as by other degrees of them to other people, “I'he most familiar and intimate habitudes, connections and friendships, require a degree of good breed- ing, both to preserve and cement them, The best of us have our bad sides ; and it is as imprudent as it is ill bred, to ex- Sect, 1] READING 69 hibit them. J shall not use ceremony with you ; it would be misplaced between us; but I shall certainly observe that degree of good breeding with you, which is, in the first place, decent, and which, | am sure, is absolutely necessary, to make us like one another’s company long. XXII.—Address to a young Student. YOUR parents have watched over your helpless infancy, and conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which your mind is capable of manly improvement. Their solic- itude still continues, and no trouble nor expense is spared, in giving you all the instructions and accomplishments which may enable you to act your part in life,.as a man of polished sense and confirmed virtue. You have, then, al- ready contracted a great debt of gratitude to them, You can pay it by no other method, but by using properly the advantages which their goodness has afforded you, If your own endeavours are deficient, it is in vain that you haye tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary pursuits, You must loye learning, if you would possess it. In order to love it, you must feel its delights ; in order to feel its delights, vou must anoly to it, however irksome at first, closely, constantly, and. for a considerable. time. If you have resolution enough to do this, ycu-cannot but love learning ; for the mind always loves that to which it has been so long, steadily, and voluntarily attached, Habits are formed, which render what was at first disagreeabix, not only pleasant, but necessary. Pleasant indeed, are all the paths which lead to pelite and elegant literature. Yours then, is surely a lot particu- larly happy. Your education is of sucha sort, that its principal scope is, to prepare you to receive a refined pleasure during your dife, Elegance, or delicacy of’ taste, is one of the first objects of classical. discipline ; and it is thisfine quality, which opens'a new world to the scholar’s veiw, Elegance of taste has a connection with many vit- ‘tues, and all of them virtues of the most 4miable kind., <1t tends to render you at once good and agreeable: you must therefore be an enemy to your own enjoyment, if you enter on the discipline which leads to the attainment of a classical and liberal education, with reluctance. Value duly the opportunities you enjoy, and which are denied to thousands of your fellow creatures. 0 70 LESSONS IN {Parr | Without exemplary diligence you will make but a con- temptible proficiency. You may, indeed, pass through the forms of schools and universities; but you will bring no- thing away from them, of real value. The proper sort and degree of diligence, you cannot possess, but by the efforts of your own resolution. Your instructer may indeed con- fine you within the walls of aschool, a certain number of hours. He may place books before you, and compel you to fix your eyes upon them; but no authority can chain down your mind. Your thoughts will escape from évery external restraint, and, amidst the most serious lec- tures, may be ranging in the wild pursuits of trifles and vice. Rules, restraints, commands, and punishments, may, indeed, assist in strengthening your resolution; but without your own voluntary choice, your diligence will not often conduce to your pleasure or advantage. Though this truth is obvious, yet it seems to bea secret to those parents who expect to find their son’s improvement in- crease, in proportion to the number of tutors, and external assistance which their opulence has enabled them to pro- vide. These assistances, indeed, are sometimes afforded chiefly, that the young heir to a title or estate naay in- “dulge himself in idleness and nominal pleasures. The less son is construed to him, and the exercise written for him: by the private tutor, while the hapless youth is engaged in some ruinous pleasure, which, at the same time, pre- vents him from learnirg any thing desirable, and leads to the formation of destructive habits, which can seldom be removed, But the principal obstacle to your improvement at school, especially if you are too plentifully supplied with money, is a perverse ambition of being distinguished as 4 boy of spirit, in mischievous pranks, in neglecting the tasks and lessons, and for every vice and irregularity which the puerile age can admit. You will have sense enough, I hope, to discover, beneath the mask of gaiety and good nature, that malignant spirit of detraction which endeavours to render the boy who applies to books, and to all the du- ties and proper business of school, ridiculous, You will see, by the light of your reason, that the ridicule is misap- plied. You will discover, that the boys who have recourse to ridicule, are for the most part, stupid, unfeeling, igno- rant and vicious, Their noisy folly, their bold confidences their contempt of learning, and their defiance of authority. Sect. 1] READING. 71 7 are for the most part, the genuine effects of hardened in- sensibility. Let not their insults and ill treatmtent dispirit you ; if you yield to them, with a tame and abject submis- sion, they will not fail to triumph over you with addition- al insolence. Display a fortitude in your pursuits, equal in degree to the obstinacy in which they persist in theirs. Yourefortitude will soon overcome theirs, which is, in- deed, seldom any thing more than the audacity of a bul- ly. Indeed, you cannot go through a schoohwith ease to yourself and with success, without a considerable share of courage. Ido not mean that sort of courage which leads to battles and contentions, but which enables you to havea will of your own, and to pursue what is right, amidst all the persecutions of surrounding enviers, dunces and detractors, Ridicule is the weapon made use of at school, as weil as in the world, when the fortresses of virtue are to be assailed. You will effectually repel the attack by a dauntless spirit and unyielding perseverance. Though numbers are a- gainst you, yet with truth and rectitude on your side, you may, though alone, be equal to an army. By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning yout mind with elegant literature, improving and establishi = your conduct by virtuous principles, you cannot fail of be- ing a comfort te. those friends who have supported you, of being happy within yourself, and of being well received by mankind. Honour and success in life will probably attend you. Under all circumstances, you will have an eternal source of consolation and entertainment, of which no sub- Junary vicissitude can deprive you, Time will show how much wiser has been your choice, than that of your idle companions, who would gladly have drawn you into their association, or rather into their conspiracy, as it has been called, against good manners, and against all thatis honour- able and useful. While you appear in society as a respect- able and valuable member of it, they will, perhaps, have sacrificed at the shrine of vanity, pride and extravagance, and false pleasure, their health and their sense, their for- tune and their characters. —~ ee XXI1.—Advantages of, and Motives to, Cheerfulness. CHEERFULNESS is-in the first place the best pro- moter of health. Repinings, and secret murmurs of the heart, give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are composed,-and wear out the ma- 72 LESSONS IN {Parr ], chine insensibly ; not to mention those violent ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbe ed motions which they raise in the animal spirits. 1 scarce remember, in my own observation, to have met with many old men, or with such who, (to use our English phrase) wear well, that had not at least a certain indoleace in their hu mor, if not more than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutually beget each other, vith this difference, that we seldom meet with a great degree of health, which is not attended witha certain cheerfuiness, but very often ‘see cheerfulness, where there is no great degree of health. Cheerfalness bears the same friendly regard to the mind as to the body ; it banishes all anxious care and discontent, soothes and composes the passions, and keeps the soul ina perpetual calm. If we consider the world. in its subserviency to man, one would think it was made for our use; but if we consider it in its natural beauty and harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was made for our pleasure. The sun, which is the great soul of the universe, and produces all the neces- saries of life, has a particular influence im cheering the mind of man, and making the heart glad. Those several hving ‘creatures which are made for our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods “with their music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the dtlightfulness of their appearance, F ountains, lakes and rivers, are as refreshing to the imagi- nation, as to the soil through which they pass. There are writers of great distinction, who have made it an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is cover- ed with green, rather than with any other colour, as being such a right mixture of light and shade, that it comforts and strengthens the eye, instead of weakening or grieving it, For this reason, several painters have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye see after too great an applica- tion to their colouring, A famous modern philosopher ac- counts for it in the following manner : all colours that are most luminous, overpower aud dissi ipate the animal spirits which are emyloyed in sight ; on the contrary, those that are more obscure, do not give ‘the animal spirits a sufficient exercise; whereas, the rays that produce in us the idea ‘of green, fall upon the eye in sacha due proportion, that they give the animal spirits their proper play, and by keeps Secr. bj READING. 23 ing wp the str ugelei ina just balance, excite a very, pleasing and agreeable sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect is certain ; for which reason the poets ascribe to this particular colour, the epithet of cheerful. To consider further this double end in the works of na= ture, and how they are at the same time both useful and en- tertaining, we find that the most important parts in the vege étable werld are those which are the most beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several races of plants are propa- gated and continued, and which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in making the earth gay and delight- ful, while she is carrying on her great werk, “and intent upon her own preservation. The busbandues, after the same manner, is employed in Jaying out the whole country into a kind of garden or landscape, and making every thing smile about him, whil Ist, in reality, he thinks of nothing but of the harvest and increase which is to arise from it. We may further observe how Providence has taken care to keep up this cheerfalnessan the mind of man, -by havin formed it after such a manner, as to make it capable of-con- ceiving delight from several objects which seem to have very little use in them ; as from the wildness of rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those who are versed in philosophy, may still carry this consider- ation higher, by observing, that if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those real qualities which it actually possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and uncom- fortable figure; and why has Providence given it a power of producing i in us such i imaginary qualities, as tastes and col- ours, sonndé and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is conversant in the Jower stations of nature, might have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sensations 3 > Is short, the whole universe is a-kind of theatre, filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure, antusement, or ad< miration, The reader’s own thoughts will suggest to him the vicis- situdes of day and night, the change oh seasons, with all that variety of scenes which diversify the face of nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleas- ing images I shall not here mention the several entertainments of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, because 1 would ons G 74 LESSONS IN [Part & ly take notice of such incitements to a cheerful temper, as offer themselves to persons of all ranks and conditions, and which may sufficiently show us that Providence did not de- sign this world should be filled with murmurs and repin- ings, or that thé heart of man should be involved in gloom and melanchely, I the more incelcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it i$ a virtue in which our countrymen are observed to be more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a kind of demon that haunts onr island, and often conveys herself fo ws.iv an easterly wind. A celebrated’ French novelist, in oppossition to those who begin their romances with the flowery seasons of the year, enters on his story thus: ‘In the gloomy month of November, when the peo- ple of England hang and drown themselves, a disconsolate lover walked out into the fields,” &e. Every one ought to fence against the temper of his cli- mate or-constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself those considerations which may give him a serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheerfully against those little evils aud misfortunes, which are common to human nature, and which, by right improvement of them, will produce a satie- ty of joy, and uninterrupted happiness. At the same time that I would engage my readers to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must own there are many evils which naturally spring up amidst the . entertainments that are provi ided for us: but these, if right« ly considered, should be far from overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that cheerfuluess of temper which I have heen recommending. This interspersion of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly ascribed by Mr. Locke, to his Essay on Haman Understanding, toa inoral reason, in the following words : «Beyond all this, we may find another reason why Gol hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and affect us, and biended them. together in almost all that our thoughts and. senses have: to do with; thatAve, find ing im} perfection, dissatisfae-~ tion, and want of complete happiness in all the e enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it jn the enjoyment of Iim, with whom there is fulness of joy, aad at whose right hand avy pleasures for evermore.” Seer. (1.] READING. #3 SECTION TI, l= The Bad Reader. JULIUS had acquired great credit at Cambridge, by his compositions, They were elegant, animated and judi- cious; and several prizes, at different times, had been ad- judged to him. An oration which he delivered the week before he left the university, had been honoured with parti- cular applause; and on his return home, he was impatie: to gratify his vanity, and to extend his reputation, by having it read to a number of his father’s literary friends. hemming, and making other ridiculous preparations for attention and expectation. The reader at length began ; tion from the coxcomb who delivered it. But he proceeded with full confidence in his own elocution; uniformly over= stepping, as Shakespear expresses it, the modesty of nature. When the oration was concluded, the gentlemen returned their thanks to the author; but the compliments which they paid him were more expressive of politeness and civility, than the conviction of his merit. Indeed, the beauties of his composition had been conyerted, by bad reading, into blemishes ; and the sense of it rendered obscure, and even unintelligible: - Juliusand his father could not conceal their vexation and disappointment: and the guests, perceiving that they laid them under a painful restraint, withdrew, as soon as decency permitted, to their respective habitations. Il.— Respect due to Old Age. 2 IT happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in. honour of the commonwealth, that 76 LESSONS IN [Parr # an old gentleman came too. late for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who ob- served the difficultty and confusion he was in, made signs to hin that they would accommodate him, if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the croud: ae- cordingly ; but when he came to the seat to which he was invited, the jest-was to.sit close and expose him, as he stood out of countenance, tothe whole audience, The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions, there. were also particular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked towards the boxes appointed for the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more virtuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest re- spect, received him among them. The Athenjans, being suddenly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, ** the Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacedemonians practise it, Wil.—Piety to God recommended to the Young. WHAT [ shall first recommend, is piety to God. With this I begin, both as the foundation of good morals, and as a disposition particularly graceful and becoming in youth, To be void of it, argues a cold heart, destitute of some of the best affectious which belong to that age. Youth is the season of warm and generous emotions. ‘The heart should then spontaneously rise into the admiration of what is great; glow with the love of what is fair and excellent; and melt at the discovery of tenderness and goodness. Where can any object be found so proper to kindle these‘affections, as the Father of the universe, and the Author of all felicity ? Unmoved by veneration, can you contemplate that grandeur and majesty which his works every where display ? Un- touched by gratitude, can you view that profusion of good, which, in this pleasing season of life h.s beneficent hand pours around you ? Happy in the love and affection of those with whom you are connected, look up to the Supreme Being, asthe * spirer of all the frieudship which has ever been shewn you by others ; himself your best and your first friend; formerly the supporter of your infaney, and the guide of your childhood ; now the guardian of your youth, and the hope of your coming years. View religious hom- age as a natural expression of gratitude to him for all his goodness, Consider it as the service of the God of your fae Sect. IL] READING. : 4 thers; of him to whom yeur parents devoted you ; of him whom, in former ages, your ancestors honoured; and by whom they are now rewarded and blessed in heaven, Con- nected with so many tender sensibilities of soul, let religion be with you, not the cold and barren offspring of specula- tion; but the warm and vigorous dictate of the heart. IV.—Modesty and Docility. TO piety, joia modesty and docility, reverence to your parents, and submission to those who are your superiors in knowledge, in station and in years. ° Dependence and obe- dieuce belong to youth. Modesty is- one ofits chief orna- ments ; and has ever been esteemed a presage of rising me it, When entering on the career of life, it is your part not to assume the reins as yet, into your hands ; but to commit yourselves to the guidance of the more experienced, and to become wise by the wisdom of those who have gone before you. Of-all the follies incident to youth, there are none which either deform its present appearance, or blast the prospect of its future prosperity, more than self conceit, presumption and obstinacy. By checking its natural pro- gress in improvement, they fix it in long immatunity ; and requently produce mischiefs which can never be repaired. Yet these dre vices oo commonly found among the young. Big with enterprize, and elated by hope, they resolve to trust for guccess to none but themselves. Full of their own abilities, they deride the admonitions which are given them by their friends, as- the timorous suggestions of age. ‘Too wise to learn, too impatient to deliberate, too forward to be restrained, they plunge, with precipitant indiscretion, into. the midst of all the dangers with which life abounds. V.—Sincerity. IT is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and traths. These are the basis of every virtue. ‘That darkness of char- acter, where we can see no heart ; those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but par- ticularly odious in youth. If, at an age when the heart 1s warm, when the emotions are strong, and when nature is expected to show herself free and open, you can already smile and depeive, what are we to look for when you shall * be longer halmibeyed in the ways of men ; when interest shall have completed the obduration of your heart ; and expert G2. ONS IN [Parr I, ence shall have improved you in all tie arts of guile? Diss simulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age, Its first appearance is the fated omen of growing depravity and futureshame, It degrades partsand learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks you into con- tempt with God and man. As you value, therefore, the approbation of heaven, or the esteem of the world, cultivate the love of truth. In all your proceedings, be direct and consistent. Ingenuity and candour possess the most pow- erful charm : they bespeak universal favour, and carry an apology for almost every failing. The path of truth isa plain and safe path ; that of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincelity, it is not in your power to stop. One artifice unavoidably leads on to ano- ther ; till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth increases, you are left entangled in your_own snare, Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. It betrays, at the same time, a dastardly spirit. Itis the resource of one who wants courage to avow his designs, or to rest upon him- self. Whereas, openness of character displays that gener- ous boldness, which ought to distinguish youth. To set out in the world with no other principle than a crafty atten- tion to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life : but to give an early pre- ference to honour above gain, when they stand in competi- tion ; to despise every advantage which cannot be attained without dishonest arts; to brook no meanness, and to.stoop to no dissimulation, are the indications of a great mind, the presages of future eminence and distinction in life. At the same time, this virtuous sincerity is perfectly consistent with the most prudent vigilance and caution. It is opposed fo cunning, not to true wisdom. tis not the simplicity of a weak and improvident, but the candour of an enlarged and noble mind ; of one who scorns deceit, because he ace counts it both base and unprofitable; and who seeks no disguise, because he needs none to hide him. . VI.—Benevolence and Humanity. YOUTH is the proper season for cultivating the benevo- jent and humane affections. As a great part of your hap- piness is to depend on the connections which you form with others, it is of high importance that you a re betimes,. ‘the temper and the maniers which will rendersuch connec- Sect. If.] READING. "9 tions comfortable. Leta sense.of justice be the foundation of all your social qualities, In your most early intercotxse with the'world, and even in your youthful amusements, let no unfairness be found. Engrave on your mind that sacred rule of doing in all things to others according to your wish that they should do unto you.”’ For this end, impress your~ selves with a deep sense of the original and natural equality of men, Whatever advantage of birth or fortune you pos- sess, never display them with an ostentatious superiority. Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the intercourse of more advanced years. At present it becomes yon to act among your companions as man with man. Remember how unknown to you are the vicissitudes of the world ; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years. Compassion is an emotion of which you ought never to be ashamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of sympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of woe. Let not ease and indulgences contract your affec~ tions, and wrap you up in selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of the distresses of human life ; of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphas. Never sport with pain and distress in any of your amuse- ments, nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty, VIT.—Industry and Application. : DILIGENCE, industry, and proper application of time, are maierial duties of the young. To no purpose are they endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity forex- erting them. Unavailing in this case, will be every dire2- tion that can be given them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare, - In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired ; in youth the incentives to it are strongest from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the prospects which the beginning of life affords, If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inac- tion, what will be able to quicken the more.sluggish current of advancing years ? Indostry is not only the instrument of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is so. opposite to true enjoyment of life, as the relaxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry, may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For it is la- bour only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the ap- pointed yehicle of every good man, It is the indispensable 39 LESSONS IN [Parr I, condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body, Sloth is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to deter- mine whether it bea greater foe to virtue, or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself; its effects are fatally powerful, Though it appear a slowly flowing stream, yet it undermines all that is ‘stable and flourishing. It not only gaps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge of crimes and evils, It is like water, which first putrifies by stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours, and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and rum. And under idleness J include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter away their youth ; ‘perpetnally engaged in frivolous society or public amusements; in the labours of dress, or the osten~ tation of their persons. Is this the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem ? By such accomplish- ments do you hope to recommend yourselves to the thinking part of the world, aid to answer the expectations of your friends aad your eountry ? Amusements youth require ; it were vain, it were cruel to prohibit them. But though allowable as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business of the young. For they then become the gulf of time, and the poison “of the mind. They foment bad pas sions. They weaken the manly powers. They sink the native vigour of youth into contemptible effeminacy. VIII.—Proper Employment of Time. REDEEMING jour time from such dangerous waste, seek to fill it with employ ments which you may review with satisfaction. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable occupations of youth. "The desire of it discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many ac- complisbments and many virtues. But though your train of life should not lead you to study, the course of education always furnishes proper employments to a well disposed mind. Whatever you pursue, be emulous to excel. Gener- ous ambition and sensibility to praise, are, especially at your age, among the narks of virtue. ‘T hink not that any afflu- ence of fortune, or any elevation of rank, exempts yeu from the duties of application and industry. Industry is the law of our being ; it is the demand of natare, of reason, and of God, Remember, always, that the years which now pass over your heads, leave permunent memorials behind them, Secr. I1.] READING. 81 From the thoughtless minds they may escape; but they remain in the remembrance of God. They form an impor- tant part of the register of your bai hey will hereafter bear testimony, either for or against you, at that day, when for all your actions, but Saricalasly for the employments of youth, you must give an account to God, Whether yoyr future course is destined to be long or sbort, after this manner it should commence, and if it continue to bé thus conducted, its conclusion, at what time soever it arrives, will not be inglorious or unhappy. IX.—The True Patriot. ANDREW DORIA, of Genoa, the greatest sea captain of the age he lived in, set his couatry free from the yoke of France. Beloved by his fellow citizens ; and supported by the emperor Charles V, it was in his power to assume sove- reignty, without the least struggle. But he preferred the virtnous satisfaction of giving liberty to his countrymen. He declared in public assembly, that the happiness of see- ing them once more restored to liberty, was to him a full reward for all his services ; ; that he claimed no pre-eminence above his equals, but remitted to them absolutely to settle a proper form of government. Doria’s magnanimity pyt an end to factions, that had long vexed the state; anda form of government was established, with great unanimity, the same, that with very little alteration, subsists at present. Doria lived to a great age, beloved mee honoured by his countrymen 5 and without ever ma aking a single step out of his rank, asa private citizen, he retaired, to his dying hour, great influence in the republic. Power, founded on love and gratitude, was to him more pleasant than what is found=- ed on sovereignty. His memory is reverenced by the Ge- noese ; and, in their histories and public monuments, there is bestowed on him the most honourable of all titles—Fa- THER of his Country, and Restorer of its LIBERTY. X.—On Contentment. CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects which the alehy mist usually ascribes {o what he calls the philosopher's stone ; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it canuot remove the disquietudes arising out of a man’s mind, body or fortune, it makes him easy under them, It has, indeed, a kindly influence on the soul of a map, in $2 LESSONS IN {Parr f, respect of every being to whom he stands related, Tt ex- tinguishes all murmur, repining and ingratitude towards that Being, who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tens dency to corruption, with regard to the community whereiti he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and perpetual serenity to.ali his thoughts, Among the many methods which might be made use of for acquiring of this virtue, [ shall only mention the two following. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants; and secondly, how much more unhappy he inight be than he really is. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully well pleased with the reply which Aristippus made to one who condoled him upon the loss of a farm: « Why,’ said he,-** I have three farms stili, and you haye but one, so that I ought ra- ther to be afflicted for you than you for me.” On the con= a trary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they haye ™ Jost,. than what they possess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than on those who are under greater difficulties, All the rea} pleasures and conyeniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but it js the humor ef mankind to be always looking forward; and: straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour, For this-reason, as there are none can be pres perly called rich, who have not more than they want; there== are few rich men,.in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. Persons of higher rank live in a kind of splendid poverty ; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvie one another in shadows and appearances, Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a-great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their heads; and by con- tracting their desires, enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chace after imaginary pleasure cannot be sufficiently expos- ed, a8 itis the great source of those evils which generally uudoa nation. Let a man’s estate be what it will, he is a poor man if he does not live within it, and naturally sets him- self to sale to any one who can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a Secor. fl.] READING. 83 good estate, was offered a great sum_of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness, but told him he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. {n short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poy= erty; or to give the thought a more agreeable turn, ‘¢ Con= tent is natural wealth,’’ says Socrates; to which I shall add, Luxury is artificial poverty. J shall therefore recommend to the consideration of those who are always aiming after superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and wil! not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, namely, ‘ ‘That no man has so much care as he who endeavours after the most happiness.” In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might be, than he really is. The ?#izner consideration took in all those who are sufficiently provided with the means to make themselves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great alleviation from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between himself and others, or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. Like the story of the honest Dutchman, who upon break- ing his leg by a fall from the mainmast, told the standeérs by, it was a gréat mercy it was not his neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an‘old philosopher, who, after havivg invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by his wife, who cameinto the room ina passion, and threw down the table that stood before them; ** Every one,” says he, has his calamity, and he isa happy man thet has no greater than this,” We find an instance to the same purpose in the life of doctor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. — As this good man was troubled with a complication of distempers ; when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God, thatit was not the stone; and when he had the steue, that he bad nat both these distempers on him at the same time. { cannot conclude this essay. without observing, that there never any system, besides that of christianity, which would effectually produce in the mind of man the virtue [ » been hitherto speaking of. . In order-to make us contented with our condition, many of the present phi- x losonhers tellus, that our-disecantent only hurts:ourselyes, without being able to make any alteration in our cireum- t€ efals us is derived to others. that what SranNces 5 = i ia 84 LESSONS IN [Part T, us by fatal necessity, to which the gods themselves are subject ; while others very gravely tell the man who is ‘miserable, that it is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe, and that the scheme of Prov- idence would be troubled and perverted were he otherwise, These aud the like considerations rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unrea- sonable, but are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who-advised him not to grieve for the death ofa person. whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him again: ‘* It is for that very reason,” said the emperor, ‘©Tuatd grieve.” On the contrary, religion bears. more tender regard to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bettering his condition : nay, it shows him that the bearing of his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally “end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, be=- cause it can make him happy hereafter. XI.—Weedlework recommended to the Ladies. «| HAVE a couple of nieces under my direction, who so often run gadding abroad, that I do not know where to have them. Their dress, their tea, and their visits take up all their time, and they go to bed as tired with doing nothing, as [ am after quiltinga whole underpetticoat. The whole time they are not idle, is while they read your Spec- tators; which being dedicated to the interests of virtue, I desire you to recommend the long neglected art of needle- work. ‘Those hours, which, in this age, are thrown away in dress, play, visits, and the like, were employed, in my time, in writing out receipts, or working beds, chairs, and hangings for the family. For my part, 1 have plied my needle these fifty years, and by my good will would never have it out of my hand. It grieves my heart to see a couple of proud idle flirts sipping their tea, for a whole af- ternoon, in a great room, huug round with the industry of their great grand-mother. Pray sir, take the laudable mys- tery of embroidery into your serious consideration, and as you have a great deal of the virtue of the last age in you, continue your eudeavours te reform the present. I am, & ce.” Secr. HJ READING: 85 In obedience to the commands of my venerable corres- pondent, I have duly weighed this important subject, and promise myself, from the arguments here laid down, that all the fine ladies in England will be ready, as soon as their mourning is over, to appear covered with the work of their own hands, What a delightful entertainment must it be to the fair sex, whom their native modesty, and the tenderness cf men towards them, exempts from public business, to pass their hours in imitating fruits and flowegs, and transplanting all the beauties of nature into their. own dress, or raising a new creation in their clothes and apartments. How pleasing is the amusemet of walking among the shades and groves planted by themselves, in surveying heroes slain by. their needles, or little enpids, which they have brought into the world without pain. ; This is, methinks, the most proper way wherein a lady can show a fine genius, and.! eannot forbear wishing, that several writers of that sex, had chosen rather to apply them- selves to tapestry than rhyme, Your pastoral poetesses may vent their fancy in rural Jandscapes, and place despair- ing shepherds under silkev willows, or drown them im a stream of mohair, The-heroic writers may work up battles as successfully, and inflame them with gold or stain them with crimson. Even those who have only a turn to a song or an epigram, may put many valuable stitches into a purse, and crowd a thousand graces into a pair of garters. If | may, without breach of good manners, imagine that any pretty creature is void of genius, and would perform her part herein but very awkwardly, } must nevertheless in-~ sist upon her working, if it be only to keep her out of harm’s way. ¢ Another argument for busying good women in works of fancy, is, because it takes them off from scandal, the usual attendant of tea-tables, and ail other inactive scenes of life. While they are forming their birds and beasis, their neigh- bours will be allowed to be the fathers of their own chil- dren; and Whig and Tory will be but seldom mentioned, where the great dispute is whether blue or red is the more proper colour. How much greater glory would Sophronia do the general, if she would choose rather to work the bat- tle of Blenheim in tapestry, than signalize herself, with so much vehemence, against those who are Frenchmen in their hearts. H 36 LESSONS IN [Part I. A third reason that I shall mention, is the profit that is brought to the family where these pretty arts are encourag- ed. [tis manifest, that this way of life not only keeps fair ladies from running out into expenses, but it is at the same time, an actual improvement. How memorable would that matron be, who shall have it inscribed upon her monu=- ment, ‘‘ that she wrote out the whole Bible in tapestry, and died ina good old age, after having covered three hundred yards of wall in the mansion house.” These premises being.considered, | humbly submit the following proposals to all mothers in Great-Britain. I. That no young virgin whatsoever be allowed to re« ceive the addresses of her first lover, but in a suit of her own embroidering. I]. That before every fresh servant, she be obliged to appear with a new stomacher at the least. IIT, That no one be actually married, until she hath the childbed, pillows, &c. ready stitched, as likewise the mantle for the boy quite finished, These laws, if I mistake not, would effectually restore the decayed art of needle work, and make the virgins of Great- Britain exceedingly nimble fingered in their business, XITL.—On Pride. IF there be any thing that makes human nature appear ridiculous to beings of superior faculties, it must be pride. They know so well the vanity of those imaginary perfece tions that swell the heart of man, and of those little super= namerary advantages, whether in birth, fortune or title, which one man enjoys aboye another, that it must certainly very much astonish, if it does not very much divert them, when they see a mortal puffed up, and valuing himself above his neighbours, on any of these accounts, at the sanie time hat he is obnoxious to all the common calamities of the tpecies. ‘ To set this thought in its true light, we will fancy, if you please, that yonder molehill 1s inhabited by reasonable creatures, and that every pismire (his shape and way of life only excepted) is endowed with human passions, How should we smile to hear one give us an account of the ped- igrees, distinctions and titles that reign among them ? Ob- serve how the whole swarn. divide, and make way for the pismire that passes through them ; you must-understand he ig an emmet of quality, and has better bloed in his veing than Seer. I1.] READING. 87 any pismire in the molehill: Don’t you see how sensible he is of it, how slow he marches forward, how the whole rabble. of ants keep their distance ? Here you may observe one placed upon a little eminence, and looking down on a long row of labourers. He is the richest insect on this side the hillock, he has a walkof half a'yard in length, and a quar- ter of an inch in breadth, he keeps a hundred menial ser- vanis, and has at least fifteen barley corns in his granery. He is now chiding and beslaving the emmet that stands be-~ fore him, and who, for all that we can discover, is as good an emmet as himself, But here comes an insect of figure ! Don’t you take no- tice of a little white straw he carries in his mouth ? That straw, you must understand, he would not part with for the longest tract about the molehill: Did you but know what he has undergone to purchase it! See how the ants of all qualities and conditions swarm about him. Should this straw drop out of his meuth, you would see all this numer« ous circle of attendants follow the next that took it up, and Jeave the discarded insect, or run over his back to come at its successor. If now you have a mind to see all the ladies of the mole- hill, observe first the pismire that listens to the emmet on her left hand, at the same time that she seems to turn away her head from him. He tells this puor insect she is a god- dess, that her eyes are brighter than the sun, that life and death are at her dispose]. She believes him, and gives her- self a thousand little airs upon it. Mark the vanity of the pismire on your left hand. Sfie can scaree crawl with age ; but you must know she values herself upon her birth 5 and if you mind, spurns at every one that comes within her reach. The littie niable coquette that is running along by the side of her, isa wit. She has broke many a pismire’s heart. Do but observe what a drove of lovers are running after her, We will here finish this imaginary scene; but first of all to draw the parallel closer, will suppose, if you please, that death comes upon the molehill, ia the ssape ef a cock spar- row, who picks up, without distinction, the pismire of qual- ity and his flatterers, the pismire of substance and his day jabourers, the white straw officer aud his sycophants, with all the goddesses, wits and beauties of the molehill. May we not imagine, that beings of superior natures and perfections regard alj the instances of pride and vanity, among our own species, in the same kind of view, when they 88 LESSONS IN {Part f. take a survey of those who inhabit the earth, or in the lan- guage of an ingenious French poet, of those pismires that people this heap of dirt, which human vanity has divided into climates and regions, XUL.—Journal of the Life of Alexander Severus. ALEXANDER rose early. The first moments of the day were consecrated to private devotion: but as he deemed the serviee of mankind the most acceptable worship of the gods, the greatest part of his morning hours were employed im council, where he discussed public affairs, and determin- ed private causes, with a patience and discretion above his years. The dryness of businessiwas enlivered by the charms of literature ; and a portion of time was always set apart for his favourite’studies of poetry, history and philosophy. The works of Virgil and Horace, the republics of Plato and Cicero, formed his taste, enlarged his understanding, and gave him the noblest ideas of man and of government. The exercises of thecbody succeeded to those of the mind ; and Alexander, who was tall, active and robust, surpassed most of his equals in the gymnastic arts. “Refreshed by the use of his bath, and a:slight dinner, he resumed, with new vigour, the business of the day ; and till the hour of supper, the principal meal of the Roinans, he was attended by his secretaries, with whom he read and answeréd the multitude of letters, memorials and petitions that must have been ad-~ dressed to the master of the greatest-part of the world. His table was served with the most frugal simplicity ; and when- ever he was at liberty to consult his own inclination, the company consisted of a few select friends, men of learning and virtue. His dress was plain and modest’; his demeanor courteous and affable, ~At the proper hours, his palace was open to all his subjects; but the voice ofa crier was heard, as in the Eleusinian mysteries, pronouncing the same sala- tary admonition: “ Let none enter these holy walls, unless he is conscious of a pureand innocent mind.” < XIV.—-Character of Julius Cesar. CESAR was endowed with every great end noble quality that could exalt human nature, and give a map the ascen« daut in society ; formed to excel in peace as well as war, ‘ provident in council, fearless in action, and executing what he had resolved, with an amazing celerity ; geuerous beyond measure to his friends, plaeable to his enemies ; for parts, Seor, 1i.] READING. 89 learning, and eloquence, scarce inferior fo any man. His orations were admired for two qualities, which are seldom found together, strength and elegance. Cicero ranks him among the greatest orators that Rome ever bred : And Quintilian says, that he spoke with the same force with which he fought ; and, if he had devoted himself to the bar, would have been the only man capable of rivalling Cicero. Nor was he a master only of the politer arts, but conversant also with the most abstruse and critical parts of learning; and among other works which he published, addressed two books to Cicero, on the analogy of language, or the art of speak- ing and writing correctly, He was a most liberal patron of wit and learning, wheresoever they were found ; and out of his love of these talents, would readily pardon those who had employed them against himself; rightly judging, that by making such men his friends, he should draw praises from the same fountain from which he had been aspersed. His capital passions were ambition and love of pleasure ; which he indulged, in their turns, to the greatest excess : Yet the first was always predominant ; to which he could easily. sa- crifice all the charms of the second, and draw pleasure even from toils and dangers when they ministered to his glory. For he thought Tyranny, as Cicero says, the greatest of goddesses ; and had frequently in his mouth a verse of Eu- ripides, which expressed the image of his soul, that if night and justice were ever to be violated, they were to be violated for the sake of reigning. This was the chief end and. pur- pose of his life; the scheme that he had formed from his early youth; so that, as Cato truly declared of him, he came with sobriety and meditation to the subversion of the repub- lic. He used to say, that there were two things necessary to acquire aud to sapport power—soldiers and money; which yet depended mutually on each other ; with money, therefore, he provided soldiers, and with soldiers extorted money; and was, of all men, the most rapacious in plun- dering both frends and foes ; sparmmg neither prince, nor state, nor temple, nor even private persons, who were known to possess any share of treasure. . His great abilities would necessarily have made him one of the first citizens of Rome ; but, disdaining the condition of a subject, he could never rest (ill he had made himselfa monarch. In acting this last part, his usual prudence seemed to fail him ; as if the height to which he was mounted had turned. his head, and made him giddy ; for by a vain ostentation of bis power, he de- 12 90 LESSONS IN [Parr f, stroyed the stability of it ; and as men shorten life by living tov fast, so, by an intemperance of reigning, he brought his nelgn to a violent end. XV.—On Mispent Time. I WAS yesterday comparing the industry of man with that of other creatures ; in which I could not but observe, that, notwithstanding we are obliged by duty to. keep our= selves in constant employ, after the same manner as inferior animals are prompted to it by instinct, we fall very short of them iu this particular, Weare here the more inexcusable, because there is a greater variety @f business to which we may apply ourselves. Reason opens to us a large field of affairs, which other creatures are not capable of, Beasts of prey, and, I believe, of all other kinds, in their natural state of being, divide their time between action and rest. They. are always at work or asleep. In shost, their waking hours are wholly taken up in seeking after their food, or in con- ‘ suming it,. The human species only, to the great reproach of our natures, are filled with complaints, that, ‘‘ the day: hangs heavy on them,” that ‘* they do not know what to do with themselves,” that.‘ they are ata loss how to pass away their time ;”’ with many of the like shameful murmurs, which. we often find in the mouths of those who are styled reasonable beings. How monstrous are such expressions, among creatures who have the labours of the mind as well as those of the body, to furnish them with proper employ= ments; who, besides the business of their proper callings and professions, can apply themselves to-the duties of religion, to meditation, to the reading of useful books,.to discourse; in.a word, who may exercise themselves in the unbounded pursuits of knowledge and. virtue, ahd every hour of their lives make themselves wiser or better than they were before. After having been taken up for some time im this course of thought, I diverted myself with a book, according to my usual custom, in order to unbend my mind before 1 went to sleep. The book I made use of on this occasion was Lu- cian, where | amused my thoughts, for about an hour, among the dialogues of the dead ; which, in all probability, produced the following aream ; ; I was conveyed, methought, into the entrance of the infer- nal regions, where I saw Rhadamanthus, one of the judges of the dead, seated on his tribunal. On his left hand stood the keeper of Erebue, on his tight.the keeper of Elysium. Seer. Ii.] READING. a1 I was told he sat upon women that day, there being several of the sex lately arrived, who had pot yet their mausions as- signed them. I was surprised to hear him ask every one of them the same question, namely, what they had been doing? Upon this question being propesed to the whole assembly, they stared one upon another, as not knowing what to an- swer. He then interrogated each of them separately, Ma- dam, says he to the first of them, you have been upon the earth about fifty years ; what have you been doing there all this while ? Doing, says she; reaily, | de not know what I have been doing; I desire | may have time given me to recollect. After about baif an hour’s pause, she told him that shé had been playing at crimp; upon which Rhada- manthus beckoned to the keeper on his left hand to take her into eustody. And you, madam, says the judge, that look with such a soft and languishing air; I think you set out for this place in your nine and twentieth year, what have you been doing al! this while? I had a great deal of business on my hands, says she, being taken up the'first twelve years of my life in dressing a jointed baby, and all the remain- ing part of it in reading plays and remances. Very well, says he, you have employed your time to good purpose. Away with ber, The next was a plain country woman ; Well, mistress, says Rhadamanthus, and what have you been doing ? An’t please your worship, says she, I did not live quite forty years; and in that time brought my husband seven daughters, made him hine thousand cheeses, and left my youngest daughter with him, to look after his house in my absence ; and who, I may venture to say, is as pretty @ housewife as any in the country. Rhadamanthus smiled at the simplicity of the geod woman, and ordered the keeper of Elysium to take her into his care, And you, fair lady, says he, what have you been doing these five and thirty years ? L have been doing no hart, [assure you, sir, said she. That is well, said he: but what good have you been doing? ‘The lady was in great confusion at this question ; and not knowing what to answer, the two keepers leaped out to seize her at the same times the one took her by the hand to convey her to Elysium, the other caught hold of her to carry her away to Erebus; But Rhadamanthus observing an ingenious modesty in her countenance and behaviour, bid them both let her loose, and’ set her aside for re-exami~ nation when he was more at Jeisure. An old woman, of a proud and sour look, presented herself next at the bar sand G2 LESSONS IN {Parr I. being asked what she had been‘doing ? Truly, said she, I lived three score and ten years in a very wicked world, and was so angry at the behaviour of a parcel of young flirts, that I passed most of my last years in condemning the follies of the times, Iwas every day blaming the silly conduct of people about me, in order to deter those I conversed with from falling into the like errors and miscarriages. Very well, says Rhadamanthus, but did you keep the same watch- ful eye over your own actions ? Why, truly, said she, I was s0 taken up with publishing the faults of others, that I had no time to consider my own. Madam, says Rhadamanthus, be pleased to file off to the left, and make room for the venerable matron that stands behind you. Old gentlewos man, says he, I think you are four score: you haye heard the question—What have you been doing so long im the world? Ab, sir, say she, | have beer doing what | should not have done; but I had made a firm resolution to have changed my life, if I had not been snatched off by an un- timely end. Madam, says he, you will please to follow your leader: and spying another of the same age, interro» gated her in the same form. To which the matron replied, I have been the wife of a busband who was as dear to mein his old age as in his youth, — I have been a mother, and very happy in my children, whom I endeavoured to bring up in every thing that is good. My eldest son is blessed by the poor, and beloved by every one that knows him. 1 lived within my own family, and left it much more wealthy thaa 1 found it. BRhadamanthus, who knew the value of the old lady, smiled upon her in such a manner, that the keeper of Elysium, who knew his office, reached out his hand to her, He no sooner touched her, but her wrinkles vanished, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with blushes, and she ap- peared in full bloom and beauty. A young woman, observ- ing that this officer, who conducted the happy to Elysiam, was so great a beautifier, longed to be in his hands : so that pressing through the crowd, she was the next that appeared at the bar: and being asked what she had been doing the five and twenty years that she had passed in the world? I have endeavoured, says she, ever since I came to years of discretion, to make myself lovely aud gain admirers, In order to it, E’passed my time in bottling up May-dew, in- venting white washes, mixing colours, cutting ont patches, consulting my glass, suiting my-eomplexion.—Rhadaman- thus, without hearing her ont, gave the sign to take her off, Sect. I.) READING. 98 Upon the approach of the keeper of Erebus, her colour faded, her face was puckered up with wrinkles, and her whole person lost in deformity. I was then surprised with the distant sound of a whole troop of females, that came forward, laughing, singing, and dancing. Iwas very desirous to know the reception they would meet with, and, withall, was very apprehensive that Rhadamantbus would spoil their mirth; but at their - neater approach, the noise grew se very great that it awak- ened me. I lay some time reflecting in myself on the oddness of this dream ; and cauld not forbear asking my own heart, what I was doing? J answered myself, that I was writing Guardians. 1f my readers make as good a use of this work as I design they should, I-hope it*will never be imputed to me asa work that is vain and unprofitable. Ishall conclude this paper with recommending to them the same short self examination. If every one of them frequently lays his hand upon his heart, and. considers what he is doing, it will check him in all the idle, or what is worse, the vicious moments of his life; lift up his mind when it is running on in a series of indifferent actions, and encourage him when he is engaged in. those which are vir- tuous and laudable, Ina word, it will very much alleviate that guilt, which the best of men have reason to acknow- ledge in their daily confessions, of “* leaving undone those things which they ought to have done, and of doing those things which they ought not to have done.” XVI.—Character of Francis I. FRANCIS died at Rambouillet, on the last day of March, in the fifty-third year of his age, and the thirty- third of his reign. During twenty-eight years of that time an avowed rivalship subsisted between him and the empe- ror; which involved, not only their own dominions, but the greater part of Europe iu wars, prosecuted with more vio~ lent animosity, and drawn ont to a greater length, than kad been known in any former period. Many circumstances contributed to both, Their animosity was founded in op- positon of interests, heightened by personal emulation, and exasperated, not only by mutual injuries, but by recipro- cal insults. At#the same time, whatever advantage one seemed to possess towards gaining the ascendant, was won derfully balanced by some favourable circumstance pecu= o4 LESSONS IN {Pant f liar to the other, The emperor’s dominions were of great extent ; the Freneh king’s lay more compact : Francis gov- erned his kingdom with absolute power; that of Charles was limited, but he supplied the want of authority by ad- dress: thé troops of the former were more impetuous and enterprising ; those of the latter, better disciplined and more patient ef fatigue. The talents and abilities of the two monarchs were as dif- ferent as the advantages which they possessed, and contri- buted no less to prolong the contest between them. Fran- cis took his resolutions suddenly ; prosecuted them at first with warmth ; and pushed them into execution with a most adventurous courage; but, being destitute of the persever- ance necessary to surmount difficulties, he often abandon- ed his designs, or relaxed the vigour of pursuit, from im- patience, and sometimes from levity: Charles deliberated tong, and determined with coolness; bat having once fixed his plan, he adhered to it with inflexible obstinacy ; and neither danger nor discouragement could turn him aside from the execution of it. The success of their enterprises was as different as their characters, and was uniformly influenced by them. Fran¢ cis, by his impetuous activity, often disconcerted the empe- ror’s best laid schemes: Charles by a more calm, but stea- dy prosecution of his designs, checked the rapidity of his riva!’s career, and baffled or repulsed his most vigorous ef= forts. "The former, at the opening of a war or a campaigt, broke in upon his enemy with the violence of a torrent, and carried all before him; the latter, waiting until he saw the force of his rival begin to abate, recovered, in the end, not only alt that he had lost, but made new acquisitions. Few of the French monarch’s attempts towards conquest, what- ever promising aspect they might wear at first, were con- ducted to a happy tssue; many of the emperor’s enterprises, even after they appeared desperate and impracticable, ter minated in the most prosperous manner. The degree, however, of their comparative merit and rep- utation, has not been fixed, either by strict scrutiny into theit abilities for government, or by an impartial consideration of the greatness and sucoess of their undertakings ; and Bran- cis is one of those monarchs, who occupy a higher rank in the temple of fame, than either their taleats or performances entitle them to hold. This pre-eminence he owed to.many different circumstances, The superiority which Charles Sect, IL] ; READING. 96 acquired by the victory of Pavia, and which, from that peri- od, he preserved through the remainder of his reigD, was so manifest, that Francis’ struggle against his exorbitant and growing dominion, was viewed by most of the other powers, not only with that partiality which naturally arises from those who gallantly maintain»an unequal contest, but with the favour due to one who was resisting a common enemy, and endeavouring to set bounds to a monarch equally formida- ble to them all.» The characters of princes, too, especially among their cotemporaries, depend, not only upon their talents for government, but upon their qualities as men, Francis, notwithstanding the many. errors conspicuous in his foreign policy and domestic administration, was never= theless, humane, beneficent, generous,. He possessed dig- nity without pride, affability free from meanness, and coure tesy exempt from deceit. All who had access to know him, and no man of merit was ever denied that privilege, respect- ed and loyed him. Captivated with his personal qualities, his subjects forgot his defects, asa monarch; and admiring him, as the most accomplished and amiable gentleman in his dominions, they hardly murmured at acts of mal-admin- istration, which in a prince of less engaging disposition, would have been deemed unpardonable. This admiration, however, must have been temporary only, and would have died away with the courtiers who bestowed it; the illusion arising from his private virtues must have ceased, and posterity would have judged of his public conduct with its usaal impartiality : but another circumstance prevented this; and his eamageth been trans- mitted to posterity with increasing reputation, Science and the arts bad, at that time, made little progress in France, They were just beginning to advance beyond the limits of Italy, where they had revived, and which had hitherto been their only seat. Francis took them immediately under his protection, and vied with Leo himself, in the zeal and mu- nificence, with which he encouraged them, He invited learned men to his court, he conversed with them familiarly, he employed them in business, he raised them to offices of dignity, and honoured them with his confidence, That race of men, not more prone to complain when denied the respect to which they fancy themselves entitled, than apt to be pleased when treated with the distinction which they consi- der as their due, thought they could not exceed in gratitude to such a benefactor, and strained theirinyention, and em=- ploy ed all their ingenuity, in panegyric, 96 LESSONS IW [Part I. Succeeding authors, warmed with their descriptions of Francis’ bounty, adopted their encomiums, and refined up- on them. The appellation of Father of Letters, bestowed upon Francis, had rendered his memory sacrecé among his« torians ; and they seem to have regarded it as a sort of ims piety, to uncover his infirmities, or to point out his defects. Thus Francis, notwithstanding his inferior abilities and want of success, hath wore than equalled the fame of Charles, The virtues which, he possessed as a man, have entitled him to greater admiration and praise, than have been bestowed upon the extensive genius, and fortunate arts, of. a more capable, but less amiable rival. MVIL—The Supper and Grace. A SHOE coming loose from the fore foot of the thill- horse, at the beginning of the ascent.of mount Taurira, the postillion dismounted, twisted the shoe off, and put it-in his pocket. As the ascent was of five or six miles, and: that horse our main dependence, 1 made a point of having the shoe fastened on again as well as we could; but the postil- Vion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaise box being of no great use without them, I submitted to go OR. He had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil last a second sh&e, and from off his other fore foot. 1 then got out of the chasse in good earnest; and seeing a house about a quarter of a mile to the left hand, with a great deal ado, I prevailed upon the postillion to gurn up te it. ‘The look of the house, and every thing about it, as we drew nearer, soon reconciled me to the disaster. It was a little farm house, surrounded with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as mach -corn 5 and close to the house, on one side, was a potagerie of au acre and a half, full of every thing which could make pleuty in a French peasaut's house ; and on the other side was alit- tle wood, which furnished wherewithal to dress it. }t.was about eight in the evening when I got to the house; sol left the postillion to manage his point as he could; and, for mine, 1 walked directly into the house. The family consisted of an old grey-headed man and his wife, with five or six sons and sons-in-law, and their severa wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them. They were all sitting down together to their Jentil-soup : a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and @ Seer. IL] READING. oy flaggon of wine at each end of it promised joy through the stages of the repast—it was a feast of love, The old man rose up to meet me, and witha respectful cordiality would have me sit down at the table, My heart was sit down the moment I entered the room; so | sat down at once, like a Son of the family ; and, to invest my-= self in the character as speedily as | could, I instantly bor- rowed the old man’s knife, and taking up the loaf cnt my- self a hearty luncheon; and, as I did it, I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a wel- cone mixed with thanks, that 1 had not seemed to doubt it. Was. it this, or tell me, Nature, what else was it that made this morsel so sweet—and to what magic 1 owe it that the draught I took of their flaggon was so delicious with it, that it remains upon my palate to this hour? If the supper was to my taste, the grace which followed was much more so, When supper was over, the old-man gave a knock upon the tablewith the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance. The moment the signal was given the women and girls ran all together into the back-apartments to tie up their hair, and the young men to the door to wash: their faces, and change their sabots, (wooden shoes) and in three minutes every soul was ready upon a little esplanade be- fore the house to begin. The old man and his wife came out last, and, placing me betwixt them, sat down upona sofa of turf by the door. The old man had, some fifty years ago, been no mean performer upon the vielle ; and, at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpese. His wife sung now and then a little to the tune, then intermitted, and joined her old man again, as their children and grand-chil- dren danced before them. It was not till the middle of the second dance, when for some pauses in ihe movenient, wherein they all seemed to lock up, I fancied I could distinguish an-elevation of spirit, different from that which is the cause or the effect of sim- p< jollity. dha word, I thought J beheld religion mixing in the dance; but, as I had never seen her so engaged, I should have looked upon it now as one of the illusions of an imagination which is eternally misleading me, had not the old- man, as soon as the dance ended, said that this was their constant way ; end that, all his life long, he made it a rule, after supper was over, to call out his family to dance < 98 LESSONS IN {Parr l. and rejoice ; believing, he said, that a cheerful and content- ed mind was the best sort of thanks to heaven that an illite- rate peasant could pay,—Or learned prelate either, said I. XVIHI.—Rustic Felicity. MANY are the silent pleasures of the honest peasant, . who rises cheerfully to his labour,—Look inte his dwelling | —where the scene of every man’s happiness chiefly lies ;— i he has the same domestic endearments—as much joy and _comfort in his children, and as flattering hopes of their do- ing well—to enliven his hours and gladden his heart, as you would conceive in the most affluent ‘station.—And I make no deubt, in general, but if the true account of his joys and sufferings were to be balanced with those of his betters—that the upshot would prove to be little more than this; that the rich man had the more meat—but the poor man the better stomach ;—the one had more |uxury—more able physicians to attend and set him to rights :—the other, more health and soundness in his bones, and less occasion for their help; that, after these two articles betwixt them were balanced—in all other things they stood upon alevel— that the sun shines as warm—the air blows as fresh, and the earth breathes as fragrant upon the one as the other ;—and they have an equal share in all the beauties and real bene- fits of nature. K1X.—House of Mourning. LET us go into the house of moarning, made so by such affiictions as have been brought in merely by the common crass accidents and disasters to which our condition is ex posed —where, perhaps, the aged parents sit brokenhearted, pierced to their souls, with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless child—the child of their prayers, in whom all their LEpes and expectations centered :—-Perhaps, a more affecting scene—a virtuous family lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it, having long struggled with a train of misfortunes, and bravely fought up against them, is now piteously borne down at the last—overwelm- ed with a cruel blow, which no forecast or frugality could have prevented, O God ! look upon his afflictions. Be- hold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the tender pledges of his love; and the partner of bis cares— without bread to give them; anable from the remembrance ‘of better days to digierto beg, ashamed. Secr, II] READING. 99 When we enter into the house of mourning; such as this —it is impossible to insult the unfortuate, even with an improper look.—Under whatever levity and dissipation of heart such objects catch our eyes—they catch likewise our attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts and exercise them with wisdom, A transient scene of distress, such as is here sketched, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work! Flow necessarily does it engage it to the consideration of the miseries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities, to which the life of man is subject ! By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanity—the perishing condition, and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. From re- flections of this serious cast, how insensibly do the thoughts carry us farther !—and, from considering what we are, what kind of world we live in, and what evils befall us in it, how naturally do they set us to look forward at what possi- bly we shall be ;— for what kind of world we are intended— what evils may befall us there—and what provisions we should make against them here, whilst we have time and opportunity !—If these lessons are so inseparable from the house of mourning here supposed—we shall find it a still more instructive school of wisdom, when we take a view of the place in that affecting light in which the wise man seems to confine it in the text ;—in whieh by tlie house of mourn- ing, I believe he means that particular scene of sorrow, where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mo- ther, and shea widow. Perhaps a still nwre affecting spec. tacle, a kind and indulgent father of a numerous family lies breathless—snatched away in the strength of his age—torn, in an evil hour, from his children, and the bosom of a disconsolaie wife. Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with settled sorrows in their looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to perform that last meloncholy office, which when the debt of nature is paid, we are called npon to pay to each other. if this sad occasion, which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice to what a serious and devout frame of mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of affliction—The busy and fluttering spirits which, in the house of mirth, were wont to transport him from one diyert- ing object to another—see how they are fallen! how peace= LESSONS IN [Paarl ably they are laid! In this gloomy mansion, full of shades aR dsicemfortable damps to seize the soul—see, the light and easy heart, which never knew what it was to think be- fore, how pensive it is now, how soft, how susceptible, how full of religions impressions, how deep it is smitten with 2 sense, and with a love of virtue.—Could we, in this crisis, — whilst this empire of reason and religion lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom, and busied with heavenly contemplations—could.we’ see it naked as it is—stripped of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its pleasures—we might then safely rest our cause upon this single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual, whether Solomon has not made a just determination here in favour of the house of mourning? Not for its own sake, but as it i8 fruitful in virtue, and becomes the oceusion of so much good. Without this end, sorrow, 1 own, has no use but to shorten a man’s days—nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and “carriage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and impose upon the other, Sa === SECTION Hill. L—The Honour and Advantage of a constant Adherence to Truth. PETRARCH, a celebrated Italian poet, who flourished about four hundred years ago, recommended himself to the confidence and affection of Cardinal Colonna, in whose family he resided, by his candor and strict regard to truth. A violent quarrel occurred in the household of this noble-, man; which was carried so far, that recourse was had to arms. The Cardinal wished to know the foundation of this affair; and that he might be able to decide with justice, he assembled all his people, and obliged them to bind them- selves, by a most solemu oath on the gospels to declare the whole truth. Every one, without exception, submitted to this determination; even the Bishop of Luna, brother to the Cardinal, was not excused. Petrarch, in his turn, pre- senting himself to take the oath, the Cardinal: closed the book, and said, As to you, Petrarch, your word ts sufficients mae: If.—Imperiinence in Discourse. THIS kind of impertinence isa habit of talking much without thinking. Sect. IIf.j READING. 101 A man who has this distemper in his tongue shall enters tain you, though he never saw you before, with a long story in praise of his own wife; give you the particulars of last night’s dream, or the description of a feast he has been at, without letting a single dish escape him. When be is thus entered into conversation, he grows very wise—descants upon the corruption of the times, and the degeneracy of the age we live in; from which, as his transitions are somewhat sudden, he falls upon the price of corn, and the number of strangers that arein town. He undertakes to prove, that it is better putting to sea in summer than in winter, and that rain is necessary to produce a good crop of corn ; tell- ing you in the same breath, that he intends to plough ap such a part of his éstate next year, that the times are hard, and that a man has much ado to get through the world, His whole discourse is nothing but hurry and incoherence. He acquaints you, that Demippus had the largest torch at the feast of Ceres; asks you if yon remember how many pillars are in the music theatre ; tells you that he took phy- sic yesterday ; and desires to know what day of the month itis. If you have patience to hear him, he will inform you what festivals are kept in August, what in October, and what in December, When you see such a fellow as this coming towards you, run for your life. A man had much’better be visited by a fever ; so painful is it to be fastened upon by one of this make, who takes it for granted that you have nothing else to do, but to give him a hearing, Iil.— Character of Addison, as a. Writer. AS a describer of life and manners, Mir. Addison must be allowed to stand perhaps the first in the frstrank. His humor is peculiar to himself; and is so happily diffused, as “to give the grace of novelty to domestic scenes and daily occurrences, He never o'ersteps the modesty of nature ; hor raises merriment er wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by distortion, nor amaze by ag- gravation, He copies life with so much fidelity, that he can hardly be said to invent ; yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult to suppose them not mere- ly the product of imagination. As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or superstitious ; he appears neither weakly ciedulous, nor wantonly seepti= 19 [Parr I. cal.y his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor implacably rigid. All the enchaniments of fancy, and all the cogeney of arguments, are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the care of pleasing the Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes as the phantom of a vision, some- times appears half veiled in an allegory, sometimes attracts regard in the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in: the confidence of reason. She wears a thousand dress and in all is pleasing. His prose is the model of the middle style; on grave subjects not formal, on light occasions not grovelling ; pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent elabora- tion; always equable and always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences. His page is always Juminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendor, dt seems to have been his principal endeavour to avoid all harshness and se- verity of diction ; he is therefore sometimes verbose ip his transitions and connections, and sometimes descends too much to the language of conversation ; yet, if his language had been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of ite genuine Anglicism. What he attempted he performed ; he is never feeble, and he did not wish to be energetic ; he is never'rapid, and be never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity ; his periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Who- ever wishes to attain‘an English style, familar but not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his Gays and nights to the volumes of Addison. IV —Pleasure and Pain. THERE were two families, which from the beginning of the world, were as opposite to each other as light and dark- vess. The one of them lived in heaven, and the other in hell. The youngest descendant of the first. family was Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happiness, who was the child of Virtue, who was the offspring of the gods. These, as I said before, had their habitation in heaven. The youngest of the opposite family was Pain, who was the son of Misery, who was the child of Vice, who was the offspring of the Furies. The habitation of this race of beings was in hell. The middle station of nature between these two opposite extremes was the earth, which was inhabited by creatures of a middle kind; neither so yirtuous as thé one, nor so vicious Secr. I] | READING. 103 as the other, but partaking of the good and bad qualities of those two opposite families.—Jupiter, considering that this species, commonly called MAN, was too virtuous to be mise erable, and too vicious to be happy, that he might make a distinction between the geod and the bad, ordered the two youngest of the above mentioned Pibslies (Pleasure, who was the daughter of Happiness, and Pain, who was the son - 86f Misery) to meet one another upon igs part of nature, which lay in the half way between them, having promised to settle it upon them both, provided they could agree upon the division of it, so as to share mankind between them. Pleasure and Pain were no sooner met in their new hab- itation, but they immediately agreed upon this point, that Pleasure should take possession. ) of the virtuous, and Pain of the vicious part of that species which was given up to them. But, upon examining to which of them any indi- vidual they met with belonged, they found each of them had a right to him ; for that, ‘contrary to what they had seen in their ‘old places of residence, there was no person so vie cious who had not some good in him, nor any person so yir- tuous who had not in him some evil. The truth of it is, they generally found upas search, that in the most vicious man Pleasure might lay a claim to av bundredth part, and that in the most virtuous man Pain might eome in for at least two thirds, ‘This they saw would occasion endless disputes between them, unless they could come to some accommodation, To this end, there was a matriage pro- posed between them, and at length concluded. Hence it is that we find Pleasure and Pain are such constant yoke fellows, and that they either make their visits together, or are never far asunder, If Pain comes into an heart, hé is quickly followed by Pleasure ; and if Pleasure enters, you maybe sure pain is not far off. But notwithstanding this marriage was very. convenient for the two parties, it “did not seem to answer the intention of Jupiter in sending them among mapkind. To remedy, therefore, this inconvenience, it was stipulated between them by article, and confirmed by the consent of each family, that, notwithstanding they here possessed the species indif- ferently, upon the death of every single person, if he was, found to have in bim a certain proportion of evil, he should be dispatched into the infernal regions by a pass sport from Pain, there to dwell with Misery, Vice and the Furies 3 OF, on the contrary, if he had in bim a certain proportion of £04 LESSONS IN [Parr I, good, he should be dispatched into heaven, by a passport from Pleasure, there to dwell with Happiness, Virtue and the Gods. V.—Sir Roger de Coverly’s Family. : HAVING often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverly, to pass away a month with him ig the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and afr é settled with him for some time at his country house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations, Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my hamor, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit still and say nothing, without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance; As I have been walking in the fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me ever a hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see tiem, for that I hated. to be stared at. fam the more at ease in ‘Sir Roger’s family, because it consists of sober and steady persons; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his ser vants ; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him; by this means his domestics are all in years and grown old with their master. You would take his valet de chamber for his brother ; his butler is grey headed, his groom is one of the gravest men I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy counsellor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old’ house dog, and in a grey pad that is kept in the stable with great eare and tenderness, out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years. I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient do- mestics, upon my friend’s arrival at his country seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old tuaster ; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employ- ed. At the same time, the good old knight, with the mix- ture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good nature engages every body to him ; so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his Seet. HEL.J READING. 105 family are in good humor, and none so mach as the person whom he diverts himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy fora stander by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the t of his fellow servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing €, because they have often heard their master talk of me as his particular friend, My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or in the fields, is a very venerable mun, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the na- ture of chaplain, above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation; he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight’s esteem ; so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a de- pendant. I have observed, in several-of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist ; and that bis virtues, as well as imperfections, are as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly -his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very in- noceut in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agree~ able, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned ;— and, without staying for my answer, told me, that he wus afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at Ins own ta- ble; for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the university, to find him out a clergyman, rather of plain sense than rouch learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper ; and, if possible, a man who understood a little back gammon,—My friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this gentleman ; who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish ; and because I know his value, have settled upon him a good an- nuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now heen with me thirty years; and though he does not know J have taken notice of it, has never, in ajl that times 106 LESSONS 1N {Paarl _asked any thing of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something, in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. ‘There has not been a lawsuitin the parish since he has lived among them. If any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never haps © pened above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. 9am his first settling with me, I made iim a present of all The- good sermons which have been printed in English; and ~ only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another natu- rally, and make a continued system of practical divinity. As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and, upon the knight's asking him who preached tomorrow (for it was Saturday night} told us the Bishop of St. Asaph, in the morning, and Dr, South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year ; where I saw, with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Drs. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors, who haye published discourses of practical divinity. 1 no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend’s insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect, and a clear voice; fer I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction, A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a poes, in the mouth of a graceful actor. Vi—The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations. THIS world may be considered as a great mart of com- merce, where fortune exposes to our view various commodi- ties ; riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our Jabour, our ingenuity, is so much ready money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage, Examine, compares, choose, reject ; but stand to your own judgment ; and do not, like children, when you have purchased ove thing; re- pine that you do not possess another, which. you did not purchase. Such is the force of weil regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion of our faculties, directed to ane end, will generally insure success, Would you, for in- Secr. ILL] READING... 107 stance, be rich ? Do you think that single point worth the sacrificing: every thing else to? You may then be SN Thousands have become so from the lowest beginnings, toil, and patient diligence, and attention to the merch articles of expense and profit. .But you must give up the asures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free unsuspicious er. Ifyou preserve your integrity, it must be a coarse n and vulgar honesty, Those high and lofty notions of worals, which. you brought with you from the schools, must be consider ably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy of a jealous and worldly tainded prudence, You must learn to do bardfif not unjust things: and for the nice embar- rassments of a.delicate and ingenuous spirit, it 18 necessary for you to get rid’of them as fast as possible. You must shut your heart against the muses, and he content to feed your ‘under: tanding with plain household truths. Ta short, you niust not attem pt to enlarge your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sentiments; but must keep on in one beaten track, without turning aside either to the right hand or to the lef“ But I cannot submit to drudgery “like this —I feel a spirit above it.” It is well—be above it then; only do not repine that you are not rich. Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That, too, may be pur- chased—by steady application, and long solitary hours of study and reflection.—Bestow these and you shall be learn- ed. ‘* But,” says the man of letters, ‘* what a hardship it is, that many an illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms of his coach. shall rgise a fortune and make-a figure, while-I have jittle more than the common conveniences of life!’ Was it in order to raise a fortune; that you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in stady and retirement ? Was it to be rich, that you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring ? You have then mistaken your patit, and ill employed your industry. ‘ What reward have I then. for all nay labours ?’’ What reward ! a large com pre Geman soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices, able to comprehend and in- terpret the works of may—of God. A rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inexhaustible stores of en- tertainment and reflection. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the couscious dignity of superior intelligence,— Good heaven | and what. reward can you ask besides ? ‘© But is it pot some reproach upon the economy of Prov- . LESSONS IN [Part f, idence, that such a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, should have amassed wealth enough to buy halfa nation 2’ Not in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that very end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liber- ty, for it; and will you envy his bargain? Will you hang your head and binsh in his presence, becanse he outshingg you ia equipage and show ? Lift up your brow, with a ble contidence and say to yourself, ** 1 have not these things) / it is true; but it is because I have not sought, because t have not desired them; it is because I possess something better: | have chosen my loi; [ am content and satisfied.” You area modest man—you love quiet and independence, and have a delicacy and reserve mm your temper, which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, and be the herald of your, own’ merits, Be content, then, with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate ingenuous spitit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the world to those who can better scramble for them. ‘Phe man whose tender sensibility of conscienee and strict regard to the rules of morality, makes him scrupulous and fearfal of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad« vantages he lies under in every path of honour and profit, “Could I but get over some nice points, and conform te the practice and opinion.of those about me, I might fair a chance as others for dignities and prefermeut.” why can you not? What hinders you from discaraini troublesome scrupulosity of yours which stands so grievous lyin your way ? if it be a small thing to enjoy a hea} hfal mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the keenest inspection ; inward freedom from remorse and pers turbation, unsuillied whiteness and simplicity of manne!s; a genuine integrity, Pure in the last recesses of the mind : § if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and bes slave-merchant, a director—or what you please. VIl.— Description of the Vale of Keswick, in Cumberland. THIS detightful vale is thus elegantly described by the late ingenious Dr, Brown, in a letier to a friend. fa my way to the north, from Hagley, I passed through Dovedale ; and to say the truth, was disappointed in iti f Sect. HL.j READING. 109 When I came to Buxton, I visited another or two of their romantic scenes ; but these are inferior to Dovedale. They are all but poor miniatures of Keswick, which exceeds them more in grandeur than you can imagine; and more, if pos- sible, in beauty than in grandeur, Instead of a narrow slip of valley, v*.ich is seen at Dove- Je, you have at Keswick a vast amphitheatre, in circum- nee above twenty miles. Instead of a meagre rivulet, a ble living lake ten miles round, of an oblong form, adorn- ed with a variety of wooded islands, The rocks indeed of Dovedale are finely wild, pointed and irregular; but the hills are both little and unanimated ; and the margin of the brook is poorly edged with weeds, morass, and brushwood, But at Keswick, you will, on one side of the lake, see a rich and beautiful landscape of cultivated fields, rising to the eye in fine inequalities, with noble groves of oak, happily dis- persed, and climbing the adjacent hills, shade above shade, in the most various and picturesque forms. On the oppo- site shore, you will find rocks and cliffs of stapendous height hanging broken over the Jake in horrible grandeur, some of them a thousand feet high, the woods climbing up their steep and shagey sides, where mortal foot never yet approached. On these dreadful heights the eagles build their nests; a variety of water-falls are seen pouring from. their summits, and tumbling in. vast sheets from rock to rock, in rude and terrible magnificence; while, on all sides of this immense amphitheatre, the lofty mountains rise round, piercing the clouds, in slrapes as spiry and fantastic as the very rocks of Dovedale. To this 1 must add the frequent and bold pro- jections of the cliffs into the lake, forming noble bays and promentories: In other parts they finely retire from it, and often open in abrupt chasms or clefts, threugh which, at hand, you see rich and uncultivated vales; and beyond these, at various distance, mountain rising over mouptais ; among which, new prospects present themselves in mist, till the eye is lost in an agreeable perplexity ; Where active fancy travels beyond sense, And pictures things unseen.— Were I to analyze the two places into their constituent principles, I should tell you, that the full perfection of j [Partel. From this union sprang a virgin, in whom might be i astrong resemblance to both her parents; but the sullén .» and unamiable features of her mother, were so mixed and ~ blendedwith the sweetness of her father, that her counte- nance, though mournful, was highly pleasing. The maig and shepherds of the neighbouring plains gathered ro and called her Piry. A red’breast was observed to in the cabin where she was born 3 and, while she was yet? infant, a dove, pursued by a hawk, flew into her bosom. The nymph had a dejected appearance; but so soft and gentle a mein, that she was beloved to a degree of enthusi- asm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but inexpressibly, sweet, and she loved to lie, for hours together, on the banks of some wild and melancholy stream, singing to hee lute. She taught men to weep, for she took a strange delight in tears; and often, when the virgins of the hamlet were assem- bled at their evening sports, she would steal in among them, and captivate their hearts by her tales, full of charming sad- ness. She wore on her head a garland, composed of her father’s myrties, twisted with her mother’s cyprus, One day, as she sat musing by the waters of Helicon, her tears by chance fel] into the fountain, and ever since, the muse’s spring has retained a strong taste of the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow the steps of her mother through the world, dropping balm into the wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by the briers, and her feet blecding with the roughness of the path. The nymph is mortal, for her mother is so; and when she has fulfilled her destined course upon the earth, they shall both expire together, and Love be again united to Joy, his immortatand tong betrothed bride. IX.—Advantages of Commerce. THERE is no place in town which I so much love to frequent, as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my vanity, as! am an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of my coun- trymen and foreigners, consulting together upon the private business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. 1 must confess I look upon High Change to bea grand council, in which all considera- ble nations have their representatives, Factors, in the trad- ing world, ace what ambassadors are in the politic world. Sect. IIL] READING. Lis ~ They negotiate affairs, conclude treaties, and maintain a §90d correspondence between those wealthy societies of men, : that are divided from one another by seas ahd oceans, or live on the different extremities of a continent. I have often been pleased to heat’ disputes adjusted between 4n inhabi- ant of Japan and an alderman of London ; or to see a sub- fect of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one of e Czar of Muscovy. 1am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several ministers of commerce, as they are distin- giished by theif different walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Armenians ; some- times I am lost in a crowd of Jews; and sometimes make ene ina group of Dutchmen. Iam a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times, or rather faney myself like the old philosopher, who, upon being asked what country- man he was, replied, that he was a citizen of the world, Nature seems to have taken a particular care to dissemi- nate her blessings arnong the different regions of the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse and trafic ambng mankind, that the natives of the several parts of the. globe mipnt have a kind of dependance upon one another, and be uvited together by their common interests, Almost every degree produces something peculiar to it, The food often grows in one country, and the sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected: by the products of Barbadoes ; the infusion of a China plant sweetened with the pith of ap Indian cane. The Philippine islands give a flavour to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality is often the product of a hundred climates, The muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole, The brocade petticoat rises’ out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of Indestan. If we consider our' own country in its natural prospect, without any of the benefits and advantages of contmerce, what a barren uncomfortable spot of the earth’ falls to-our share! Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows origi- nally among us, besides hips and haws, acorns and pignuts, with other delicacies of the like nature; that our climate, of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make.no fur- ther advances*towards a plum, than a slee, and carries an apple to no greater perfection than a crab ; that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and owr cherries, are oR ila LESSONS IN {Parr I. strangers among us, imported in different ages, and natu- ralized in our English gardens ; and that they wouldgall degenerate and fall away into the trash of our own country, if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun and soil. Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world, tha it has improved the whole face of nature among us, @ ships are laden with the harvest of every climate ; otr tabli are stored with spices, and oils, and wines ; our rooms are filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with the worke manship of Japan ; our morning’s draught comes to us from the remotest corners of the earth ; we repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repose ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend, Sir Andrew, calls the vineyards of France, our gardens ; the. spice islands, our hot beds ; the _ Persians, our silk weavers; and the Chinese, our potters. Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries of life; but traffic gives usa great variety of what is useful, and at the same time, supplies us with every thing that is convenient and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our happiness, that whilst we enjay the remotest products of the north and south, we are free from those extremities of weather which give them birth ; that our eyes are refreshed with the green fields of Britain, at the same time that our palates are feasted with fruits that rise between the trepics. For these reasons, there are not more useful members in a commonwealth than merchants. They knit mankind to- gether in a mutual intercourse of good offices, distribute the gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great. Our English mer- chant converts the tin of his own country into gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. The Mahometans are clothe ed in our British manufacture, and the inhabitants of the ~ frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep. X.—On Public Speaking. MOST foreign writers who have given any character of the English nation, whatever vice they ascribe to it, allow, ia general, that the people are naturally modest. It pro- ceeds, perhaps, from this our national virtue, that our ora- tors are observed to make use of less gesture or action than those of other countries. _ Our preachers stand stock still in the pulpit, and will not so much as move a finger to set. off the best sermons in the world, We meet with the same Sect. [1I.] READING. ITS speaking statues at our bars, and in all public’ places of debate. Our words flow from us in a smooth continued stream, without those strainings of the voice, motions of the bedy, and majesty of the hand, which are so much celebrat- ed in the orators of Greece and Rome. We can talk of life di death in cold blood, and keep our temper in a discourse ch turns upon every thing that is dear tous. Though zeal-breaks out in the finest tropes and figures, it is not able to stir a limb about us. It is certain that proper gestures and exertions of the voice cannot be too much studied by a public orator, They are a kind of comment to what he utters ; and enforces every thing he says, with weak hearers, better than the strongest - arguinent he can make use of. They keep the audience awake, and fix their attention to what is delivered to them ; at the same time that they show the speaker is in earnest, and affected himself with what he so passionately recom- mends to others. Weare told that the great Latin orator very much im- paired his health, by the vehemence of action with which he used to-deliver himself. The Greek orator was likewise so very famous: for this particular in rhetoric, that one of his antagonists, whom he had banished from Athens, reading Over the oration which had procured his banishment, and seeing his friends admire it, could not forbear asking them —If they were so much affected by the bare reading of it, how much more they would have been alarmed, had they heard him actually throwing out such a storm of eloquence. How cold and dead a figure, in comParison of these two great men, does an orator often make at the British bar, holding up His head with the most insipid serenity, and stroking the sides of a long wig that reaches down to his middle! Nothing can be more ridiculous than the gestures of most of our English speakers. You see some of them running their hands into their pockets as far as ever they can thrust there, and others looking with great attention on a piece of paper that. has nothing written on it ; you may seé many a smart rhetorician turning bis hat in bis hands, moulding it into several different cocks, examining some- times the hning of it, and sometimes the button, daring the whole course of bis harangue. A deaf man would think he was cheapening a beaver ; when perhaps he was talking of the fate of the British nation. fremember, when I was a young man, and used to frequent Westmiuster hall, there was 3 116 LESSONS IN’ [Pant L counsellor who never pleaded without a piece.of packthread in his hand, which he used to twist about a thumb or finger all the while he was speaking ; the wags of those days used to call it the thread of his discourse, for he was not able to ute ter a word without it. One of his clients, who was more merry than wise, stole it from him one day, in the midst of | ; - his pleading; but he had better have let it alone, fo ‘i Meer lost his cause by the jest. : wat XI.—Advantages of History. SA THE advantages found in history seem to be of three kinds ; as it amuses the fancy, as it improves the under- cae standing, and as it strengthens virtue. Hh oF In reality, what more agreeable entertainment to the mind, oe he than to be transported into the remotest ages of the world, and to observe human society, in its infancy, making the first faint essays towards the arts and sciences ? To see the policy of government and the civility of conversation refine ing by degrees, and every thing that Is ornamental to human life advancing towards its ‘perfection? To mark the rise, c progress, declension, and final extinction of the most flour- ishing empires; the virtues which contributed to their greate ness, and the vices which drew on their ruin ? In short, to see all the human race, from the beginning of time, pass as ; = it were in review before us, appearing in their true colours, \ 3 ’ without any of those disguises, which, during their life time,. so much perplexed the judgment of the beholders ? What spectacle can be imagined so magnificent, 80 various, so i= teresting ?. What amusement, either of the senses or imagi= nation, can be compared with it? Shall our trifling pastimes, which engross so mach of our time, be preferred, as more ¥ satisfactory, and more fit to engage our attention ? How B perverse must that taste be, which:is capable ef so wrong @ choice of pleasure ? Bat history is a most improving part of knowledge, as : well‘as an agreeable amusement ; and, indeed, a great part £ of what we commonly call erudition, and value so highly, is : nothing but an acquaintance with historical facts. An ex- tensive knowledge of this kind belongs to meu of letters ; but I must think it an unpardonable ignorance mm persons, of whatever sex or condition, not to be acquainted with the histories of their own country, along with the histories of ancient Greece and Rome. 1 must add, that history is not only a valuable part of ary Sect. HL] READING, ti7 kuowledge, but opens the door to many other parts of know- ledge, and affords materials to most of the sciences. And, medeed, if we consider the shortness of human life, and our limited knowledge, even of what passes in our own time, we must be sensible that we should be forever children in: un- WRerstanding, were it not for this invention, which extends r experience to all past ages,.and to most distant nations, making them contribute as much to our improvement in wisdom, as if they had actually lain under our observation. A man acquainted with history may, in some respect, be said to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to have been making continual additions to his stock of know- ledge, in every century. : There is also an advantage in that knowledge which is acquired by history, above what is learned by the practice of the world, that it briugs us acquainted with human affairs, without diminishing in the least from the most delicate sen- timents of virtue, And;,to tell the truth, I scarce know any study or occupation so unexceptionable as history, in this particular, Poets can -paint virtue in the most charming colours; but, as they address themselves entirely to the passions, they often become advocates to vice. Even phi- losophers are apt to bewilder themselves in the subtilty of their speculations ; and’ we have seen some go so far, as to deny the reality of all moral distinctions. But Ithink it a vemark worthy the attention of the speculative reader, that the historians have been almost without exception, the true friends of virtue, and have always represented it in its pro~ per-colours, however they ray have erred in their judgments of particular persons. Nor is this combination of fastori- ans, in favour of virtue, at all difficult to be accounted for, When a man of business. enters into life and action, he is more apt to consider the characters of men as they have re- lation to bis interest, than-as they stand in themselves, and has his judgment warped on every occasion, by the violence of his passion, When a philosopher contemplates charac- ter and mannets, in his closet, the general abstract view of the objects: leave the mind so cold and unmoved, that the sentiments of nature have no room to play, and he scarce feels the difference between vice and virtue. History keeps ina just mediom betwixt these extremes, and places the objects in their true point of view. The writers of history, as well as the readers, are sufficiently interested in the char- acters and events, to-have a lively sentiment of blame or 118 LESSONS IN [Part I. praise ; and at the same time, have no particular interest, or concern to pervert their judgment. XK11.—On the Immortality of the Soul. AMONG other excellent arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul, to its perfection, without a possibility of eve riving atit; which isa hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others who have written 63 this subject, though it seems to me to carry & great weight with it. How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall a way into nothing, almost as soon as it is created? Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection that he can never pass; in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of ; and were he to live ten thousand more, he would be the same thing he is at present. Were.a buman soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments ; were ber faculties to be full blown, and incapable of further enlargements 5 I could imagine it might fall away imsensi- bly, and drop at once into'a state of annihilation. But, can’ we believe a thinking being, that is ina perpetual progress of improvement, and travelling-on from perfection to per- fection, after having just looked abroad into the works of its Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries ? Man, considered in his present state, does not seem boro toenjoy life, but to deliver it down to others.—This is not surprising. to- consider in animals, which: are formed for oat use, and can finish their business in a short life. The silk- worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But in this life man can-never take in his full measure of know- ledge ; nor has he time to subdue his passions, establish his aoul in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpgse ! ‘Can he delight in the production of such abortive iatelligen- ces, such short lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to: be exerted ? Capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of man, without look- ing on this world as only a nursery for thenext ; and beliey- . Sect: Til.] READING. 119 ing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudiments of all existence here, and after- wards to be transplanted intoa more friendly climate, where they may spread and flourish to al! eternity. There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triume- ee consideration in religion than this, of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look up= on the soul as going on from strength to strength; to con- sider that she is to shine, with new accessions of glory, to all eternity ; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it something wonder- fully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of man,—Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God him- self, to see his creation forever beautifying in his eyes, and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance, Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior .natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherubim, which now-appears as a God to a human soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he him- self new is; nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection, as much as she now falls short of it. Itis true,. the higher nature still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being ; but he knows, that how high soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in the same depree of glory, With what astonishment and veneration may ye look into our souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection ! We know not yet what we shall be, nor will it ever enter ia- to the heart of man to conceive the glory that will be alwags in reserve for him. The soul, considered in relation to its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it; aud can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual approaches fo Him, who is not only the standard of perfection, but of happiness ! He? i 199 LESSONS IN [Parr I. X111.—The Combat of the Horatii and the Curiatit. THE combat of the Horatii and Curiatii is painted in 4 very natural and animated manner, by Livy. ‘The cause wasthis. ‘The inhabitants of Alba and Rome, roused by ambition and mutual complaints, took the field, and were on the eve of a bloody battle. The Alban general, to pre- vent the effusion of blood, proposed to Hostilius, then ki of Rome, to refer the destiny of both nations to three colt batants of each side, and that empire should be the prize of the conquering party. The proposal was accepted. The Albans named the Curiatii, three brothers, for their champions. The three sons of Horatius were chosen for the Romans. The treaty being concluded, the three brothers, on each side, arrayed themselves in armor, according to agree- ment. Each side exhorts its respective champions 5 Tepre senting to them, that their gods, their country, their pa- rents, every individual in the city and army, now fixed their eyes on their arms and valour. The generous combatants, intrepid in themselves, and atiimated by such exhortations, marched forth, and stood between the twoarmies. The ar- mies placed themselves before their respective camps, and were less solicitous for any present danger, than for the con- sequence of this action. They, therefore, gave their whole attention to a sight, which could not but alarm them. The signal is given. The combatants engage with hostile wea- pons, and show themselves inspired with the intrepidity of two mighty armics. Both parties, equally insensible of theit own danger, had nothing in view but the slavery or liberty of their country, whose destiny depended upoo their eon" duct. At the first onset, the clashing of their armor, a0 the terriic gleam of their swerds, filled the spectators with such trepidation, fear, and horror, that the faculty of speech and breath seemed totally suspended, even while the hope of success inclined to neither side,—But when it came to @ closer engagement, not only the motions of their bodies, aod the furious agitation of their weapons, arrested the eyes 0 the spectators, but their opening wounds, and the streaming blood. Two of the Romaus fell, and expired at the feet 0 the Albans, who were all three wounded. Upon their fall the Alban army shouted for joy, while the Roman legions remained without hope, but not without concern, being €a- , gerly anxious for the surviving Roman, then surrounde by his three adversaries, Happily, he was not wounded; | Seer. UL] READING. ae but not being a match for three, though superior toany of them singly, he had recourse to a stratagem for dividing them. He betook himself to flight; rightly supposimg, that they would follow him at.unequal distances, as their strength, after so much loss of blood, would permit, _Hav~ ing fled a considerable way from the spot where they fought, @he looked back, and saw the Curiatii pursuing at a consid= erable distance from one another, and one of them very near him. He,turned with all his fury upon the foremost; and, while the Alban army were crying out to his brothers to suc cor him, Horatius, having presently dispatched his first en- emy, rushed forward to a secord victory. The Romans encourage their champion by such acclamations, as gener- ally proceed from unexpected success. He, on the other hand, hastens to pat an end to the second combat, and slew another, before the third, who was not far off, could come up to his assistance, There now remained only one combat- ant on each side. The Romano, who had still received no hurt, fired with gaining a double victory, advances with great confidence to his third combat. His antagonist, on the other hand, being weakened by the loss of blood, and spent with running so far, could scarce drag his legs after him, and being already dispirited by the death of his broth- ers, presents his breast to the victor, for it could not be called a contest. ‘* Two, (says the exulting Roman) two have I sacrificed to the manes of my brothers—the third I will offer up to my country, that henceforth Rome may give laws to Alba.’’ Upon which he transfixed him with his sword, and stripped him of his armor. The Romans received Horatius, the victor, into their camp, with an exultation, great as their former fear. After this each ara my buried their respective dead, but with very different sentiments; the one reflecting ou the sovereignty they had acquired, and the’other on their subjection to slavery, to the power of the Romans. This combat became still more remarkable : Horatius returning to Rome, with the arms and spoils of his enemy, met his sister, who was to have been misried to one of the Curiatii. Seeing her brother dressed in her lover's coat of armor, which she herself had wrought, she could not con- tain her grief——-She shed’ a flood of tears, she tore her hair, and in the transport of her sorrew, uttered the most violent imprecations against her brother, _Horatius, warm with his victory, and enraged at the grief which his sister Lt 122 LESSONS IN {Paar I. expressed, with such unseasonable passion, ia the midst of the public joy, in the heat of his anger, drove a poignard to her heart. << Begone to thy lover,” says he, * and carry him that degenerate passion which makes thee prefer a dead enemy to the glory of thy country.” Every body de tested an action so cruel and inhuman. . The murderer was immediately seized and dragged before the Dunmvyiri, the? proper judges of such crimes. Horatius was condemned to lose his life; and the very day of his triumph had been the day of his punishment, if he had not, by the advice of Tullus Hostilius, appealed from that judgment to the as- sembly of the people. He appeared there with the same courage and resolution that he had shown in the combat with the Curiatii. The people thought so great a service might jastly excuse them, if for once they moderated the rigor of the law ; and accordingly, he was acquitted, rather through admiration of his cousage, than for the justice of his cause. X1V.—On the Power of Custom. THERE is not a common saying which has a better durn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that custom is second nature.—lIt is, indeed, able to form the man anew, and give him inclinations and capacities altogether different from those he was born with, A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of bis being. ‘The love of are tired or busy life will grow pon a man insensibly, as he is conversant.in the ove or the other, tit! he is utterly unqual- ified for relisbing that to which he has been for some time disnsed, Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, sil he is unable to pass away his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any particular study, art or scl- ence, Fises and improves, in proportion to the application avhich we bestow upon it. ‘Thus, what was at first an exet- cise, becomes at feneth an entertainment. ‘Our employ- ments are changed into diversions. The mind grows fond of those-actions if is accustomed to, and is drawn with reluc- tancy from those paths in which it has been used to walk, if we consider, attentively, this property of human’ na- sure, it must instract us in very fine moralities.s In the frst place, 1 would hive neaman discount ged with that kind Secor. L1.] READI? of life, or series of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities may have engaged him. It may, per- haps be very disagreeable to him at first ; but use and ap- plication will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. In the second place, | would recommend to every one the admirable precept which Pythagoras is said to have given to his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation I have enlarged upon ; ‘* Pitch upon the course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the most delightful,”” Men, whose circum- stances will permit them to choose their own way of Jife, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their jadgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice. of reason is more to be regarded than the bent of any present inclina- tion, since, by the rule above mentioned, inclination will, at length, come over to reason, though we can never force reason to comply with inclination. In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and irrelicious man, to overlook those hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage him from the prose- cution of a virtuous life.‘ The gods,” says Hesiod, ‘+ have placed Jabour before virtue ; the way to her is at first rough and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther you advance in it.” The man who proceeds in it with stea~ diness and. resolution,. will ina little time find, that ‘* her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace,” To enforce this consideration, we may further otserve, that the practice of religion will not only be attended with that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a plea- ‘sure, from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason, and from the prospect: of a happy immortality. In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation, which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care, when we are once settled in a regular course of hfe, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in any of the most innocent diversions and entertainments ; since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions, and, by. degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes jn the performance of its duty, for debghts of a much more inferior and unprofitable nature. habituated ; but with those supernumerary ; : 124 LESSONS IN [Parr I. The last use which I shail make of this remarkable pro- perty in human nature, of Leing delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely neces~ sary it is for us to gain habits of virtue im this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next.—The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus qualified for it; we must in this world gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be‘able to taste that knowledge and perfection, which are to make us happy in thenext. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the sou) to all eternity, must be planted in it during this its present state of proba~ tion. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life. XV.—On Pedaniry. PEDANTRY, in the common sense of the word, means an absurd ostentation of learning, and stiffness of phraseol- ogy, proceeding from a misguided knowledge of books and a total ignorance of men. But | have often thought, that we might extend its sig- nification a good deal farther ; and in general, apply’ it to that failing, which disposes a person to obtrude upon others, — subjects of conversation relating to his own business, studies, or amusements, In this sense of the phrase, we should find pedants in.ev- ery character and condition of life. Instead of a black coat and a plain shirt, we should often see pedantry appear in an embroidered suit and Brussels lace; instead of being be- daubed with snuff, we should find it breathing perfumes ; and, in place of a book worm, crawling through the gloomy aloisters of an university, we should mark it in the state of a gilded butterfly, buzzing through the gay region of the drawing room. : Robert Daisy, Esq. is a pedant of this last kind.—When he tells you that his ruffles cost twenty guineas a pair ; that his buttons were the first of the kind, made by one of the most eminent artists in Birmingham ; that his buckles were procured by means of a friend at Paris, and are the exact pattern of those worn by the Compte d’Artois; that the loop of his hat was of his own contrivance, and has set the fashion to half a dozen of the finest fellows in town: When he descants on all these particulars, with that smile of self complacency which sits forever on his cheek, he is as much te, Secr, ILl.] READING. 125 a pedant as his'quondam tutor, who recites verses from Pin- dar, tells stories out of Heredotus, and talks for an hour on the energy of the Greek particles, But Mr. Daisy is struck dumb ‘by the approach of his ‘brother, Sir Thomas, whose pedantry goes a pitch higher, and pours out all the intelligence of France and Italy, whence the young baronet is just returned, after a tour of fifteen months over all the kingdoms of the continent, Talk of music, he cuts you short with the history of the first singer at Naples; of painting, he runs you down with a description of the gallery at Florence ; of architecture, he overwhelms you with the dimensions of St. Peter’s or the great church at Antwerp ; or, if you leave the province of. art altogether, and introduce the naine of a river er hill, he instantly deluges you with the Rhine, or makes you dizzy with the height of Atna or Mount Blanc. Miss will have no difficulty of owning her great aunt to be a pedant when she talks all the time of dinner, on the composition of the pudding,.or the seasoning of the mince- pies ; or enters into a-disquisition on the figure of the dam- ask table-cloth, with a word or two on the thrift of making ene’s own linen ;- but the young lady will be surprised when I inform her, that her own history of last Thursday’s assem- bly, with the episode of Lady D.’s feather, and the digres- sion to the qualities of Mr. Frizzle, the hair-dresser, was also a piece of downright pedantry. Mrs. Caudle is guilty ofithe same weakness, when she re» counts the numberless witticisms of her daughter Emmy, describes the droll figure her little Bill made yesterday at trying on his first pair of breeches; and informs us, that Bobby has got seven teeth, and is just cutting an eighth, though he will be but:nine months-old next Wednesday, at six. o’clock in the evening:. Nor is her pedantry less dis- gusting, when she proceeds to enumerate the virtues and good qualities of her husband ; though this last species 1s so uncommon, that it may, perhaps, be admitted into con- versation for the sake of novelty. : There isa pedantry in every disquisition, however master- ly it may be, that stops the general conversation of the com- pany. When Silius delivers:that sort of lecture he is apt to get into, though it is supported by the most extensive infor- mation and:the clearest discernment, it is still pedantry ; and, while J admire the talents of Silias, I cannot help be- ing uneasy at his exhibition of them, East night, after L.2 Sar Cot eae ey i, 126 LESSONS IN {Parr I. supper, Silius began upon Protestanism, proceeded to the {rish massacre, went through the revolution, drew the chare acter of king William, repeated anecdotes of Schomherg, and ended, at a quarter past twelve, by delineating the course of the Boyne, in half a bumper of port, upon my best table; which river, happening to overflow its banks, did infinite damage to my cousin Sophy’s white satin petti- coat. In short, every thing, in this sense of the word, is pedan- try, which tends to destroy that equality of conversation which ts necessary to the perfect ease and good humor of the company. Every one would be struck with the unpo- liteness of that person’s behaviour, who should help himself to a whole plateful of peas or strawberries, which some friend had sent him for a rarity, in the beginning of the sea- son. Now, conversation is one of those good things, of which our guests or companions are equally entitled toa share,.as of any other constituent part of the entertainment ; and it is as essential a want of politeness to engross the one, as to monopolize the other. XVE.—The Journey of « Day.—A Picture of Human Life. OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the earavansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey throngh the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was animated with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly forward ever the vailies, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were de- lighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices ;. he sometimes con- templated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and-sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primros@ eldest daughter of the spring ; all his senses were ratified, and all care was banished from his heart. Thus he-went on till the sun appreached his meridian, and the inereasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then ‘Jooked round about hi: for some more commodious path. He saw on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistably pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a nar- row way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same Girection with the main road, and was pleased, vhat, Secr. lil.) READING. 124 by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the reward of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, therefove, stil] continued to walk fora time, without the least remission of his ardor, except tha! he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music¢ of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the tranches, At last, the green path began to de- cline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and. murmuring with wa- ter-falls, Here Obidah paused for atime, and began to consider, whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and commen track ; but, remembering that the heat was- now in-itsgreatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved. to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders.in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at lust in the com- mon road, Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed. his pace, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This upeasinessof his mind inclined him to Jay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prespect,. he turned. aside to every cascade, and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle.r- yer, that rolled among the trees and watered a large region, with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccounted, his deviations had per~ plexed his memory, and he-knew not towards what point to travel, He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go for- ward, lesthe should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of Joiterinz was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day yanished from before him;.and a sudden tempest gathered round -hishead. . He was’ now roused by bis danger, toa quick and painful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness was lost when ease is consulted ;. he lamented the unmaoly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the greve, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle totrifie. While hewas thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder brok@ his meditation. He now resolyed"to do what remained yet in his power to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find ig8 LESSONS IN. [Parr I. gome issue, where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand ; for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration; all the horrors of darkness and solitade surrounded him ;—the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from tbe hills. Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, withoat knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruc- tion. At length, not fear but labour began to overcome him; his breath grew short and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate ; when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of 8 taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set be= fore him such provisions as he had collected. for himself, on whieh Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. When the repast was over, “ Tell me, said the hermit, by what chance thou hast been-brought hither ;: I have been: now twenty yeats an inhabitant of this. wilderness,.in which f never saw aman before.’” Obidah.then related the occur- ‘rences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation. <¢Son, said the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dan- gers and escapes, of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Re- member, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigor, and full of expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gai- ety and'with diligence, and travel on a while in the straight road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer te be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and re- pose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides, we are then willing to inquire whether avother advan@e cannot be made, and whether we may not at least, tura our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure, We approach them with seruple and hesitation ;. we enter them, Secr. LY. ] READING. 129 but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we for a while keep in our sight, and to which we propgse to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for anether; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications, By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, im- merge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to in~ vade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our iives with horror, with sorrow, with repeutance ; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue, Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example, not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to he made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length return, aftet all his errors; “and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence ; and when the morning _ calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.” f-— ——__—_] SECTION IV. 1.— Description of the Amphitheatre of Titus. POSTERITY admires, and will jong-admire, the aw- ful remains of the amphitheatre of Titus, which so well de- serves the epithet of Colossal. It was a building ofan elip- tic figure, five hundred and sixty four feet in length, and . four hundred and sixty seven in breadth ; founded on four score arches; and rising with four successive orders of archs itecture, to the height of one hundred and forry feet. The outside of the edifice was encrusted with marble, and deco- rated with statues, The slopes of the vast concave, which formed the inside, were filled, and surrounded with sixty or eighty rows of seats of marble, covered with cushions, and capable of receiving with ease, above four score thou- sand spectators, Sixty four vomitories (for by that name the doors were very aptly distinguished) poured forth the 130 LESSONS IN [Parr lh immense raultitude; and the entrances, passages, and stair eases, were contrived with such exquisite skill, that each person, whether of the senatorial, the equestrian, oF the ple- bian order, arrived at his destined place, without trouble or confusion. Nothisy was omitted ‘which, in any ‘respect, could be subservient to the convenience and pleasure of the spet- tators. They were protected from the sun and rain by an ample canopy, occasionally drawn over their heads, The air was continually refreshed by the playing of fountains, and profusely impregnated by the grateful scent of aro- matics. In the centre of the edifice, the arena, or stage, was strewed with the finest sand, aud successively assumed the most different forms. At one moment, it seemed to rise out of the earth, like the garden of the Hesperides; at another, it exhibited the rugged rocks and caverns of Thiace. The subterraneous pipes conveyed an inexhausti- ble supply of water ; and what had just before appeared a level plain, might be suddenly converted into a wide lake, covered with armed vessels, and replenished with the mons sters of the deep. In the decorations of these scenes, the Roman emperors displayed their wealth and liberality ; and we read, that, on various occasions, the whole furniture of the amphi- theatre consisted either of silver, or of gold, or of amber. The poet who describes the games of Carinus, in the chat- acter of a shepherd, attracted to the capitol by the fame of their magnificence, affirms, that the nets designed as 4 defence azainst tne wild beasts, were of gold wire; that the porticoes were gilded ; and that the belt or circle, which divided the several ranks of spectators from each other, Was studded with a. precious mosaic of beautiful stones. H.—Reflections on Westminster Abbey. WHEN Lam ina serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey ; where the gloominess 0 the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melan- choly, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. 1 yesterday passed a whole afternoon in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church; amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions, which I met with in those sev eral regions of the dead, Most of them recorded nothing Sect. IV.] READING. 131 else of the buried person, but that he was born upon one day and died upon another ; two circumstances that are common to all mankind, J could not but look upon those registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons, who had left no other memorial of themselves, than that they were born, and that they died. Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging ofa graye; and saw, in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment ofa bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that, some time or other, had a place in the composition of 2 human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself, wwhat innumerable Solikedes: of people lay confused: to- gether, under the pavement of that ancient cathedral ; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in'the same common mass; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness and deformity, lay undistinguished, in the same promiscuous heap of matter. After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality, as it were, in the lump, oe examined ‘it more particularly by the accounts w hich I found on. several of the monuments, which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them are covered. with such extravagant epitaphs, that, if it were possible for the dead person tobe acquainted with them, he would blush at the praise which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest, that they deliver the char- acter of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew, and, by that means, are not understood once in atwelvemonth, —Supposing, then, that you had it in your choice te be happy all the while this prodigious mass of sand was ¢on- Sect. IV.] READING: 158 suming, by this slow method, until there was not a grain left, on condition that you were to be miserable forever af- ter? Or, supposing that you might be happy forever after, on condition you would be miserable unti] the whole mass of sand were thus annihilated, at the rate of one sand in-w thousand years ; which of these two cases would you make your choice ? It must be confessed in this case, so many thousands of years are to the imagination as a kind of eternity, though in reality, they do not bear so great a proportion to that dura- tion which is to follow them, as an unit does to the greatest number which you ean put together in figures, or as one of these sands to the supposed heap. Reason therefore tells us, without any manner.of hesitation, whielr would be the better part in this choice, However, as I have before inti« mated, our reason might, in such a case, be so overset by imagination, as to dispose some persons to sink under the consideration of the great length of the first part of this du- ration, and of the great distance of that secend duration which is to succeed it ;—the mind, I say, might give itself up to that happiness which is at hand, considering that it is so very near, and that it would last so very long. But when the choice we have actually before us is this Whether we will choose to be happy for the space of only three score and ten, nay, perhaps of only twenty er ten years, I might say for only a day or an hour, and miserable to all eternity ; or, ou the contrary, miserable for this short term of years, and: happy for a whole eternity—what words are sufficient to express that folly and want of consideration which, in such case, makes a wrong choice ! I here put the case even at the worst, by supposing what seldom happens, that a course of virtue makes us miserable im this life: But if we suppose, as it generally happens, that virtue would make us more happy, even in this life, than a contrary course of Vice, how can we sufficiently ad= mire the stupidity o1 madness.of those persons-who are ca» pable of making so absurd a choice ? Every wise man, therefore, will consider this life only as it may condace to the happiness of the other, and cheerfully sacrifice the pleasures of a few years, to those of an eternity. XIL.—Uncle Toby’s Benevolence. MY. uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries—not from want of courage. J have told you, in a former chapter, that 152 LESSONS IN {Parr l. he was a man of courage; and I will add here, that, where just occasions presented, or called it forth, I know no man under whose arm I would have sooner taken shelter. Nor did this arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his in- tellectual parts, for he felt as feelingly as a man could do, But he was of a peaceful, placid nature ; no jarring element in him ; all-were mixed up so kindly within him, my uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate upon a fly. Go—says he, one day at dinner, to an overgrown one which tad buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cru- elly all dinner time, and which, after infinite attempts, he had carght at last as it flew by him—l!’!l not hurt thee— says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the rocm with the fly in his hand—I’ll not hurt a hair of thy head ; Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape—go, poor devil; get thee gone : Why should [ hurt thee ?—This world is surely wide enougt to hold beth thee and me. nee This lesson of universal good will, taught by my uncle Toby, may serve instead of a whole volume upon the sub- ject. X1V.—Story of the Siege of Calais. EDWARD III. after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a man- ner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city, —The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant governor, made an adini- rable cefence.—France had now put the sickle into her se cond harvest, since Edward, with his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on theissue. At length famine did more for Edward than arms, After suffering unheard of calamities, they resolved to attempt the enemy’s camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle ; and, after a long and desperate engagement, Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and. the citizens who survived the slaughter, retired within their gates, The command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue: He offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he permitted him to de- part with life and liberty, Edward, to avoid the impute- tion of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of the plebians, provided they delivered up to him six of their principal cit- izens, with halters about their necks, as victims: of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion, with which they had arya near hea Seer. 1V.] READING. 159 inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivere sd: the terms, consternation rand pale dismay were impressed on ev ery countenance. ‘Toa long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Picire, getting up to a little emimence, tbue addressed the assembly : -—‘* My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We mast either yield to the terms of our eruél and ensnaring congueror, or give up our tender infafits, our wives and daughters to the bloody and brutal lusts oF the violating soldiers. Is there any ee paaieit left, whereby we may avoid the guilt, and infamy of delivering up those who have suffered every misery with you, ca the ove hand ;—~or the desolation and horror of a sacked city on the other ? There is, my friends; there is one expedient ‘left ; a gra- cious, an excellent, a godlike vis etal Ae ! Ts there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life >—Let him offer himself an oblation for thé safety of his people ! He shalk not fail of a blessed approbation from that Power, who offered up his only Son, for the salvation of mankind.” He spoke—but an ufiversal silence ensued, Each man looked around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity, which all wish- ed to approve in themselves, though they wanted the reso- lution, At length St. Pierre resumed, **T doubt not there are many here as ready, nay, more ze blouk of this martyr- dom, than I can be; though the station to which I am rais- ed, by the captivity ‘of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be the first in giving miy life for your sakes. I give it freely ; —I give it cheerfully . Who comes next 2?” ** Your son,” exclainred a youth, not yet come to maturity.—¢* Ah, m child,” cried St. Pierre, *“Iam then twice sacrificed. But no :=-I have rather begotten thee a second time, Thy years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has redthed the utmost purpose and goal of mortality. Who next, my friends! This is the hour of heroes, ** Y aig kins« man,’ cried John de Aire. ‘“* Your kinsman,” cried James Wissant, ** Your kinsman,” cried Peter Wissant.—‘ Ah!” exclaimed Si Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, © Why was not Ia citizen of Calais!” The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers who were now emulous of so ennobling an example. The keys of the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the six prisoners Into his Ce ; then ordered the gates to ‘be opened, and. cave charge to his attendants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their fami ilies, through the camp of 154 LESSONS IN [Paar i the English. Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take their last adieu of their deliverers.— What a parting |! What a scene ! -They crowded, with their wives and children, about St. Pierre aud his fellow prisoners.— They embraced—they clung around—they fell prostrate before them, ‘They groaned—they wept aloud—and the joint clamor of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the English camp. The Eng- lish by this time, were apprised of what passed within Ca- jais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls were touched with compassion. Each of the soldiers pre- pared a portion of his own victuals, to welcome and entertain the half famished inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as their present weakness was able to bear, in order to supply them with sustenance by the way. At length St. Pierre and his fellow victims appeared under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emptied. ‘The soldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to con= teaplate, to admire this little band of patriots, as they pass- ed. They bowed down to them on all sides. They mur+ mured their applause of that virtue, which they could not but revere, even in enemies; and they regarded those ropes” which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as. ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter.— a: 2 Oe Ree ee As soon as they had reached the presence, ** Mauny,” says the monarch, “ are these the principal inhabitants of Ca- lais 2?” —'« They are,” says Mauny: ** They are not only the principal men of Calais—they are the principal men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in the act of enno- bling.”?.. «* Were they delivered peaceably ?” says Edward. * Was there no resistance, #0 commotion among the peo ple 2” “ Not in the least, my Lord; the people would all have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these toyour majesty. They are self delivered, self devoted; and come to offer up their inestimable heads, as an ample equiv- alent for the ransom of thousands,” Edward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter: But be knew the priy- ilege of a British subject, and suppressed his resentment. «* Experience,” says he, ‘* has ever shown, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, 8 indispensably necessary to compel subjects to submission, by punishment and example.” ** Go,”’ he cried to an offi- cer, “lead these men to execution.” ; Secr. 1V.] READING. 155 At this instant a sound of triumph was heard throughout the camp. The queen had just arrived with a powerful! reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive her majesty, and briefly informed her of the par- ticulars respecting the six victims. As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience.— My Lord,” said she, ‘* the question I am to enter upon, is not touching the lives of a few mechanics—it respects the honour of the Eng- lish nation ; it respects the glory of my Edward, my hus- band, my king.—You think you ‘have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, my Lord, they have sentenced them- selves; and theirexecution would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of Edward. The stage on which they would suffer, would be to them a stage of honour, but a stage of shame to Edward ; a reproach on his conquests ; an indelible disgrace to his name,—Let us rather disap-~ point these haughty burghers, who wish to invest themselves with glory at our expense. We cannot wholly deprive them of the merit of a sacrifiee so nobly intended, but we may cut them short of their desires; in the place of that death by which their glory would be consummate, let us bury them under gifts; let us put them to confusion with applauses. We shall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion, which never fails to attend those who suffer in the cause of virtue.”—** I] am convinced ; you have prevailed. —Be it so,” replied Edward: «* Prevent the execution ; have them instantly before us.”—They came; when the queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing sweetness, thus bespoke them ;—** Natives of France, and inbabitants of Calais, you have put us to a vast expense of blood and treasure in the recovery of our just, and natural inheritance, but you have acted up to the best of an erroneous judg- ment; and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we are so Jong kept out of our rightful possessions. You noble burghers | You excellent citizens ! Though you were tenfold the enemies of our persons and our throne, we can feel nothing on our part save respect and affection for you. Yoo have been sufficiently tested. We loose your chains; we snatch you from the scaffold; and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation which you teach us, when you show us-that excellence is not of blood, of ti- tle, or station ;—that virtue gives a dignity superior to that of kings; and that those whoin the Almighty informs, with 136 LESSONS IN [Panr i. sentiments like yours, are justly and eminently raised above all human distinctions, You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all those whose lives and jiberties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse not the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather bind you to ourselves by every endearing obligation ; and for this purpose, we offer to you your choice uf the gifts and henours that Edward has to bestow.—Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call you her sons.” —** Ab, my country !? exclaimed St. Pierre; “it is now that I tremble for you, Edward only wins our cities, but Phillippa conquers hearts.” ¥f = fmm nnn SECTION V. : J.—On Grace in Writing. { WILL not undertake to mark out, with any sort of precision, that idea which I would express by the word Grace ; and perhaps it cau no more be clearly described, than justly defined. To give you, however, a general intie imation of what I mean, when I apply that term to composi- tions of genius, I would resemble it to that easy air whieh so remarkably distingaishes certain persons of a genteel and liberal cast. It consists not only in the particular beanty i 79 = ‘ ; of single parts, but arises from the general symmetry and construction of the whole.—An author may be just in his sentiments, lively in his figures, and clear in his expression ; yet may have no claim to be admitted into the rank of fin jshed writers, The several members must be so agreeably united, as mutually to reflect beauty upon each other ; theit arrangement must be so happily disposed, as not to admit of the least transposition, without manifest prejudice to the entire piece. The thoughts, the metaphors, the allu- sions, and the diction, should appear easy and natural, a0 seem to arise like so many spontaneous productions, rather than as the effects of art or labour. - Whatever, therefore, is forced or affected in the sent ments: whatever is pompous or pedantic in the espresston, is the very reverse of Grace. Her mien is neither that of ® prade wor coquette; she is regular without formality, and sprightly, without being fantastical. Grace, in short, 15 to ood writing, what a proper light is toa fine picture; It not only shows all. the figures in their several proportions’ and Secr. V.] READING. 157 relations, but shows them in the most advantageous man- ner, As gentility, (to resume my former illustration) appears in the minutest action, and improves the most inconsider= able gesture; so grace is discovered in the placing even the single word, or the turn of a mere expletive. Neither is this inexpressible quality confined to one species of com po= sition only, but extends to all the various kinds ;—to the humble pastoral, as well as to the lofty epic ;—from the slightest letter, to the most solemn discourse. { know not whether Sir William Temple may not be considered as the first of our prose authors, who introduced a graceful manner into dur language. At least that qual- ity does not seem to have appeared early, or spread far a« mongst us. But wheresoever we may look for its origin, it is certainly to be found in its highest perfeetion, in the essays of a gentleman, whose writings will be distinguished so long as politeness and good sense have any admirers. That becoming air which Tully esteemed the criterion of fine composition, and whith every reader, he says, imagines so easy to be imitated, yet will find so difficult to attain, is the prevailing characteristic of all that excellent author's most elegant performances. In a word, one may justly ap- ply to him what Plato, in his allegorical language, says. of Aristophanes, ‘that the Graces, having searched all the world round for a temple, wherein they might forever dwell, settled at last in the breast of Mr. Addison. Il.—On the Structure of Animals. THOSE who were skilful in anatomy among the ancients, concluded from the outward and inward make of a human body, that it was the work of a being transcendently wise and powerful, As the world grew more enlightened in this art, their discoveries gave them fresh opportunities of admir= ing the conduct of Providence, in the’ formation of a hue man body. Galen was converted by his dissections, and could not bat own a Supreme Being, upon a survey of his handy work. There were, indeed, many parts of which the old anatomists did not know the certain use; but as they saw that most of those which they examined were adapted with admirable art, to their several functions, they did not question but those, whose uses they could not determine, were contrived with the same wisdom, for respective ends and purposes, Since the circulation ef the blood has been oO 158 LESSONS IN [Partl, found out, and many other great discoveries have been made by our modern anatomists, we see new wonders in the human frame, and discern several important uses for those parts, which uses the anciénts knew nothing of. In short, the body of man is such a subject, as stands the utmost test of examination. Though it appears formed with the nicest wisdom, upon the most superficial survey of it, it still mends upon the search, and produces our surprise and amazement, in proportion as we pry into it. W hat I have here said of a human bedy, may be applied to. the body of every ani- mal, which has been the subject of anatomical observations. The body of an animal ‘is an object adequate to our senses. Itis a particular system of Providence, that lies in a narrow compass. The eye is able to command it; and, by successive inquiries, can search into all its parts. Could the body of the whole earth, or indeed the whole universe, be thus submitted to the examination of our senses, were it not too big and disproportioned for our inquiries, too un- wieldy for the management of the eye and hand, there is no question but it would appear to us, as curious and well contrived a frame as that of a human body. We should see the same concatenation and subserviency, the same ne- cessity and usefulness, the same beauty and harmony, inal and every of its parts, as what we discover in the body of every single animal. The more extended our reason is, and the more able to grapple with immense objects, the greater still are those dis- coveries which it makes, of wisdom and providence, in the works of creation, A Sir Issac Newton, who stands up as the miracle of the present age, can look through a whole planetary system ; covsider it 1p its weight, number and measure; and draw from it as many demoustrations of in- finite power and wisdom, as a more contined understandiag ;s able to deduce from the system of a human body. But to return to our specalations on anatomy, I shall here consider the fabric and texture of the bodies of anl- mals in one particular view, which, in my opinion, shows the hand of a thinking and all-wise Being in their formation, with the evidence of a thousand demonstrations. 1 think we may lay this down, a3 an incentested principle, that chance never acts in a perpetual uniformity and consistence with itself, If one shonld always fling the same numbet with ten thousand dice, or see every throw just five times lass or-five times more, in nuuiber, than the throw which Secr. V.] ‘READING. 159 immediately preceded it, who would uot imagine there was some invisible power which directed the cast ? This is the proceeding which we find in the operations of nature. Every kind of animal is diversified by different magnitudes, each of which gives rise to a different species. Let a mah trace the dog or lion kind, and he will observe how many of the works of nature are published, if I may use the expres~ sion, ina variety of editions. If we look into the reptile world, or into those different kind of animals that fill the element of water, we meet with the same repetitions among several species, that differ very little from one another, but im sizeand bulk. You find the same creature that is drawn at large, copied out in several proportions, and ending in miniature, It would be tedious to produce instances of this regular conduct in Providence, as it would be supers fluous to those who are versed in the natural history of ant« mals, The magnificent harmony of the universe is such, that we may observe innumerable divisions running upon the same ground. [ might also exten: this speculation to the dead parts of nature, in which we say find matter dis- posed into many similar systems, as well in our survey of stars and planets, as of stones, vegetables, and other sub- lunary parts of the creation. In a word, Providence has shown the richness of its gooduess and wisdom, not only in the production of many original species, but in the multi- plicity of descants which it has made on ; every original spe- cles in particular. But to pursue this thought still farther.—Every living creature, considered in itself, has many very complicated parts, that are exact copies of some other parts which it pos- sesses, which are complicated in the same manner. One eye would have been sufficient for the subsistence aud pre- servation of.an animal ; but in ordé@Pto betterhis condition, we see another placed, with a mathematical exactness, 1 the same most advantagecus situation, and jn every partie- ular, of the same size dud texture. Ht is impossible for chance to be thus delicate aud uniform in her operations. Should a million of dice turn up twice together i in the same number, the wonder would be nothing in comparison with this. But when we see this similitude and resemblance in the arm, the hand, the fingers; when we see one half of the body entirely correspond with the other, in all those-minute strokes, without which a man might have very well subsist~ ed; nay, when we often see a single part repeated a hun 160 LESSONS IN [Parr kh dred times in the same body, notwithstanding it consists of the most intricate weaving of numberless fibres, and these parts differing still in maguitude, as the convenience of their particular situation requires ; sure a man must have a strange cast of understanding, who does. not discover the finger of God, in so wonderful a work. These duplicates, in those parts of the body, without which a man might have very well subsisted, though not so well as with them, are a plain demonstration of an all-wise Contriver ; as those mor numerous copyings, which are found among the vessels of the same body, are evident demonstrations that they could not be the work of chance. This argument receives addi- tional strength, if we apply it to every animal and insect | within our knowledge, as well as to those numberless liying creatures, that are objects too minute for a human eye: And if we consider how the several species in this whole world of life resemble one another, in very many particu- lars, so far as is convenient for their respective states of ex- istence, it is much more probable that a hundred million of te dice should be casually thrown a hundred million of times . in the same number, than that the body of any single ani- mal should be produced by the fortuitous concourse of mat+ ter, And that the like chance should arise in innumerable instances, requires a degree of credulity that is not under the direction of common sense. W1.—On Natural and Fantastical Pleasures. IT is of great use to consider the Pleasures which con= stitute human happiness, as they are distinguised into Nat- ural and Fantastical. Natural Pleasures Ecall these, which not depending on the fashion and caprice of avy particular age or nation, are suited to humau nature in general, and were intended, by Providence, as rewards for usip@ our fa- . culties agreeably to the ends for which they are given Us. i Fantastical Pleasures are those which, having no natural fit- ness to delight our minds, presuppose some particular whim or taste, accidentally prevailing in a set of people, to whica it is owing that they please. Now I take it, that the tranquillity and cheerfulness, with which I have passed my life, are the effects of having, ever since I came to years of discretion, continued my inelina- tions to the former sort of pleasures. But as my experience can be a rule only to my own actions, it may probably be @ stronger motive to induce others to the same scheme of life, Sect. V.} READING. 16] if they would consider that we are prompted to natural plea- sures, by an instinct impressed on our minds by the Author of our nature, who best understands our frames, and conse= quently best knows what those pleasures are, which will give us the least uneasigess in the pursuit, and the greatest ‘sats isfaction in the enjoyment of them. Hence it follows, that the object of our natural desires are cheap, and easy to be obtained ; it being a maxim that holds throughout ‘the whole system of created being, *¢ that nothing is made in vain,” much less the instincts and appetites vof anim als, which the benevolence, as well as the wisdom of the Deity is concerned to provide for, Nor is the fruition of those ob- jects less pleasing, than the acquisition is easy ; and the pleasure is heightened by the sense of having answered some natural end, and the consciousness of acting in concert with the Supreme Governor of the universe. Under natural pleasures | comprehend those which are universally suited, as well to the rational as the sensual part ofour nature. And of the pleasures which affect our senses, those only are to be esteemed natural, that are contained: within the rules of reason, which is allowed to be as neces- sary an ingredient of human nature, as sense. And indeed, excesses of any kind are hardly to be esteemed pleasures; much less natural pleasures. It is evideng that a desire terminated in money is fantas- tical ; so is the desire of outward distinetions, which bring no delight of sense, nor recommend us as useful to mane kind ; ‘and the desire of things, merely because they are new or foreign. Men who are indisposed té a due exertion of their higher parts, are driven to such pursuits as these, from the reatlesenitns of the mind, and the sensitive appe- tites being easily satisfied. It is, in some sort, owing to the bounty of Providence, that, disdaining a cheap and valgar happiness, they frame to themselves imaginary goods, in which there is nothing can raise desire, but the difficulty of obtaining them. Thus men become the contrivers of theit own misery, as a punishment to themselves, for departing from the measures of nature. Having by an habitual res flection on these truths, made them familiar; the effect is, that I, among a number of persons who have debauched their natural taste, see things ina peculiar light, which § have arrived at, not by any uncommon. force of genius, oF acquired knowledge; ‘but only by unlearning the false n= tions instilled by custom and educations. 02° 162 LESSONS IN [Pare L The various objects that compose the world, were, by na- ture, formed to delight our senses ; and as it is this alone that makes them desirable to an uncorrupted taste, a man may be said naturally-to possess them, when he possesses those enjoyments which they are fitted by nature to yield, Hence it is usual with me to consider myself as having @ natural property in every object that administers pleasure ,to me. When I am in the cougtry, all the fine seats near the place of my residence, and to which | have access, I re- gard as mine. The same I think of the groves and fields where I walk, and muse on the folly of the civil landlord in London, who has the fantastical pleasure of draining dry rent into his. coffers, but is a stranger to the fresh air and rural enjoyments. By these principles, | am possessed of halfa dozen of the finest seats in England, which in the eye of the law belong to certain of my acquaintance, who, being men of business, choose to live near the court. fp some great families, where I choose to pass my time, a stranger would be apt to rank me with the other domes- tics; but, in my own thoughts and natural judgment, lam master of the house, and he who goes by that name is my steward, who eases me of the care of providing for myself the conveniences and pleasures of life, When I walk the streets, I use the foregoing natural maxim, viz) That he is the true possessor of a thing, who enjoys it, and not he that owns it without the enjoyment of it, to convince myself that I have a property in the gay part of all the gilt chariots that I meet, which | repard as amusements designed to delight my eyes, and the imagina- tion of those kind people who sit in them, gaily attired, only to please me, I have a real, they only an imaginary pleasure, from. their exterior embellishments, “Upon the same principle, 1 have discovered that 1 am the natural proprietor of all.the diamond necklaces, the crosses, stats, brocades and embroidered clothes, which I see at a play of birth night, as giving more natural delight to the spectator, than to those that wear them. And 1 look on the beaus and Jadies as so many paroquets in an aviary, or tulips in @ garden, designed purely for my Civersion. A gallery o pictures, acabinet or library, that 1 have free access to think my own. In aword, all that I desire is the use of things, let who will have the keeping of them ; by whieh qaxim | am grown one of the richestmen in Great- Britain ; Seer, V.J * READING. 168 with this difference—that I am not a prey to my.own Cares, or the envy of others. The same principles I find of great use in my private economy. As I caanot go to the price of history painting, 1 have purchased, at easy rates, several beautifully designed pieces of landscape and perspective, which are much more pleasing to a natural taste, than unknown faces of Dutch gambols, though done by the best masters; my couches, beds and window curtains are of Irish stuff, which those of that nation work very fine, and with a delightful mixture of colours. There is not apiece of china m my house ; but I have glasses of all sorts, and some tinged with the finest colours ; which are not the less pleasing because they are domestic, and cheaper than foreign toys, Every thing is neat, entire, and clean; and fitted to the taste of one who would rather be happy, than be thought rich. Every day numberless innocent and aatural gratifications. occur to me, while I behold my fellow creatures labouring in a-toilsame and absurd pursuit of trifles; one, that he may be called by a particular appellation ;. another, that he may wear a particular ornament, which I regard as a piece of ribband, that has an agreeable effect on my sight, but is so fat from supplying the place. of merit, where it_is not, that it serves only to make the want of it more conspicuous. Fair weather is the joy of my soul ; about noon, I behold a blue sky with rapture, and receive great consolation from the rosy dashes of light, which adorn the clouds both morn- ing and evening. . When Iam 4st among the green trees, I do not envy a great man, with a great crowd at his levee. And I often lay aside thoughts of going to an opera, that I may enjoy the silent pleasure of walking by moonlight, or viewing the stars sparkle in theig azure ground ; which I look upon as a part of my possessions, not without a secret indignation at the tastelessness of mortal men, who, in their race through life, overlook the real enjoyments of it. But the pleasure which naturally affects a human mind with the most liyely and transporting touches, I take to be the sense shat we act in the eye of infinite wisdom, power and voodness, that will crown our virtuous eudeayours here, with a happiness hereafter, large as our desires, and lasting us our immortal souls. — This is a perpetual spring of glad- ness in the mind. ~“This'lessens our calamities, and doubles our joys, Without this, the highest state of life is insipid 3 and with it, the lowest is a paradise, iG4 LESSONS IN [Part f, 1V.—The Folly and Madness of Ambition illustrated. AMONG the variety of subjects with which you have entertained and instructed the public, 1 do not remember that you have any where touched upon the folly and mad- ness of ambition; which for the benefit of those who are dissatisfied with their present situations, [ beg leave to illus- trate, by giving the history of my own life. Iam the son of a younger brother, of a good family, who, at his decease, left me a little fortune of a hundred pounds a year, I was put early to Eton school, where learnt Latin and Greek ; from which I went to the univer- sity, where I learnt not totally to forget-them. I came to my fortune while I was at college ; and having no incli- nation to follow any profession, | removed myself to town, and lived for some time as most young gentlemen do, by spending four times my income. — Bat it was my happiness, before it was too late, to fall in love, and to marry a very amiable young creature, whose fortune was just sufficient to repair the breach made in my own. With this agreea- ble companion I retreated to the country, and endeavoured as well as I was able, to square my wishes to my circum- stances. In this endeavour I succeeded so well, that, ex- cept a few private hankerings after a little more than I possessed, and now and then a sigh, when a coach and six happened to drive by me in my walks, I was a very happy man, I can truly assure you, Mr. Fitz Adam, that though our family economy was not much to be boasted of, and in con- sequence of it, we were frequently driven to great straits and difficulties, | experienced more real satisfaction in this humble situation, than I have ever done since, in more envi- able circumstances, We were sometimes a little in debt; but when money came in, the pleasure of discharging what we owed, was more than equivalent for the pain it put us to; and, though the narrowness of our circumstances sub- jected us fo many cares and anxieties, it served to keep the body in action, as well as the mind ;. for, as our garden was © somewhat large, and required more hands to keep it in Of der, than we could afford to hire, we laboured daily inat ourselves, and drew health from our necessities. I had a little hoy, who was the delight of my heart, avd who probably might have been spoilt by nursing, if the at» ‘ ti rs “tention of his parents had- not been otherwise employed. Sect. V.] READING. 165 His mother was naturally of a sickly constitution ;.but the affairs of her family, as they engrossed all her thoughts, gave her no time for complaint. The ordinary troubles of life, which, to those who have nothing else to think of, are almost insupportable, were less terrible to us, than to pere sons in easier Circumstances ; for it is a certain truth, how- ever your readers may please to receive it, that w here the mind is divided between many cares, the anxiety is lighter than where there is only one to contend with, And even in the happiest situation, in the middle of ease, health and affluence, the mind is generally ingenious at tormenting it~ self ; losing the immediate enjoyment of those invaluable blessings, by the painful suggestion that they are too great for continuance, These are the reflections that 1 have had since; for I do not attempt to deny, that I sighed frequently for an addie tion to my fortune. The death of a distant relation, which happened five years-after our marriage, gave me this addi- tion, and made me for a time the happiest man living. My income was now increased to six hundred a year; and I hoped, with a little economy, to be able to make a figure with it. But the ill health of m¥ wife, which in less gasy circumstanées had not touched me so nearly, was now con- stantly in my thoughts, and soured all my enjoy ments. The consciousness, too, of having such an estate to leave my boy, made me so-anxious to preserve him, that, instead of suffering him to run at pleasure, where he pleased, and grow hardy by exercise, I almost destroyed him by confine~ ment. -We now did nothing in-our garden, because we were in circumstances to have it kept by others ; but as air and exercise were necessary for our healths, we resolved to abridge ourselves In some unnecessary articles, and to set up an equipage. This, in time, brought with it a train of expenses, which we had neither pradence to foresee, nor courage to prevent. For as it euabled us to extend the cir- cuit.of our visits, it greatly increased our acquaintance, and subjeeted us to the necessity of making continual entertain ments at home, in return for all those which we were invited to abroad. ‘The charges that attended. this new manner of living, were much too great for the income we possessed ; insomuch that we found ourselves, in a very short time, more nécessitous than ever. Pride would not suffer us to Jay down our equipage ; and to live in a manner unsuitable to it, was what we could not bear to think of, To pay the 166 LESSONS IN [Parr I. debts we had contracted, I. was soon forced to mortgage, and at last to sell, the best part of my estate ;_and as it was utterly impossible to keep up the parade any longer, we thought it adviseable to remove ona sudden, % sell our coach in town, and to look cut for a new situation, at a greater distance from our acquaintance. But unfortunately for my peace, I carried the habit of expense along with me, and was very near being reduced to absolute want, when, by the unexpected death of an un- cle and his two sons, who died within a few weeks of each other, I succeeded to an estate of seven thousand pounds a year. Aud now, Mr. Fitz Adam, both you and your readers will undoubtedly call me a very happy man ; and 80 in- deed I was, I set about the regulation of my family, with the most pleasing satisfaction. The splendor of my equi- pages, the magnificence of my plate, the crowd of servanis that attended me, the elegance of my house and furniture, the grandeur of my park and gardens, the luxury of my ta- ble, and the court that was every where paid me, gave mie inexpressible delight, so long as they were novelties; but no sooner were they become habitual to me, than { lost all manner of relish for them; and I discovered, ina very little time, that by having vothing te wish for, L had nothing to enjoy, My appetite grew palled by satiety, a perpetual crowd of .visitors robbed me of all domestic enjoyment, my servants plagued me, and my steward cheated me. But the curse of greatuess did not end here. Daily expetience convinced me, that [| was compelled to live more for others than myself. My uncle had been a great party man, and a zealous opposer of all ministerial mea- sures; and as his estate was the largest of any gentleman’s in the country, he supported an interest in it beyond any of his competitors. My father had been greatly obliged by the court party, which determined me in gratitude to declare myself on that side; but the difficulties I had to encoun- ter, were too many and too great for me; insomuch that I have been baffled and defeated in almost every thing 1 have undertaken. To desert the cause 1 have embarked 1D, would disgrace me, and to go greater lengths in it, would undo me, I'am engaged in a perpetual state of warfare with the principal gentry of the country, and am cursed by my tenants and dependents, for compelling them, at every Secr. Vi] READING. 167 election, to vote (as they are pleased to tell me) contrary to their conscience, My wife and | had once pleased ourselves with the thought of being useful to the neighbourhood, by dealing out our charity to the poor and industrious ; hut the perpetual bur- ry in which we live, renders us incapab sle of looking out for - objects ourselves ; and the agents we iftrust are either pock- eting our bounty, or bestowing it on the undeserving, At night, when we retire to rest, we are venting our complaints on the miseries of the day, and praying heartily for the re- turn of that peace, which was the only companion of our humblest situation. This sir, is my history ; and if you give it a place in your paper, it may serve to ‘inculcate this - important truth—— that where pain, sickness and absolute want, are out of the question, no external change of circumstances can make aman more lastingly happy than he was before. It is to the ignorance of this truth, that the universal dissatisfaction of mankind is principally to be ascribed. Care is the lot of life; and he that aspires to greatness in hopes to get rid of it, is like one who throws himself into a furnace to avoid the shivering of an ague. The only satisfaction I can enjoy in my present situation is, that it has not pleased heaven, in its wrath, to make me a king, V.—Battle of Pharsalia, and Death of Rempey. AS the armies approached, the two generals went from rank to rank encouraging their troops. Pompey represen- ted to his men, that the glorious occasion which they had long besought him to grant, was now before them; ‘ And indeed,”’ cried he, ** what advantages could you w ish over an enemy, that you are not now possessed of ? Your num- bers, your vigour, a late victory, all ensure a speedy and au easy conquest over those hatrassed and broken troops, com- posed of men worn out with age, and impressed with the ter- rors of a recent defeat ; but there is a still stronger bulwark for our protection, thav the superiority of our strength —the justice of our cause. You are on gaged in the defence of liberty and of your country. You are Buppotied by its laws, ‘and-foliowed by-its ene Breteates. You have the world spectators of your conduct, and wish ing you success, —On the contrary, he whom you oppes visa robber aad oppressor of his eeuatry, and almost already sus ik with the conscions- Na 4 ; is 168 LESSONS IN [Parr I. ness of his crimes, as well as the bad success of his arms. Show, then, on this occasion, all that candour and detes- tation of tyranny, that should animate Romans, and do justice to mankind,”’ Czesar, gn his side, went among his men with that steady serenity, for which he was so much adufired in the midst of danger. He insisted on nothing so strongly, to his soldiers, as his frequent and unsuccessful endeavours for peace. He talked with terror on the blood he was going to shed, and pleaded only the necessity that urged him to it. He deplored the many brave men that were to fall on both sides, and the wounds of his country, whoever should be victorious. His soldiers answered his speech with looks of ardor and impatience ; which observing, he gave the signal to begin. The word on Pompey’s side, was Hereules the invincible ; that on Ceesar’s Venus the victo- rious. ‘There was only so much space between both armies, as to give room for fighting : wherefore, Pompey ordered his men to receive the first shock, without moving out of their places, expecting the enemy’s ranks to be put into disorder by their motion. Cesar’s soldiers were now rushing on™ with their usnal impetuosity, when perceiving the enemy motionless, they all stopt short, as if by general consent, and haltedimthe midst of their career... A terrible pause ensued, iv which both armies continued to gaze upon each other, with mutual terror. At length Cesar’s men, having taken breath, ran furiously upon the enemy, first discharg- ing their javelins, and then drawing their swords, The same method was observed by Pompey’s troops, who as vige orously opposed the attack. His cavalry, also, were ordered to charge at the very onset, which, with a multitude of archers and slingers, soon cbliged Ceesai’s men to give ground wherenpon Cesar immediately ordered the six cohorts, that were placed as a reinforcement, to advance, with orders t@ strike at the enety’s faces. This had its desired effect, The cavalry, that were but just now sure of victory, received ait immediate check; the unusual nrethod of fighting pursued by the cohorts, their aiming entirely at the visages of the assailants, and the horrible disfiguring wounds they made, all coutributed to intimidate them so much, that, instead of defending their persons, their only endeavour was to save their faces. A total rout ensued of their whole body, which fled in great disorder to the neighbouring mountains, while the archers and slingers, who were thus abandoned, were cut to pieces. Caesar now commanded the cohorts to pul- Secor. V.] READING, 169 sue their success, and advancing, charged Pompey’s troops upon the flank. This charge the enemy withstood for some time with great bravery, till he brought up his third line, which had not yet engaged. Pompey’s infantry, being thus doubly attacked, in front by fresh troops, and in rear by the victorious céhorts, could no longer resist, but fled to their camp. The right wing, however, still valiantly main- tained their ground. But Czesar, being now convinced that the victory was certain, with his usual clemency, cried out, to pursue the strangers, and to spare the Romans; upon which they all laid down their arms, and received quarter. The greatest slaughter was among the auxiliaries, who fled on all-quarters, but principally went for safety to the camp. ‘The battle had now lasted: from the break of day til noon, although the weather was extremely hot; the conquerors, however, did not remit their ardor, being encouraged by the example of their general, who thought his victory not complete «ll he became master of the enemy’s camp. Accordingly, marehing on.foot, at their head, he-called upon them to follow, and-strike the decisive blow. The cohorts which were left to defend the camp, for some time made a formidable resistance, particularly a great number of Thracians, and other barbarians, who were appointed for its defence; but nothing could resist the ardor of Casar’s victorieus army ; they were at last driven from their trenches, and all fled to the mountains, not far off. Cvesar seeing the field and camp sirewed with his fallen conntrymen, was strongly affected at so wielag- eholy a prospect, and could not help crying out to one_ that stood near him, ‘* They would have“it so.” Upon entering the enemy’s camp, every object presented fresh instances of the blind presumption and madness of his ad= versaries. On ali eides were to be seen tents adorned with ivy, and branches of myrtles, couches covered with purple, and sideboards loaded with plate. Every thing gave proofs of the highest luxury, and seemed rather the preparatives for a banquet, the rejoicings for a victory, than the dispositions for a battle. As for Pompey, who had formerly shown such instances of courage and conduct, when he saw his cavalry routed, on which he had placed bis sole dependence, he absolutely lost his reason. Instead of thinking how to remedy this disorder, by rallying such troops as fled, or by opposing fresh troops to stop the progress of the conquerors, being P 170 LESSONS IN {Parrl, totally amazed by this unexpected blow, he returned to the camp, and in his tent, waited the issue of an event, which it was his duty to direct, not to follow. There he remained for some moments, without speaking ; till being told that the camp was attacked, ‘‘ What,” says he, ‘are we put- sued te our very entrenchments ?”, And*im mediately quit- ting his armor, for a habit more suitable to his circum- stances, he fled on horseback ; giving way to all the ago- nizing reflections w hich, his deplorable situation must natu- rally suggest. In this melancholy manner he passed along the vale of Tempe, and pursuing the course of the river Penens, at last arrived at a fisherman’s hut, in which he passed the night. From thence he weut on board a htte bark, and keeping along the sea shore, he descried a ship“ of some burden, which seemed preparing to sail, in which he embarked, the master of the vessel, stili paying him the homage that was due to his former station. From the ‘mouth of the river Peneas he sailed to Amphipolis ; where finding his affairs desperate, he steered to Lesbos, to take in his wite Cornelia, whom he had left there, at a distance from the dangers and hurry of war. She, who had long flattered herself’ with the hopes of victory, felt the reverse of her fortane, in an agony of distress. She was desired by the messenger (whose tears, more than words, proclaim- ed the greatness of her misfortunes) to has‘en, if she expect- ed to see Pompey, with but one ship, and even that not his own. Her grief, w hich hefore was violent, became now d- supportable; she fainted away, and lay a considerable time without avy signs of life. At length, recovering herself, and reflecting that it was now no time for vain lementations, she ran guite through tha city to the sea-side. Pompey embraced ber without speaking a word, and for some time supported her in his arms in silent despair. ; Playing taken in-Cornelia, he now continued his course, steering to the south-east, and stopping no longer. than was necessary to take in provisions, at the ports that oceurre in his passage. He was at last prevailed upon to apply to Ptolemy, king of Egypt, to w hose father Pompey had been a considerable benefactor. Ptolemy, who was.as yet a mir nor, had not the government in. bis own hands, but he and his kingdom were under the direction of Phontinus, an eu- puch, and Theodotus,a master of the art of speaking- These advised, that Pompey should be invited on shore; and there slain; aud accordingly, A‘ hilles, the command- Sect. V.j READ - 173 er of the forces, and Septimius, by birth a Roman, and who had formerly been a centurion in Pompey’s army, were ap- pointed to carry their opinion into execution. Being at- tended by three or four more, they went intea little bark, and rowed off from land towards Pompey’s ship, that lay about a mile from the shore. Pompey, after taking leave of Corne- lia, who wept at his departure, and having repeated two vers- es of Sophocles, signifying, that he who trusts his freedom toa tyrant, from that moment becomes a slave; gave his hand to Achilles, and stept-into the bark,.with only two at- tendants of his own. They had now rowed from the ship a good way, and as during that time they all kepta profound silence, Pompey, willing to begin the discourse, accosted Septimius, whose face he recollected—'* Methinks, friend,”’ cried he, “you and I were once fellow-soldiers together.” Septimius gave only a nod with bis head, without uttering a word or instancing the least civility. Pompey, therefore, took ont a paper, on which he bad minuted a speech he in- tended to make to the king, and began reading it. In this mapner they approached the shore; and Cornelia, whose concern had never cu ffered her to loose sight of her husband, began to conceive hope, when she perceived the people.on ibe strand, crowding down along the coast, as if willing to receive him; but her hopes were soon destroyed ; for that instant, as Pompey rose, supporting himself upon his freed- man’s arm, Septimius stabbed him in the back, and was in- stantly seconded by Achilles. Pompey, perceiving bis death in€yitable, only disposed himself to meet it with decency— and covering his face with his robe, without speaking a word, with a sigh, resigned himself to his fate. At this horrid sight, Cornelia shrieked so loud us to be heard to the shore; butihe danger she herself was in, did uot allow the mariners time to look on; they immediately set sail, and the wind proving favourable, fortunately they escaped the pursuit of the Egyptian gullies. In the mean time, Pompey’s mur- derer-, having cut off bis head, caused it to ve embalmed, the better to preserve its features, designing it for a present to Cesar. ‘The body -was thrown vaked on the strand, and exposed to the view of all those whose curiosity led them that way. However, bis faithful freed-man Philip, still kept near it; and when the crowd was dispersed, he washed it in the sea; and looking round for materials to burn it with, he perceived the wreck of a fishing boat; of which he composed a pile, While he was thus piously employed, lre 372 LESSONS LW [Parr i was accosted by an old Roman soldier,.who had served un- der Pompey in his youth, ‘* Who art thou,” said he, ** that art making these humble preparatieas for Pom pey’s fune= ral?” Philip haviog answered that he was one of his freed- men, ‘ Alas!’ replied the soldier, ‘¢ permit me to sharein this honour.also ; among all the nriseries of my exile, it will be my last sad comfort, that | have been able to assist at the funeral of my oid commander, and touch the body of the bravest geveral that ever Rome produced.” After this, they both joined in giving the corpse the last rites; aud collecting hisashes, buried them under a little rising earth, scraped together with their hands; over which was alter- wards placed the following inscription ; ‘* He whose merii. deserye a temple, can scarce find a tomb.” Vi—€haracter of King Alfred. ~ ~ THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, with advantage, be set_in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen, which the annals of any nation or any age ¢an present to us, He seems, indeed, to be the com- plete model of that perfect character, which under the de- nomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather asa fiction of their imag-- ination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice ; so happily were all his virtues tempered together, so justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds! He knew how to eonciliate the boldest enterpNze with the coolest modera- tion ; the most obstinate perseverance, with the easiest flex- ibility ;‘the most severe justice with the greatest lenity ;the — most vigorous command with the greatest affability of de- poftment ; the highest capacity and inclination for science, with the most shining talents for action. His civil and mil- itary virthes are almost equally the objects of our admiras tion ; excepting, only, that the former being more rare ae ‘mong princes, as well as more useful, seem chiefly tc chal- lenge our applause, Nature, also, as if desjrous that so bright a prodaction of her skill should be set in. the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments ; Vir gor of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, ef- gaging and open countenance. Fortune alone, by throws ing him into that barbarous age, deprived him of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity ; and wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more parti: : Be ee ae ee Sect. V.j READING. 173 ular strokes, that we may at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is im possible he could be entirely exempted. VII.—Awkwardness in Company. , WHEN PQ a eS RL NC 174 LESSONS IN {Part f. neyed by animals, either of my own kind or a different ? Is every thing subservient to me, as though L had ordered all myself ? No, nothing like it—the farthest from it possibley The world appears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone ? It does not. But is it not possi- ble so te accommodate it, by my own particular industry ? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. W bat consequence, then, follows ? Or can there,be any other than this? If seek an interest of my own, detached from that of others, I seek an interest which is chimerical, and can never have existence, -How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here: ’Tis a smoaky house,’ and the sooner out of it the better. But why no ine terest ?. Can I be contented with none but one separated ~ and detached ? Isa social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted 2? The bee, the beaver, aud the tribes of herding animals, are enough to convince me that the thing is, somewhere, at least, possible. How then, am I assured that ’tis not equally true of man? Ad- mit it, and what follows ? If so, then honour and justice are my interest ; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest ; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society. But farther still—I stop not here—I pursue this social interest as far as [ can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighborhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am [noi related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by thegeneral intercourse of arts and letters, by that common nature of which we all participate ? Again—I must have food and clothing. Without a pro- per genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am Tnot related, 10 this view, to the very earth itself ? To the distant sun, from whose’beams I derive vigor ? To that stupendous course au order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times an seasons ever uniformly pass on? Were this order once coB~ founded, I could not probably survive a moment ; so abso- lutely do I depend on this common, general welfare. What then have I to do but to enlarge virtue into piety | Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, are my interest: But gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, “adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its great Governors eur common Parent. fae ce Seer. V.] READING, 1% 1X.—On the Pleasure arising from Objects of Sight. THOSE pleasures of the imagination which arise from the actual view and survey of outward objects, all proceed from, the sight of what is great, uncommon, or beautiful. “By greatness, 1 do not only mean the bulk of any single object, but the largeness of a whole view, considered as one entire piece. Such are the prospects of an open chamPaign country, a vast uncultivated desert, of huge heaps of moun- tains, high rocks and precipices, or a wide expanse of wa- ters; where we are not struck with the novelty or beauty of the sight, but with that rude kind of magnificence, which appears in many of these stupendous works of nature, . Our imagination loves to be filled with an object, or to grasp at any thing that is too big for its capacity. We are flung into a pleasing astonishment at such unbounded views, and feel a delightful stillness and amazement in the soul, at the apprehensions of them. The mind of man naturally hates every thing that looks like restraint upon it, and is apt to fancy itself under a sort of confinement, when the sight is pent up in a narrow compass, and shortened, on every side, by the neighborhood of walls and. mountains. On the con- trary, a spacious horizon is an image of liberty, where the eye has room to range abroad, to expatiate at large on the immensity of its views, and to lose itself amidst the variety of objects that offer themselves to its observation. Such wide and undetermined prospects-are pleasing to the fancy, as the speculations of eternity or infinitude are to the under- standing. Butif there be a beauty or uncommonness joined with this grandeur, as in a troubled ocean; a heaven adorned with stars and meteors, or aspacious landscape cut out into -sivers, woods, rocks and meadows, the pleasure still grows upon us, as it rises from more than a single principle. Every thing that is new or uncommon, raises a’ pleasure in the imagination, because it fills the soul with an agreeable surprise, gratifies its curiosity, and gives it an idea of which it was not before possessed. We are, indeed, so often con- versant with*one set of objects, and tired out with so many repeated shows of the same things, that whatever is new or uncommon eontributes a hitlé te vary human life, and to divert our minds, for a while, with the strangeness of 1ts ap- pearance ; it serves us for a kind of refreshment, and takes off from that satiety we are apt to complain of, in our usual and ordinary entertainments, It is this that bestows charms 176 LESSONS IN [Paar I. on a monster, and makes even the imperfections of nature _ please us. It is this that recommends variety, where the mind is every instant called off to something new, and the attention not suffered-to dwell teo long, and waste itself on any particular object, It is this, likewise, that improves what is great or beautiful, and makes it afford the mind a double entertainment. Groyes, fields and meadows are; at any season of the year, pleasant to look upon ; but never so much as in the opening of the spring, when they are all new and fresh, with their first gloss upon them, and not yet too much accastomed and familiar to the-eye. For this reason, - there is nothing that more enlivens a prospect, than. rivers, jetteaus, or falls of water, where the scene. is perpetually shifting, and entertaining the sight every moment, ith)” something that ismew.. We are quickly tired with lookin upon hills and vallies, where every thing continues fixed an settled in the same place and posture, but find our thoughts” a little agitated and relieved, at the sight of such objects as are ever in motion, and slidmg away from. beneath the-eye of the beholder. ; But there is nothing that makes its way more directly: to i { ‘ i * sons Se ee ONS eee eas the soul, Lott forenh which immediately diffuses a secret: satisfaction and complacency through the imagination, and gives a finishing ‘to any thing that is great or uncommony The very first discovery of it strikes the mind with an ine ward joy, and spreads a cheerfulness and delight through all its faculties.. ‘There is not, perhaps, any real: beauty or de> formity more in one piece of matter than another ; because we might have been made so, that whatsoever now appears” loathsome to us, might have shown itself agreeable ; but wer find by experience, that there are-several modifications of matter, which the mind, without any previous consideration, « pronounces at the first sight, beautiful or deformed Thus we see that every different species of sensible creatures has its different notions of beauty, and that each of them is most affected with.the beauties of its own‘kind. . This is no where more remarkable than in birds of the same shape and pro-: portion, where we often see the male determined in his court+ ship by the single grain or tincture of a feather, and never discovering any charms but in the colour of its species, There is ‘a second kind of beauty, thatwe find in the sev eral products of art-and nature, which does not work in the imagination with that: warmth and violence, as the beauty ' ghat appears in-our own proper species, but is apt, howevers- ¥ Secr. V.j "READING. i¥y ° to raise in us a secret delight, and a kind of fondness for the places, or objects, in which we discover it. This consists either in the gaiety or variety of colours, in the symmetry and proportion of parts, in the arrangement and disposition of bodies, or in a jast mixture and concurrence of all toge- ther. Among these several kinds of beauty, the eye takes most delight in colours. We no where meet with a more gloriots or pleasing show in nature, than what appears in the heavens at the rising and setting of thee sun, which is wholly made up of those different stains of light that show themselves in clouds of a different situation. For this rea- son'we find the poets, who are always addressing themselves to the imagination, borrowing more of their epithets from eoloors, than from any other-topic. As the fancy delights in every thing “es greut, strange or beautiful, and is stil} more pleased, tM more it finds of these perfections in the same of ject ; so it is capable of re- criving.a new satisfaction, by the assistance of another sense. Thus any continued: sound, as the music of birds, or a-fall of water, awakens, every moment, the mind of the beholder, and makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie before him. Thus, if there arise a fragrancy of smells.or perfumes, they heighten the pleasures of the Imagination, and: make even the colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together, than when they enter the mind separately ; as the different colours of a picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive au additional beauty from the advane tage of their situation. : X.—Lilerty and Slavery. DISGUISE thyselfas thou wilt, still, slavery ! still thou art a bitter draught! and though thousands, in all ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account, It is thou, liberty! thrice sweet and gra- cious goddess, whom all, in public or in private, worship ; whose taste iS gratefal, and ever will be so, till nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With theey to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exil- ed. Gracious heaven! Grant me but health, thou great bestower of it! And give me but this fair goddess as my “ mY LESSONS IN i [Part f. companion ; and shower down thy mitres, if it seem good anto thy Divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them. Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close to my table; and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to my- scif the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to ny imagination. Jae I was going to begin with the millions of my feilow-crea- tures, born to no inheritance but slavery ; but finding, how- ever affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it neat ~ me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but dis- tract me, | took a single captive; and haying first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door, to take his picture. a ‘ 1 beheld his body half wasted away, with tong expecta- tion and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is, which arises from hope deferred. Upon look- ing nearer, I saw bim pale and feverish. In thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood—he had seen vosun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children—but here my heart began to bleed—and 1 was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. 4 He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in © the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed. A little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head ; notched all over with the dismal daysand nights he had passed there. He had one -of these little sticks in hishand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As | darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopel-s eye towards the door——then cast it down—shook his head—and went op with bis work of affliction, I heard bis chains upep his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh—lI saw the iron enter ite his soul. I burst into tears. [could not sustain the plc= ture of confinement which my fancy had drawn, X1L—The Cant of Criticism. : And how did Garrick speak the soliloquy last night? —Oh, against all rule, my Lord; most ungrammatically : Betwixt the substantive and the adjective (which shoul agree together, in teumber, case and gender, he made 4 preach thus—stopping as if the point wanted settling. And Secr. V.] READING. 179 after the nominative case, (which your Lordship kuowsshould govern the verb) he suspended his voice, in the epilogue, a deaee times, three seconds and three fifths, by a stop watch, my Lord, each time. Admirable grammarian! But, in suspending his voice, was the sense suspended likewise? Did no expression of attitude or countenance fill up the chasm ? Was the eye silent ?. Did you narrowly look ? J looked only at the stop watch, my’ Lord, Excellent observer ! And what of this new book, the whole world makes such a rout about ? Oh, ’tis out of all plumb, my Lord—quite an irregular thing! Not one of the angles at the four corners wasatightangle. I had my rule and compasses, my Lord, in my pocket. Excellent critic! And for the epic poem, your Lordship bade me look at, —upon taking the length, breadth, height and eee of it, ane trying ‘them at home, upon an exact scale of Bos- sau’s, "tis out, my Lord, in every one of its dimensions, Karbable connoisseur ! And did you step in totake a look at the grand picture, in your way back? °Tis a melancholy daub, my Lord; not oue niet of the pyramid in any one group! And whata price! For there is nothing of the colouring of Ti- tian—the expression of Rubéns—the grace of Raphael the purity of Dominichino—the corregioscity of Corregio— the learning of Poussin—the airs of “Guido—the taste of Carrachis—or the grand contour of Angelo. Grant me patience ! Ofall the cants which are canted, in this canting w orld—though the cant of hypocrisy may be the worst—the cant of criticism is the most tormenting !— T would go fifty miles on foot, to kiss the hand of that matt, whose generous heart will give up the reins of his imagina- tion into his autbor’s hands, be pleased, le knows not why, and cares not wherefore. XH.—Parallel between Pope and Dryden. IN acquired knowledge, the superiority* niust be allowed to Dryden, whose education wag more scholastic, and who, before he became an author, had been allowed more time for study, with better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and illustra- tions from a more extensive circumference of science. Dry- den knew more of man, in his general natures; and Pope, in hislocal manners. The voticus of Dryden were formed by comprebensive speculation; those of Pope, by minate 180 LESSONS ‘IN [Paar I. attention. There is more dignity in the knowledge of Dry- den, and more certainty in that Poetry was not the sole prais of Pope. e of either ; for both, excell- ed likewase in prose: But Pope did not borrow his prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is capricious and varied ; that of Pope is cautious and uniform : Dryden obeys the motions of his own mind ; Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of cemposition.— Dryden is some- - times vehement and rapid ; Pope Is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden’s page is a natural field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by bundant vegetation ;. Pope's 1s the varied exuberance of a- a velvet lawn, shaven by the scythe, and levelled by the roller. Of genius—that power that constitutes a poet ! that quality, without which, judgment ts cold, and knowledge is ibert ; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates——the superiority must, with ‘some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. Tt is not to be inferred, that of this _ poetical vigor, Pope had only a little, because Dryden had more ; for every other writer, since Milton, must give place to Pope; and even of Dryden it must be said, that if he has brighter paragraphs, he has sot better poems. Dryden’s performances were always hasty ; either excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity ; he composed without cousideration, and published without cor= rection. What his mind could supply, at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave, ‘The dilatory caution of-Pope enabled him to. condense his sentiments, to multiply his im ages, and to accumulate all that study might produce, or chance might supply. Tf the flights of Dryden, therefore, longer on the wing. If of Dry er: of Pope’s the heat is more regular and constant. > 8 den often surpasses expectation are higher, Pope continues den's fire the blaze is es ry- , aud Pope never falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and Pope with perpetua! delight. XUL—Story of Le Fever. AT was some time in the summer of that year in which, “Dendermond was taken by the allies, when my uncle To- by was oue evening getting his sepper, with Trim sitting behind hun, at a small sideboar d—I say sitting—for in con- sideration of the corporal’s lame kuee (which sometimes gave # Sect. V.J READING. 18t him exquisite pain)~-when my uncle Toby dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the corporal to stand: And the poor fellow’s veneration for his master was such, that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Den- dermond itself, with less trouble than he was able to gain this point over him : for many a time when my uncle Toby supposed the corporal’s leg was at rest, be would look back, and detect him standing behind him, with the most dutifal respect ; this bred more little squabbles betwixt them, than all other causes, for five and twenty years together, He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the landlord of a fittle inn in the village came into the parlour, with an empty phial in his hand, to beg % glass or. two. of sack : ’Tis fora poor gentleman—-1 think of the army, said the landlord, who has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held up his head since, or had a desire to taste any thing till just now, that he had a fancy fora glass of sack, and a thin toast,—<* J think,” says he, taking his hand from his forehead—** it would comfort me.’’ —-If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy, sucha thing— added the landlord—[ would almost steal it for the poor geutleman, he is so ill.—I hope he will still mend, continu- ed he—we are all of us concerned for him, Thou arta good natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried my uncle Toby ; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's health ina glass of sack thyself——and take a couple of bottles, with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome ‘ to them, and to a dozen more if they will de him good, Thongh | am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the land- lord shut the door, he is a very compassionate fellow, Trim —yet I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too; there must be something more than common in him, that in so short a time, should win so much upon the affec- tions of his host—and of his whole family, added the corpo- ral, for they are all concerned for him.—Step after him, said my uncle ‘Toby—do Trim, and ask if he knows his name, U have quite forgot it, truly, said the landlord, comin back into the parlour with the corporal—-but [ ean ask his son again.—Has hea son with him, then ? said my uncle Toby. A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years-of age ;+»but the poor ‘creature has tasted al. most as dittle as his father ; he does nothing but mourn and. lament for him night and day. He has not stirred from the bed side these two days, 182 LESSONS IN © {Part lf. My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his plate from before him, as the Jandlord gave him the ge- count ; and Trim, without being ordered, took them away; without saying one word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco. Trim | said my uncle Toby, I havea project in my head, as it isa bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my yoquelaure, and paying a visit to this poor gentleman.— Your honour’s roquelaure, replied the corporal, has not once been had on since the night before your honour receiv- ed your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicholas ;—and besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that, what with the roquelaure, and what with the weather, it will be enough to give your honour your death. 1 fear so, replied my uncle Toby ; but Tam not at rest in my mind, Trim, since the account the land- lord has givea me—I wish I had not known so much of this affair—added my uncle Toby—or that I had known more of it. How shall we manage it? Leave it, an’t please your honour, to me, quoth the corporal ;—I'll take my hat and stick, and go to the house, and reconnoitre, and act accords ingly 5 and 1 will bring your honour a full acceunt in ap hour. ‘Thou shalt go, Trim, said my uncle Toby, and pere’s a shilling for thee to drink with his servant. 1 shall eet it all out of him, said the corporal, shutting the door. {t was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the ashes out of his third pipe, that corporal Trim returned from the tinny and gave him the following account: I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able te bring back your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor sick lieutenant—Is he of the army, then? said my uncle Toby. He is, said the corporal—And in what reg!= ment ? said my ancle Toby—I'll tell your honour, replie the corporal, every thing straight forward, as I learnt it— Then, Trim, Vl fll another pipe, said my uncle Toby; 2" sjot interrupt thee 3—s0 sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window seat, and begin thy story again. ‘Phe corporal made his old bow ; which generally spoke as plain as 4 bow coud speak it, ¢¢ Your honour is good 2? and having done that, he sat down, as he was ardered—and began the story [0 mY aucle Toby over agaiv, in pretty pear the same words j despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honour, about the heu- genant and his sen ; for hen Lasked where his servant wae —_—- Seer. V.] READING. 183 from whom I made myself sure of knowing every thing that was proper to be asked That’s a right distinction, Trim, said my uncle Toby —I was answered, an’t please your hon- our, that he bad no servant with him, That he had come to the inn with hired horses ;—which, upon finding himself unable to proceed, (to join, I suppose, the regiment) he had dismissed the morning after he came. If [ pet better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his son to pay the man—we can hire horses from hence. - But alas! the poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the landlady to me, for I heard the death-watch all night long—and when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him ; fer he is broken‘ hearted already.’ I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord spoke of ; but [ will do it for my father myself, said the youth. Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman, said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and of fering him my chair ‘to set down upon by the fire, whilst I did it. I believe, Sir, said he, very modestly, I can please bim best myself.—I-am sure, said J, his honour will not lke the toast the worse for being toasted by an old soldier, ‘Fhe youth took hold of my hand, and instantly burst into tears. Poor youth! said my uncle Toby—he has been bred up from an infant inthe army, and the name of a sol-= dier, Trim, sounded in his ears, like the name of a friend. t wish [ had him here. —I never, in the lougest march, said the corporal, had so great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for com= papy :—What could be the matter with me, an’t please your honour? Nothing in the world, J'rim, said my uncle Toby, blowing his nose—but that thon arta good natured fellow. When I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thonght it was proper to tell him-I was Captain Shandy’s servant, and that your honour (though a stranger) was ex= tremely concerned for his father ; and that if there was any thing in your house or cellar —(and thou mightest have add- ed iny purse too, said my uncle Toby)—he was heartily welcome to it: He made a very low bow (which was meant to your honour)—but no answer—for his heart was full ;— so he went up stairs with the toast ; I warrant you, my dear, said J, as I opened the kitchen door; your father will be well again, Mr. Yorick’s curate was smoking a pipe by the kitchen fire, but said not a@ord, good or bad, to comfort A.ESSONS EN fPasa hk the youth. I thought it wrong, added the corporal—I think so too, said my-uncle Toby. : When the lieutenant had taken his glass of sack, and toast, he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen to let.me know, that in about ten minutes, he should, be glad if I would step up stairs—-I believe, said the land- lord, he is'going to say his prayers-——for there was a book laid upon the chair, by his bed side; and as I shut the door, I-sdw his son take up a cushion.—- I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the ar- ” my, Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all, - I heard the poor gentleman say his prayers last night, said the Fandlady,. very devoutly, and with my own ears, or 1 could not have believed it. Are you sure of it? replied the curate. A soldier, an’t please your reverence, said I, prays as often, {of his own accord) as a parson ;—and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason to pray to God of any one in the whole world, ’Twas well said of thee, Trimy said my uncle To- by,—but when a soldier, said I, an’t please your reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together, in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water—or engaged, said I, for months together, in long and dangerous marches; harrassed, per- haps, in bis rear to day; harrassing others tomorrow ;—de- tached here—countermanded there—resting this night out upon his arms—-beat up in his shirt the next——benumbed in his joints—perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel on— he must say his prayers how and when he can.—I believe, said I—for J was piqued, quoth the corporal, for the-repu- tation of thé army—I believe, an’t please your reverence, said’ J, that when a soldier gets time to pray—he prays as heartily as a parson—though not with all his fuss and hy- pocrisy.—Thou shouldest not have said that, Trim, said my uncle Toby—for God only knows who is 4 bypocrite, and who isnot. At the great and general review of us all, core poral, at the day of judgment (and not till then)—-it will be seen who have done their:duties in this world, and who have not; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly. I hope we'shall, said Trim,—It is in the scripture, said my uncle Toby; and I will show it thee tomorrow :—In the mean time, we may depend upon it Trim, for our comfort, said my-uncle Foby, that God Almighty is so good and just 2 governor of the world, that if we have but done-our duties initsit will never be inquired into, whether we have done if MOTE Secr. V.] READING. 185 them in a red coat or a black one :—I hope not, said the cor= poral.—But go on, Trim, said my uncleToby, with the story. When I went up, continued the corporal, into the Lieu- tenant’s room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, he was laying in his bed, with his head raised upon his hand, his elbows upon the pillow, and a clean white eambric handkerchief beside it; The youth was just stoop- ing down to take up the cushion upon which I supposed he had been kneeling—the book was laid upon the bed—and as he rose, in taking up the cushion with onehand, he reached out his other to take the book away at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the Lieutenant... He did not offer to speak to me, till | had walked up close to his bed side : If you are Captain Shandy’s servant, said he, you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy’s thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me; — if he was of Leven’s said the Lieutenant. I told him your honour was——-then, said he, I served three campaigns with him im Flanders, and remember him ; but ’tis most likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me, You will tell him, - however, that the person his good nature has laid under ob- tigations to him, is one Le Fever, a Lieutenant in Angus’s but he knows me not—said he a second time, musings —possibly he may my story—added he—pray tell the Cap- tain, I was the Ensign at Breda, whose wife was most un-~ fortunately killed with a musket shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent.—I remember the story, an’t please your hon our, said I, very well. Doyouso? said he, wiping his eyes with bis handkerchief—then well may 1. In saying this, be drew a hittte ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black ribband about his neg, and kissed it twice. — Here, Billy, said he—the boy flew across the room to the bed side, and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too, then kissed his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept. I wish, said my uncle Toby with a deep sigh—I wish, Trim, I was asleep. Your honour, replied the corporal, is too much concerned ; shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe ? o, Trim, said my uncle Toby, [ remember, said my uncle Toby, sighing again, the story of the ensign and his wife, and particularly well, that he as well as she, upon some account or other, (I forget what) was Q2 » 386 LESSONS IN [Pant }. universally pitittby the whole regiment ; but finish the story, *Tis finished already, said the corporal, for-f couid stay-no longer, so wished his honour a good night; young Le Fever rose from off the bed ; and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we went down together, told me they “had come from Ireland, and were on their rout to join the regiment in Flanders. But alas ! said the corporal, the _ Lieutenant's last day’s march is over. ‘Then what is to be- come of his poor boy ? cried my uncle Toby. Thou hast leftthis matter short, said my uncle Toby ‘to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and Pwill tell thee in what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad’st an offer of my services to Le Fever, as sickness and travel- ling are both expensive, and thou knewest he was buta poor Lieutenant, with a son to subsist, as well as himself, out, of his pay, that thou didst not make: an offer to bim of my purse, because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, be had been as welcome to it as myself, Your hon- our knows, said the corporal, 1] had no orders : True, quoth my uncle Toby, thou didst very right, Trim, as 2 soldier, put certainly, very wrong as a man. ln the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same éxcuse, continued my uncle Toby, when thou offeredst him whatever was in my house, that thou shouldest have offered him my house teo: A sick brother officer should have the best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him ; tho art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, and what with thy care of him, and theold woman’s, and his boy’s, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, aud set bim upon his-legs. Ina fortgight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, smi ing, he might march. ade will vever- march; an’t please your honour, in this world, said the corporal. He will march, said my uncle Toby, rising-up from the side of the bed, with one shoe off. An’t please your honour, said the corporal, he will never march, but te his grave. He shall march; cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which. had a shoe on, though without advaneing an inch, he shal} march to his regiment. He cannot stand it, said the corporal. He shall be supported, said my uncle Toby. He'll drop at last, said the corporal, and what will become of his boy ? He shall yot drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. A-well o’day, Go what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point the oor soul will die. He shall not dies by H-—=05 cried my uncle Toby. © Fail a aaa tie ah Seer. V.j REAU ; 187 —The Accusine Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in ;-and the Recorpine ANGEL, us he wroteitdown, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it-out forever, —My uncle Toby went to his bureau, pnt his purse inte his pocket, and having ordered the corporal to.go early in the morning for a physician, he went to bed and fell asleep. The sun looked bright the morning afier, to every eye in the village but Le Fever’s and his afflicied son’s; the hand of death pressed heavy upon his eyelids, and hardly could the wheel at the cistern turn round its circle, when my uncle Toby, who had got up an hour before his wonted time, en- tered the Lieutenant’s room, and without preface or apolo- gy, sat: himself down upon the chair by the bed side, and independently of all modes and customs, opened. the cur- tain, in the manner an old friend and brother officer would have doneit, and asked him how he did—how he had rested in the night—what was his complaint—where was his pain— and what he could do te help hin? And without giving him time to answer any one of these inquiries, went on and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him. —You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Toby, tomy house—and we’ll send for a doctor to see what’s the matter-——and we'll have an apothecary—and the corporat shall be your nurse—and J"Il-be yoar servant, Le Fever. There was a frankness:in: my uncle Toby—not the effect of familiarity, bat the cause of it—which let you at once into bis soul, and showed you the goodness of his‘nature; to this there was something in his looks, and voice, and man- ner, superadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortu- nate to come and take shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Toby had half finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the’son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold of thé breast of his coat, and was pulling it towards him. The bload and spirit of Le Fever, which were waxis~ cold and slow withia him, and were re- treating to their last citadel, the heart, rallied: buck—the film forsook his eyes for a moment, he looked up wishfolly in iy uncle Toby’s face—then cast g look upon his boy. Nature instantly ebb’d again—the film returned to its place—the pulse fluttered, stopped—went on—throbbed— stopped again—moved—stopped—shall I go on ?—No, LESSONS IN {Part f. SECTION VI, 1.—The Shepherd and the Philosopher. REMOTE from cities liv’d a swain, Unvex’d with all the cares of gain. His head was silyer’d o’er with age, And long experience made him sage; In summer’s heat and winter’s cold, He fed his flock and penn’d the fold, | His hours in cheerful labour flew, Nor envy nor ambition knew ; His wisdom and his honest fame, Through all the country rais’d his-name A deep philosopher, (whose rules Of moral life were drawn from schools) The Shepherd’s homely cottage sought = And thus explor’d his reach of thouglit. Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil O’er books consum’d the midnight oil Hast thou old Greece and Rome stirvey’d; And the vast’ sense of Plato weigh’d? F Hath Socrates thy soul refin’d? And hast’ thou fathom’d Tully’s mind? Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown, By various fates, on realms unknown : Hast thou through many cities stray’d, Their customs, laws, and manners, weigh’d'! The shepherd modestly reply’d, : I ne’er the paths of learning try’d; | Nor have I roam’d in foreign parts, To read mankind, their laws, and arts ; For man is practis’d in disguise ; He cheats the most discerning eyes ; Who by that search shall wiser grow, When we ourselves can never know ? The little knowledge I have gain’d, a Was all from simple nature drain’d : SEN Hence my life’s maxims took their rise, fe Hence grew my settled hate to vice. The daily labours of the bee Awake my soul to industry. _ Who can observe the careful ant, And not provide for future want? My dog, (the truest of his kind) — With gratitude inflames my mind; + ¥ mark his true, his faithfnl way, And in my service copy Tray. Tn cohstancy and nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the chilly air, . With pious wing protects her care, Szer. VI.] READING. Tee And every fowl that flies at large, e Instructs me in a parent’s charge. From nature, too, Itake my rule To shun contempt: and'ridicule, Inever with important air, In conrersation overbear : Can grave and formal pass for wise, ‘When men the solemn owl despise ? My tongue within my lips I rein, For who talks much must talk in vain » We from the woody torrent fly: Who listens'tu the chattering pie? Nor would I with. felonious flight, By stealth invade my neighbour's right Rapacious animals we hate: Kites, hawks and wolves deserve their fate. Do not we yust! abhorrence find: Against the toad.and serpent kind? But envy, calumny and spite, Bear stronger yenom in their bite : Thus every object of creation Can furnish hints for contemplation, And from the most minute and-mean, “A yirtuous mind can morals-¢glean, Thy fame is just, the sage replies: Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. Pride often guides the author’s pen; Books as affected)are as men: But he who studies. nature’s: laws, From certain: truth his maxims. draws; And those, without our schools, suffice To make men moral, good-and wise. , 11.—Ode to Leven Water. ON Leven’s banks while free to rove- And tune the rurat pipe to:love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod th’. Arcadian plain. Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limped source ; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly: warbles o’er its bed, With white, round; polish’d pebbles spread; While, lightly’ pois’d, the scaly brood, : In myriads cleave'thy- chfystal flood; The springing trout, in speckled *pride ; The salmon, monareh of the tide; The ruthless pike, intentom war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming’maze thy. waters make; 190 LESSONS IN (Parr lv By bowers of birch and groves of pine, And hedges flower’d with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May num’rous herds and flocks be seen ; And lasses, chanting o’er the pail; And shepherds, piping in the dale ; And ancient faith, that knows no guile ; And industry, embrown’d with toil ; And heart resolv’d and hands prepar’d; The blessings they enjoy to guard. 111.—Ode from the 19th Psalm. THE spacious firmament on high, With all'the blue etherial sky, And spangled hearers, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th’ unwearied sun from day to day, Noes his Creator’s’ power display ; And publishes to ev'ry land,: The work of an Almighty hand: oon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond’rous tale, And, nightly, to the list’ning earth, Repeats the story of her birth ! Whilst all the stars*that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm:the’tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, ali Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice nor sound Amid these radiant orbs be found ? In reason’s ear they. all rejoice, And utter forth a gloriviis voice, Forever singing as they shine, “The hand that made us is divine.” __ EV.—Rural Charms. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village ofthe plain ; Where health and plenty cheer’d the lab’ring swain,, Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid, And parting summer’s ling’ring blooms delay’d: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease ! Seats of my youth, when ey’ry sport could please ! How often have I loiter’d o’er thy green, Where humble happiness endear’d each scene ! How often have I. paus’d on every charm The shelter’d cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, ’ The decent church, that topp’d the neighboring hill; The hauthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age ang whispering loyers made. a i saad — a 7 : * Szer, V1.j READING. LOL How often have I bless’d the coming day, When toil remitting, lent its turn to play, And all the village train from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey’d : And many a gambol frolick’d o’er the ground, And slights of arts and feats of strength went round ; And still, as each repeated pleasure tir’d, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir’d : The dancing pair, that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter’d round the place: The bashful. virgin’s sidelong looks of love, The matron’s glance, that would those looks reprove. * Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s close ; Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There as I pass’d with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften’d from below. The swain responsive as the milkmeid sung ; The sober herd that low’d to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool ; The playful children just let loose from school ; ‘ The watch dog’s voice, that bay’d the whisp’ring wind ; ‘And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; : These all, in soft confusion, sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made, V.—The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every Body, LEST men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view. The trav’ler leaping o’er those bounds, The credit of his book confounds, Who with his tougne hath armies routed, Makes e’en his real courage doubted. But fatvty never secms absurd ; The flatter’d always take your word ; Impossibiliies seem just; "(hey take the strongest praise on trusty Hyperboles, though e’er so great, ; Wiil still come short of self conceit. So very like a painter drew, That ey’ry.eye the picture knew; He hit complexion, feature, air, So just, that life itself was.there ; No flatt'ry with his colougs laid, To bloom restor’d the faded maid ; He gaye each muscle all its strength ; The mouth, the chin, the nase’s length, His honest pencil touch’d with truth, ‘Aud mavk’d the date of age and youtk. LESSONS IN [Paar tf a He losttrstriends ; his practice fail’d, Truth should not always be reveal’d ; In dusty piles his pictures lay, For no one sent theysecond pay. Two busto’s, fraught with every grace, A Venus’ and Apollo’s face, He placed in view, resolv’d to please, ; Whoever sat, he drew from these ; From these corrected every feature, And spirited each aukward creature. All things were set; the hour was come, His palette ready o’er his thumb: My Lord appear’d, and seated:right, In proper attitude and light, The painter look’d, he sketch*d the piece ; Then dip’d his pencil, talk’d of Greece, Of Titian’s tints, of Guido’s air, *¢ Those eyes, my Lord, the spirit there, Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all the native fire; The features, fraught with sense and wit, You'll grant, are very hard to hit : Bs But yet, with patience, you shall view As much as paint or art can do: ° Observe the work.”—-My Lord reply'd 7 * Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; Dear sir, for me ’tis far too young.” **O pardon me,” the artist cry’d, ** Jn this we painters must decide. The piece e’en common eyes muststrike; Vil warrant it extremely like.” My Lord examin’d it anew, No looking-glass seem’d half so true. A lady came. With borrow’d grace, He from his Venus form’d her face. Her loyer prais’d the painter’s art, So like the picture in his heart ! To every age some charm he lent ; E’en beauties.were almost content. Yhrough all the town his art they prais’d, His custom grew, his price was rais'd. Had he the real likeness shown, Would any man the picture own? a But when thus happily he wrought, Each found the likeness in his thought. Vi.— Diversity in the Human Character. VIRTUOUS and vicious every heart mugt be, Few'in th’ extreme; but all in the degree - The*rogue and fool.by fits are fair and wise, And e’en the best, by &its what they despise, ~ Seer. VI] READING. 198 *Tis but by part we follow good or ill, For, Vice or Virtue, self directs it still ; Each individual seeks a sev’ral goal ; But Heayen’s great view is one, and that the whole; That counterworks each folly and Caprice ; , That disappoints th’ effect of every vice ; That happy frailties to all ranks apply’d— Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, Fear to the statesman, rashiness to the chief, . To King’s presumption, and to crowds belief. That Virtue’s end trom vanity can raise, Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise ; And build on wants, and.on defects of mind, The joy, the peace, the glory of mankind, Heaven, forming each on other to depend, | A master, or a servant, or a friend, Bids each on other for assistance call, Till one man’s weakness grows the strength of ali, Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common int’rest or endear the tie. To those we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each homefelt joy that life inherits here ; Yet from the same, we learn in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those inUrests to resign. Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, ¥o welcome death, and calmly pass away. Whate’er the passion, knowledge, fame or peif,, Not one would change his neighbour with himseif. The learn’d is happy, nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more ; The rich is happy in the plenty given, The poor contents him with the cate of heaven : See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic aking ; The starving chymist in his golden views Supremely blest; the poet in his muse. See some strange comfort ev'ry state attend, And pride, bestow’d on all a common friend ; See some fit passion ev'ry age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die, Behold the child, by nature’s kindly law, Pleas’d with a rattle, tickled with a straw ; Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight ; A little louder, but as empty quite ; Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And cards and counters are the toys of age; Pleas’d with this bauble still, as that before : Till tir’d he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’e?. Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying vays, Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by hope supply'd, And each oa of sense by pride, 194. LESSONS IN (Parr I. These build as fast as knowledge can destroy : In folly’s cup still laughs the bubble, joy : One prospect lost, another still we gain, And not a vanity is given in vain; E’en méan self-love becomes, by force divine, The'scale to measure others wants by thine. See! and confess, one comfort still must rise : *Tis this: Though man’s a fool, yet Gop is wise Vil.—The Toilet. AND now unyeil’d, the toilet stands display’d, Bach silver vase in mystic order laid. First, rob’d in white, the nymph intent adores, With head uncover’d the cosmetic pow’rs. A heav'nly image in the glass appears i To that she bends, to that her eye she rears: Th’ inferior priestess, at the altar’s side, Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here ‘he various off’rings of the world appear ; From each, she nicely culls, with curious toil, ‘And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks, — And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here, and elephant unite, Transform’d4o combs, the speckled and the white ; Here files of pins extend their shining tows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms, The fair, each moment, rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, ‘And calls forth all the wonders of her face. VILI.— The Hermit. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age, @ rev’rend hermit grew. The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the chrystal well ; Remote from man, with God he pass’d the days; Prayer all his bus’ness, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seem‘d heav’n itself, till one suggestion rose : That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; Thus sprung some doubt of Providence’s sway His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, ‘And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest, Calm nature’s image on its wat'ry breast, Down bend the banks ; the trees, depending grow ; ‘And skies, beneath, with answ’ring colours glow + But if a stone the gentle sea divide, Syift ruffiing circles curl on exry side; ¥ Sect. VL] READING. And glimm’ring fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.” To clear this doubt ; to know the world by sight; Yo find if books or swains report it right; {For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wand’ring o’er the nightly dew.) He quits his cell; the pilgrim staff he bore, And fix’d the scallop ig his hat before ; Then, with the sun a rising journéy went, Sedate to think, and ‘watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; But when the southern sun had warm’d the day, A youth came posting oer a crossing: way ; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets wav’d his hair. Then, near approaching, Father hail! he cry’d ; And, hail! my son, the rev’rend sire reply’d ; Words follow'd words; from question answer flow’d ; ° And talk of various kind deceiv’d the road ; Till, each with other pleas’d, and loth to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound ; Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day, Came onward, mantled o’er with sober grey ; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose ; When, near the road, a stately palace rose : There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides with grass. It chane’d the noble master of the dome, Still made his house the wand’ring stranger’s home ; Yet still, the kindness, froma thirst of praise, Proy’d the vain flourish of expensive ease, The pair arrive ; the liy’ry servants wait, Their lord receives them atthe pompous gate: A table groans with costly piles of food ; And all is more than hospitably good: ; Then, led to rest, the day’s long toi! they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. Atlength ‘tis morn; and at the-dawn of day, Along the wéde canals the zephyrs play ; Fresh o’er the gay parterres, the breezes creep, And shake the neighb’ring wood, to banish sléep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call; An early banquet deck’d the splendid hall ; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac’d, Which the kind master fore’d the guests to taste. Then, pleas’d and thankful, from the porch they go, And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe, His cup was #anish'd ; for, in secret guise, The younger guest purloin’d the glitt’ring prize. 198 Tin: I ORS = os i ay a * ‘ ! LESSONS IN As one who sees a serpent in his way, Glist’ning and basking in the summer ray, Disorder’d stops, to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; So seem’d the sire, when far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner show’d. He stopt with sitence, walk’d with trembling heart ; And much he wish’d, but durst not ask, to part : Murm’ring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That gen’rous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds ; Fhe changing skies hangyout their sable clouds : A sound in air presag’d approaching rain ; And beasts to covert, scud acrogs the plain. Warn’d by the signs, the wand’ring pair retreat, To seek for shelter in a neighb’ring seat, *Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground ; And strong and large, and unimprov’d around: Its owner's temper, tim’rous and severe, Unkind and griping, caus’d a desert there. As near the miser’s heavy doors they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; The nimble lightning, mix’d with showers, began ; And o’er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. Here long they knock ; but Knock or call in vain ; Driven by the wind, and batter’d by the rain. At length, some pity warm’d the master’s breast : (’Twas then his threshold first receiv’d a guest ;) Slow creeking turns the door, with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shiv’ring pair. One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And nature’s fervor through their limbs recalls ; Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, (Each hardly granted) serv’d them both to dine ; And when the tempest first appear’d to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pond’ring hermit yiew’d In one so rich, a life so poor and rude : And why should such, (within himself he cry’d) Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon took place, in ey’ry settling feature of his face, When, from his vest, the young companion bore ‘Chat cup the gen’rous landlord own’d before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! But, now the clouds in airy tumults fly : The sun, émerging, opes an azure sky ; A fresher green the smiling leaves display, And, glittring as they tremble, cheer the day : The weather courts them from the poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the wary gate. Pee Sect. VI.J READING. 197 While hence they walk, the pilgrim’s bosom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought. His partner’s acts without their cause appear ; * Twas there a vice, and seem’d a madness here, Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night’s dim shades again involve the sky ; Again the wand’rers want a place to lie; g Again they search, and find a lodging nigh : The soil improy’d around; the mansion neat ; And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; it seem’d to speak its master’s turn of mind: Content, and not for praise, but yirtue kind. Hither the walkers turn, with weary feet; Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ; Their greeting fair, bestow’d with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies :— * Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part: irom him you come, from him accept it here— A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.” He spoke : and bade the welcome tables spread ; Then talk’d of virtue till the time of bed : When the grave household round his hall repair, Warn’d by the bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world; renew’d by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dapplédmorn arose ; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near the clos’d cradle, where an infant:slept, And writh’d his neck ; the landlord’s little pride— O strange return !—grew black, and gasp’d, and died. ‘Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How look’d our hermit: when the deed was done ! Not hell, though hell’s black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confus’d and struck with silence at the deed, He flies : but trembling, fails to fly with speed.. His steps the youth pursues. The country lay Perplex’d with roads ; a servant show’d the-way, - + A river cross’d the path. The passage o’er * Was nice to find; the seryant trod before ; Long arms-of oak-an open bridge supply’d; And the deep waves beneath the bending, glide. The youth, who seem’d to watch a time to sin; Approachéd the careless guide, and thrast him in: Plunging he falls ; and rising, lifts his head ; Then splashing, turns, and sinks among the-dead. Wild sparkling rage inflames the father’s eyes : He bursts the bands of fear, and madiy cries, : Netested wretch !——-But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem’d no longer man ; R2 LESSONS IN [Parr I. His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; His robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; And wings, whose, colours glitter’d on the day, Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display. The form etherial bursts upon his sight, And, moyes in all the majesty of light. Though loud, at first, the pilgrim’s passion grew, Sudden he gaz*d, and wist not what to do ; Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends ; And, in a calm, his settled temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke : The voice of music ravish’d-as he spoke : Thy pray’r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, in sweet memorial rise before the throne, These charms success in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind, For this commissioned, I forsook the sky ; Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow servant I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. The Maker justly claims that world he made ; In this the right of Providence is laid ; Its sacred majesty, through all depends On using second means to work his ends. °*Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The Pow’r exerts his attributes on high; — Your actions uses, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wond’ring eyes ? Yet taught by these, confess th’ Almighty just, And, where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust. The great, vain man, who far’d on costly food! Whose life was too luxurious to be good! Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And fore’d his guests to morning draughts of wine ; Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, ” And stillhe weleomes, but with Jess of cost. The mean suspicious wretch, whosé bolied door Ne’er moy’d in pity to the wand’ring poor ; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind, That Heay’n can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head: In the kind warmth, the metal learns to glow, And loose from dross, tlie silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now, the child half wean’d his heart from God ; ‘ ; : Sect. VI.] READENG. 199 (Child of his age) for him he liv’d in pain, And measur’d back his steps to earth again, To what excesses had his dotage run ? But God, to save the father, took the son. To all, but thee, in fits he seem’d to go, And *twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears, the punishment was just. But how had all his fortune felt a wreck, Had that false servant sped in safety back? This night his treasur’d heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund.of charity would fail ? Thus Heav’n instructs thy mind, This trial o’er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more. On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wond’ring as the seraph flew. Thus look’d Elisha, when to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky: The fiery pomp, ascending, left the view ; The prophet gaz’d, and wish’d to follow too. The bending hermit here a pray'r begun: ‘* Lord, as in Heay’n, on earth thy will be done.” Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient places, And pass’d a life of piety and peace. 1X.—On the Death of Mrs. Mason. « TAKE, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear ; Take that best gift, which Heav'n so lately gave ; To Bristol’s fount I bore, with trembling care, Mer faded form. She bow’d fo taste the wave— And died. Does youth, does beauty: read the line ? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ! : * Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine ; E’en from the grave thou shalt have pow’r to charm: Bid them be chaste, be innocent like thee ; Bid them in duty’s sphere, as meekly move : And if as fair, from vanity as free, As firm in friendship, and.as fond in love ; Tell them, though ’tis an awful thing to die, (Twas e’en to thee) yet the dread path once trod, Heav’n lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids the * pure in heart behold their God.” X.— Extract from the Temple of Fame. AROUND these wonders as I cast a look, The trumpet sounded and the temple shook ; And all the nations summon’d at the call, From different quarters fill the spacious-hall. . Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard: In various. garbs promiscuous throngs appear’d: 200 LESSONS IN | (Pant I. Millions of suppliant'crowds the shrine attend, And all degrees before the goddess bend ; he poor, the rich, the valiant and the sage, And boasting youth, and narrative old age, First, at the shrine, the learned world appear, And to the goddess thus prefer their prayer: «* Long have we sought t’ instruct and please mankind, With studies pale, and midnight vigils blind : But thank'd by few, rewarded yet by none, We here appeal to thy superior throne ; On wit and learning the just prize bestow, For fame is all we must expect below.” The gotidess heard, and bid the muses raise The golden trumpet of eternal praise. : From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound, And till the circuit of the world around : Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud, The notes at first were rather sweet than loud By just degrees they every moment rise, Spread round the earth, and gain upon the skies. Next these, the good and just, ‘an awful train, Thus on their knees, address the sacred ’fane : “ Since living virtue is with envy curs’d, And the best men are treated as the worst, Do thou, just goddess, call our merits forth, Andgive each deed th’ exact intrinsic worth.” “‘ Not with bare justice shall your acts be crown’d, ‘(Said Fame) but high above desert renown’d, Let fuller notes th’ applauding world amaze, And the loud clarion labour in your praise.” A troop came next, who crowns and armor wore, And.proud defiance in their looks they bore. . “For thee (they cry’d) amidst alarms and strife, We sail’d in tempests down the stream oflife: For thee, whol nations fill’d with fire and blood, And swam to empire through the purple flood. Those ills we dar’d thy inspiration own ; What virtues seem’d was done for thee alone.” “‘ Ambitious fools ! (the queen reply’d and frown’d) Be all your deeds in dark oblivion drown’d ; There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone, Your statues moulder'd, and your names unknown.” A sudden cloud straight snatch’d them from my sight, And each majestic phantom sunk in night. Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen; Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien : ** Great idol of mankind, we never claim The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame 3 But, safe in deserts from the applause of men, . — Would die unleard of as we liv’d unseen. : ‘Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight, Those acts of goodness which themselves requite. = sy Seer. VI.J READING. 204 O? letvus still the sacred joy partake, To follow virtue, e’en for virtue’s sake.” ‘¢ And live there men whoslight immortal fame ? Who, then, with incense shall adore our name? But, mortals know, ’tis still our greatest pride, ‘To blaze those virtues which the good would hide, Rise, muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath, These must not sleep in darkness. and in death.” She said. 4 air the trembling music floats, And on the winds triumphant swell the notes ; So soft, though high ; so loud, and yet so clear, E’en list’ning angels lean from heaven to hear ; To farthest shores the ambrosial spirit flies, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies. Xi.—Panegyric on Great Britain. HEAVENS! what a goodly prospect spreads around, Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns,.and spires, And glitt’ring towns, and gilded streams, till all The stretching landscape into smoke decays ! Happy Britannia! where the Queen of Arts, Inspiring vigor, Liberty, abroad ‘Walks, unconfin’d even to hy farthest cots, And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime ; Thy streams unfailing inthe summer’s drought, Unmatch’d thy guardian oaks; thy vallies float With golden waves ; and on thy mountains, flocks Bleat numberless ; while roving round their sides, Bellow the black’ning herds in lusty droves. Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unequall’d Against the mower’s scythe. On every hand Thy yillas shine. Thy country teems with wealth, And property assures it to the swain, Pleas’d and unwearied in his guarded toil. Full are thy cities with the sons of art— And trade and joy, in every busy street, se Mingling are heard! even drudgery himself, — As at the car he sweats, or, dusty, hews The palace stone, looks gay. The crowded ports, Where rising masts, an endless prospect yield, With labour burn, and echo to the shouts Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves His last adieu, and loosening every sheet, Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind. Bold, firm and Se are thy gen’routs youth, By hardship sinew’d, and by danger fir’d, Scattering the nations where they go. and first * Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas. 4 Mild are thy glories too, as o’er the plains Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside ; Tn genius and substantial learning, high ; : 2 LESSONS IN {Part }. For every virtue, every worth renown'd! Sincere, plain hearted, hospitable, kind ; Yet like the mutt’ring thunder, when provek’d, The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource Of those that under grim oppression groan, Thy sons of Glory many! Alfred thine, In whom the splendor of heroic war, And more heroic peace, when govern’d well, Combine! whose hallow’d name the virtues saint, And his own Muses love; the best of kings! With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine, Names deat to fame; the first who deep impress’d On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms, That awes her genius still. In statesmen thou, And patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More, Who with a generous, though mistaken zeal, Withstood a brutal tyrant’s useful rage; Like Cato firm, like Aristides just, Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor, A dauntless soul erect, who smil’d on death. A Hampden too is thine, illustrious land! Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul ; Who stemm’d the torrent of a downward age, To slavery prone, and bace thee rise again, In all thy native pomp of freedom bold. Thine is a Bacon; hapless in his choice; Unfit to stand thie civil storm of state, And through the smooth barbarity of courts, With firm but pliant virtue, forward still To urge his course ; him for the studious shade Kind nature form’d, deep, comprehensive, clear, Exact and elegant; in one rich soul, ; Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join’d. Let Newton, pure intelligence, whom God To mortals lent to trace his boundless works From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame In all philosophy. For lofty sense, Creative fancy and inspection keen, Through the deep windings of the human heart Is not wild Shakespeare thine and nature’s boast? Is not each great, each amiable Muse : Of classic ages in thy Milton met? 2 A genius universal as his theme : ‘ : Astonishing as chaos, as the bloom : Of blowing Eden fair, as heaven sublime. May my song soften, as thy Daughters l, Britannia hail! for beauty is their own, . The feeling heart, simplicity of life, . And elegance, and taste ; the faultless form, : Shap’d by the hand of harmony ; the cheek, Where the live crimson, through the native white, Soft shooting, o’er the face diffuses bloom, ‘ : Secr. Vij READING. 208 And every nameless grace ; the parted-lip, Like the red rosebud moist with morning dew, Breathing delight ; and under flowing jet, Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown, The next slight-shaded, and the swelling breast ; The look resistless, piercing to the soul, And by the soul inform’d, when drest in love She sits high smiling in the.conscious eye. Island of bliss ! amid the subject seas, That thunder round thy rocky coast, set up, At once the wonder, terror, and delight Of distant nations, whose remotest shores €an soon be shakefi by thy nayal arm; Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults Baffling, as thy hoar cliffs the loud sea wave. ; O thou! by whose Almighty nod the scale Of empire rises, or alternate falls, Send forth thy saving virtues round the land, In bright patrol ; white Peace, and social Loye ; The tender looking ‘Charity, intent On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles ; Undaunted Truth and Dignity of mind ; Courage compos’d and keen—sound Temperance, Healthtul in heart and look—ctear Chastity, With blushes reddening as she moves along, Disorder’d at the deep regard she draws— Rough industry—Activity untir’d, With copious life inform’d, and all awake— While in the radiant front, superior shines That first paternal virtue, Public Zeal— Who throws o’er all an equal wide survey, And ever musing on the common weal, Still labours glorious with some great design, XI.—Hymn to the Deity, on the Seasons of the Year. THESE, 4s they change, ALMicHTy Faruer, these Are but the earied Gud. The rolling year Is full of thee. “Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields—the softening air is balm— Echo the mountains round—the forests smile ; And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Sheots fill perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft, at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves and hollow whispering gales, Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin’d, And spreads a common feast for all that live in winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee.thrown—tempest o’er tempest roll’d® 204 LESSONS IN [Parr l. Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind’s wing Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest Nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train— Yet so delightful mix’d, with such kind art, - 4 Such beauty and beneficence combin’d— Shade, unperceiv’d, so softening into shade— And all so forming an harmonious whole— That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But, wand’ring oft with brute unconscious gaze. a“ Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres— Works in the secret deep—shoots, streaming, thence - The fair profusion that o’erspreads the spring — Flings from the gun direct the flaming day : Feeds every ¢reature—hurls the tempest forth : And, as on Earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. _ Nature, attend ! join every living soul, —_- Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join—and ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes O talk of him im solitary glooms ! Where, o’er the rock, the scarcely waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake th’ astonish’d world, lift high to heaven Th’ impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks attune, ye trembling rills— And let me catch it as I muse along, Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound— Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale—and thou majestic main, A secret\world of wonders in thyself— Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, ‘In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave to him— Breathe your still song into the reaper’s heart, As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! blest image here below, Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, Piast From world to world, the vital oceah round, | On Nature write with every beam his praise. a) oe ——P ee as oy Sect. VI4 READING. 205 Ye thunders roll ; be hush’d the prostrate world, While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn, Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks Retain the sound: the broad responsive low, Ye vallies raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns, And his unsyffering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song Burst from the groves : and when the restless day, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm ‘The listening shades, and teach the night his praise: ‘Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles : At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all : Crown the great hymn! In swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long resounding voice, oft bréaking clear, At solemn pauses, through the swelling base; And as each mingling flame increases each, in one united ardor rise to heayen. Or if you rather choose the rural shade, And find a fane in every sacred grove su There let the’shepherd’s flute, the virgin’s lay, The prompting seraph, and the poet’s lyre, Still sing the God of Seasons as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray ‘Russets the plain, inspiring Antumn gleams ; Or winter rises in the blackening east : Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to-distant barb’rous climes, Rivers unknown'to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on'the Atlantic isles; ’tis nought to me3 Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; ak: where He vital spreads, there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing—I cannot go, Where Unrversat Loye smiles not around. d Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns: From seeming évil still adducitip good, And better thence again, and Setter still, In infinite progression——but I lose Myself in Hr, in Licut Inerranre ! Come then, expressive Stlence, muse Hrs praisé, LESSONS IN SECTION VII. 1.—The Cameleon. ©FT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, Returning from his finish’d tour, Grown ten times perter than before : Whatever word you chance to drop, The travell’d fool your mouth will stope~ “ Sir, if my judgment you'll allow— Pye seen—and sure I ought to know.” So begs you’d pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast, As o’er Arabia’s wilds they pass’d, ‘And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talk’d of this and then of that ;. Discours’d a while *mongst other matter, Of the Cameleon’s form and nature. «© A stranger animal,” cries one, ‘s Sure never liv'd beneath the sun : A lizzard’s body, lean and long, A fish’s head, a serpent’s tongue, Its tooth with triple claws disjoin’d, » And what a length of tail behind ! How slow its pace ! and ther its hue Who ever saw 90 fine a blue !” s* Hold there,” the other quick replies, «Tis green: Isaw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warm’d it in the sunny ray = Stretch’d at its ease the beast J view'ds ‘And saw it eat the air for food.” “ J’ye seen it, Sir, as wellas you, ‘And must again affirm it blue. At leisure 1 the beast survey’d, Extended in the cooling shade.” “Tis green! ‘tis green, Sir, } assure ye’"— ‘¢ Green! cries the other, ina fury— cc Why, Sir, d’ye think Pve lost my eyes?”

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d; Gr wak’d to ecstacy the living lyre : Seer. VIL.J READING. Oly ‘But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er enroll $ Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current ofthe soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom’d caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is ‘born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. » Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may res Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. Th’ applause of list*ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin ta. despise, To scatter plenty o’er.a smiling land, » And read their hist'ry in a nation’s eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of merey on mankind : The struggling pangs of conscious.truth te hide, To-quench the blushes of ingenuous shame : ‘Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the muse’s flame, Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray— Along the cool sequester’d vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet een these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh, Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralists to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e’er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day ; Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; een from the tomb the yoice of nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted sires, For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour’d dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, zr LESSONS IN [Parr I. Haply, some hoary headed swain may say, « Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps, the dews away, F To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. ‘Vhere at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, ‘ j Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopless love. One morn I miss’d him on th’ accustom’d hill, Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree, ‘Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him bonre, Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, *Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged torn.” THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, a A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair Science frown’d not oa his humble birth, ‘And melancholy mark’d him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : Heaven did a recompense as largely send. He gave to mis'ry all he had—a tear ; He gain’d from heayen (twas all he wish’dg @ friend. i No farther seek his merits to disclose, ‘ Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his Ged. X1.—Scipio restoring the Captive Lady to her Lover: WHEN to his glorious first essay in war, New Carthage fell; there all the flower of Spain Were kept in hostage; @ full field presenting j For Scipio's generosity to shine. —A noble virgin Conspicuous far o’er all the captive dames Was mark’d the general’s prize. She wept and blush’d, Young, fresh and blooming like the morn. An eye As when the blue sky trentbles through a cloud Of purest white. A secret charm combin'd _ Her features, and infus’d enchantment through them. Her shape was harmony. But eloquence Beneath her beauty fails ; which seem’d on purpose Ry nature lavish’d on her, that mankind May see the virtue of a hero try’d, Ser. VII. READING. 219 Almost beyond the stretch of human force. Soft as she pass’d along, with downcast eyes, Where gentle sorrow swell’d, and now and then, Dropp’d o’er her modest cheeks a trickling tear. The Roman legions languish’d, and hard war Felt more than pity ; e’en their chief himself, As on his high tribunal rais’d he sat, Turn’d from the dang’rous sight ; and, chiding, ask’d His officers, if by this gift they meant To cloud his glory in its very dawn, She, question’d of her birth, in trembling accents, With tears and blushes, broken told her tale. But, when he found her royally descended ; Of her old captive parents the sole joy ; And that ahapless Celtiberian prince, Her loyer and beloy'd, forgot his chains, His lost dominions, and for her alone Wept out his tender soul: sudden the heart Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman, Felt all the great divinity of virtue. His wishing youth stood check’d, his tempting power, Restrain’d by kind humanity.— At once, He for her parents and her lover call’d. The various Scene imagine, How his troops Look’d dubious on, and wonder’d what he meant; While, stretch’d below, the trembling suppliant lay Rack’d by a thousand mingling passions—fear, Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief, Anxiety and love, in every shape. To these, as different sentiments succeeded, As mix'd emotions, when the man divine, Thus the dread silence to the lover broke, “We both are young—both charm’d. The right of war Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power ; With whom I could, in the most sacred ties, Live out a happy life. But, know that Romans,~ Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer ; Then, take her to thy soul! and with her, take Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, I ask but this—When you behold these eyes, These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome.” Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute; While the loud camp, and all the clust’ring crowd That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ; Fame took th’ alarm, and through resounding Spain Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms, Adiniring nations to the Romans gain’d. LESSONS IN [Parrth XI1,— Pope's humorous Complaint to Dr. Arbuthnot, of the Impertinence of Scribblers. SHUT, shut the door, good John !—fatigu’d I said : Tie up the knocker—say, ’m sick, I’m dead, The dogstar rages ! Nay, ‘tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out. Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand; They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades van hide! They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glides By land, by. water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barges % No place is sacred; not the church is. free ; Ben Sunday shines no sabbathday to me. Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme— ‘* Happy to catch me just at dinner time.” Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool’s wrath or love ? A dire dilemma !—either way I’m sped ; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and ti’d down to judge how wretched 1! Who can’t be silent, and’ who will not lie. To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave exceeds all power of face. I sit, with sad civility; Eread, With serious anguish and an aching head : Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears, ; This saving counsel——‘' Keep your piece nine years.” ‘Nine years !” (cries he, who, high in Drurylane, Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig’d by hunger, and request of friends ;) “< The®iece you think is incorrect.. Why, take it ; I’m all submission, what you’d have it, make it.” Three things another’s modest wishes bound—— My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me—** You know his Grace; I want a patron—ask him for a place.” ‘ Pitholeon libell’d me.”—* But here’s a letter Informs you, Sir, twas when he knew no better.” ** Bless me! a packet !—’Tis a stranger sues A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.” If I dislikeat—‘ Furies, death and rage,” if I approye—< Commend it to the stage.” There, thank my stars, my whole commission ends ; The players and I are luckily, no friends. : Tir'd that the house reject himn—‘« ’Sdeath Pll print it. And shame the fools— Your interest, Sir, with Lintot.” Ly mirbuicteecag tee Secor, VII. READING. 221 * Lintot (duli rogue) will think your price too much,” ** Not if you, Sir, revise it and retouch.” All my demurs but double his attacks ; At last he whispers—‘ Do, and we go snacks ;”’ Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door— "Sir, let me see you and your works no more.” There are, who to my person pay their court; I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short : Ammon’s great son one shoulder had too high ; Such Ovid’s nose ; and, ‘Sir you have an eye.” Go on, obliging creatures ; make me see, All that disgrac’d my betters met in me. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, Just so immortal Maro held his head ; And when die, besure you let.me know, Great Homer died—three thousand years ago XIT.—Hymn to Adversity, DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour, The bad affright, afflict the best ! Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain ; And purple tyrants vainly groan, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design’d, To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade thee form her infant mind. Sterne, rugyed nurse! thy rigid lore With patience Many a year she bore ; What sorrow was, thou bad’st her know, And from her own she learn’d to melt at others’ woe. Scar’d at thy frown, terrific, fly Selfpleasing Folly’s idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattring foe, By vain prosperity receiy’d, To her they yow their truth, and are again beliey’d, Wisdom, in sable garb array’d, Immers’d in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent mand; With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend = With Justice, to herself severe r And Pity, drooping soft the sadly pleasing tear. Te LESSONS IN [Paar k Oh! gently ott thy suppliant’s head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastning hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Wor circled with the vengeful band, As by the impious thou art seen) With thund'ring yoice and threat’ning mien, With screaming Horror’s funeral cry, Despair, .and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess ! wears Thy milder influence impart ; Thy philosophic train be there, To soften, not to wound my heart. Thy gen’rous spark, extinct, revive ; Teach me to love_and to forgive : Exact my own defectssto scan ; What others are, to feel; and know myself aman. XIV.—The Passions.—An Ode. WHEN Musig, heavenly maid! was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The passions oft, to hear her shell, “Throng’d around her magic cell; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess'd beyond the Muse’s painting. By turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturb’d, delighted, rais’d, refin’d: Till once, ’tis said, when all were firtd, Filla with fury, rapt, inspir’d, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatch’d her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, (for madness tul’d the hour), Would prove hispwn expressi¥e power. First Fear, his hand, its skull to try, ‘Amid the chords bewilder’d laid ; And back recoil’d, he Knew not why, F’en At the sound himself had made: Next Anger rush’d, his eyes on fire. In lightnings own’d his secret stings, in one rude clash be struck the lyre, And swept with hurry’d hand the strings.