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 BORN MAY 172CR DIED JANUARY 9,1770 
 
 Prom a Portrait in the pofset’sion 
 of the late M rs Elizabeth Carter 
 
 FubUfTiai Juju 8 * 18 . 1 . 2 , by F.C.kJ Rivirujton . 
 
. THE 
 
 WORKS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 MISS CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 r THE EIGHTH EDITION. * 
 
 FIRST PUBLISHED BY THE LATE 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER; 
 
 AND NOW HF.PIIBT.ISHED WITH SOME 
 
 FEW ADDITIONAL PAPERS: 
 
 TOGETHER WITH 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, 
 
 AND SOME 
 
 ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 REV. MONTAGU PENNINGTON, M.A. 
 
 NEPHEW AND EXECUTOR TO MRS. CARTER, VICAR OF NORTH- 
 BOURN IN KENT, AND AUTHOR OF ** REDEMPTION, OR A VIEW 
 OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION,” 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON, 
 no. 62, st. Paul’s church-yard ; 
 
 Bj/ Law and Gilbert, St. John’s-Square, Clerhenwell. 
 
 1812. 
 
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ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE EIGHTH EDITION. 
 
 Several persons having expressed an ear¬ 
 nest desire to have a portrait of Miss Talbot 
 prefixed to her works, the Editor is happy to 
 have it now in his power to gratify them. He 
 has accidentally found, since the publication of 
 the last edition, a miniature of her which had 
 escaped observation, in a little cabinet drawer 
 belonging to the late Mrs. Carter; and from 
 this, the engraving which accompanies the 
 present edition was taken. 
 
 N.B. The purchasers of former editions 
 may, if they please, be accommodated with 
 prints of Miss Talbot, at Is. 6d. each, by apply¬ 
 ing to the publishers. 
 

 I 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2019 with funding from 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 https://archive.org/details/worksoflatemissc00talb_0 
 
P It EFAC E. 
 
 The demand for this little volume having 
 been so great as to make a new impression of 
 it necessary, the Editor has been earnestly re¬ 
 quested to prefix to it sonje account of the 
 amiable and excellent Author. To this no 
 reasonable objection could be made, but the 
 want of any other materials than such as are 
 already published, as contained in the Memoirs 
 of Mrs. Carter, and the Series of Letters be¬ 
 tween her and Miss Talbot. But as some per¬ 
 sons may purchase these Essays who are not 
 in possession of those larger and more expensive 
 works, it was thought that to collect from them 
 for this edition, some of the most striking par¬ 
 ticulars of the Life of Miss Talbot could not be 
 considered an improper repetition. The reader 
 will, however, no doubt join with the present 
 Editor, in lamenting that the task should have 
 devolved on one so unable to perform it pro- 
 
 a 
 

 vi PREFACE. 
 
 perly, instead of having been executed by her 
 who first collected and arranged these scattered 
 remains ; w ho was acquainted with every par¬ 
 ticular of her friend’s life; whose high esteem 
 and warm affection would have engaged her 
 heart in it: and whose abilities would have 
 done ample justice to the subject. 
 
 What prevented Mrs. Carter from adding to 
 her beloved friend's works, her own testimony 
 to her character and her conduct through life; 
 whether it was by the request of Mrs. Talbot 
 who was then living, or whether such a desire 
 had been expressed by the deceased lady, can¬ 
 not now be known. Whatever the cause might 
 be, it could have no operation beyond her life ; 
 and it seems to be fulfilling a duty to society, 
 to shew that the virtues of her character w r ere 
 not inferior to the excellencies of her writings; 
 
 O 7 
 
 that there was no discord between her conduct 
 and her opinions; and that the strict attention 
 to the duties of the Gospel which she so strongly 
 recommended to others, was not less enforced 
 and adorned by her own example. 
 
SOME 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 Catharine Talbot was born in the month 
 of May, 1720. She was the only child, and 
 born five months after her father’s decease, of 
 Edward Talbot, second son to William, Bishop 
 of Salisbury, and afterwards of Durham, and 
 younger brother to Charles, first Lord Talbot. 
 Her mother was daughter to the Rev. George 
 Martyn, Prebendary of Lincoln. 
 
 r v 
 
 It does not appear that Mr. Edward Talbot 
 was brought up to any profession, unless he 
 was either in the Church, or designed for it; 
 which an expression in the Bishop of London s 
 Life of Archbifhop Seeker rather seems to in¬ 
 timate, If however this was the case, he had 
 
 a 2 
 
Account oT the Life or 
 
 6 * • 
 
 Mil 
 
 certainly no considerable preferment; and dying 
 so early, having only attained the age of twenty- 
 nine years, and being a younger brother, he 
 left his widow in a situation very inadequate to 
 his rank in life. She had been married to him 
 only a few months, and was left in a state ot 
 pregnancy. Happily for her the kind attentions 
 of a dear and intimate friend were not wanting 
 at that critical period. Catharine, sister to Mr. 
 Benson, afterwards Bishop of Gloucester, who 
 had been the companion of her early youth, 
 and whose brother was upon an equally inti¬ 
 mate footing with Mr. Talbot, was residing 
 with her at the time of his death. She was her 
 great support in that heavy affliction, and when 
 her infant was born, who came into the world 
 with a very weak and delicate constitution, it 
 was supposed that she could not have been 
 reared .without the assistance of her care and 
 tenderness. 
 
 - * * * 
 
 These endearing circumstances naturally 
 formed a still closer bond of intimacy between 
 the two ladies ; and they continued to live to-*, 
 gether, and to bestow all their joint attention 
 upon the infant Catharine. But before she 
 was five years of age, this establishment was 
 broken up by the marriage of Miss Benson to 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. J x 
 
 Mr. Seeker, afterwards Archbishop of Canter¬ 
 bury, but then Rector of the valuable livinor 0 f 
 Houghton-le-Spring in Durham. 
 
 For this preferment however, and others still 
 greater which followed it, Mr. Seeker was in¬ 
 debted to the friendship of Mr. Edward Talbot, 
 who on his death-bed had recommended him 
 to his tather the bishop. Mr. Seeker’s grateful 
 heart was never unmindful of this obligation 
 which naturally induced him to pay great atten¬ 
 tion to his benefactors widow and child. 
 
 When therefore he married Miss Benson 
 from her house, he immediately joined his wife 
 in the request that Mrs. and Miss Talbot w r ould 
 from that* time become a part of his family. 
 The offer was accepted, and they never after¬ 
 wards separated; and upon Mrs. Seeker’s death, 
 which took place in the year 1748, they still 
 continued with him, and took the management 
 of his domestic concerns. 
 
 There is reason to suppose that Mr. Seeker 
 paid considerable attention to Miss Talbot’s 
 education ; for when she and her mother went 
 to reside with him, she was under five years of 
 &ge; and as Air. Seeker had no children, he 
 
X ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 always treated her as his daughter, and took 
 the same pride and pleasure in her dawning 
 genius, as if she had in reality been such. 
 From her mother it does not appear probable 
 that she could acquire much either of literature 
 or accomplishment; but to her she owed what 
 was of much greater consequence, strictly reli¬ 
 gious and virtuous principles, so well grounded, 
 and on a foundation so solid, that they were 
 never afterwards shaken in any situation of 
 life. For though Mrs. Talbot was not a wor 
 man of brilliant parts, and her own education 
 seems to have been rather neglected, yet was 
 her mind strong, her judgment sound, her 
 manners amiable, and her piety fervent as well 
 as rational. 
 
 But besides her mother’s instructions, Miss 
 Talbot enjoyed the benefit of a constant inter¬ 
 course with the eminent Divine with whom 
 they lived; and his enlightened mind soon dis¬ 
 covered the extent of her early genius, and 
 was delighted to assist in its improvement. 
 Hence, although she never studied the learned 
 languages, unless perhaps a little Latin, she 
 reaped all the advantages of Mr. Seeker's deep 
 and extensive learning, of his accurate know¬ 
 ledge of the Scriptures, and of his critical and 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT* 
 
 XI 
 
 unwearied research into the sciences and lan¬ 
 guages more immediately connected with that 
 important study. 
 
 \ et though so much attention was bestowed 
 on seiious pursuits, the lighter and more or¬ 
 namental parts of female education were not 
 neglected. For the acquirement of these there 
 was abundant opportunity in the different 
 situations in which Mr. Seeker’s rapid progress 
 in the Church placed him*. In 1727 he be¬ 
 came a Prebendary of Durham, and for the 
 two following years lived chiefly in that city. 
 Not long after this, he was appointed King’s 
 Chaplain; and in 1733 became Rector of the 
 Parish of St. James in Piccadilly; which pre¬ 
 ferment he held for upwards of seventeen 
 years, during which he always resided for at 
 least half the year in his parsonage house. In 
 1734 he was promoted to the Bishoprick of 
 Bristol; to that of Oxford in 1737; to the 
 Deanery of St. Paul’s in 1750; and to the 
 Archbilhoprick of Canterbury in 1758. 
 
 * Several of these particulars, both relating to Arch¬ 
 bishop Seeker and to Mrs. and Miss Talbot, are taken 
 from the Bishop of London's Life of that Prelate. 
 
&11 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 From the time therefore that Miss Talbot 
 
 * 
 
 was seven years of age, she lived almost con¬ 
 stantly in, or near, large cities ; and was con¬ 
 sequently enabled to acquire every useful 
 branch of education, and all those elegant 
 accomplishments which add so much grace to 
 beauty and virtue. She learnt music, but with¬ 
 out acquiring any considerable proficiency in it, 
 or bestowing upon it much time; but she was 
 extremely fond of Church music, and when Dr. 
 Seeker was Dean of St. Paul’s, bestowed great 
 attention upon the choir of that Cathedral # . In 
 drawing, and painting in water-colours, she 
 made a much greater progress ; and as some of 
 her Letters shew that her knowledge of these 
 sciences was by no means superficial, so some 
 of her performances, still remaining, prove 
 that her execution would not have disgraced 
 even a professional artist. She particularly 
 excelled in painting flowers from nature, and 
 in landscapes ; of which some beautiful sped- 
 mens are in her present Editors possession. 
 
 * For the service of that Church she requested her 
 friend Mrs. Carter to alter the Anthem, of “ Lo, He comes 
 with clouds descending;” the whole of which she com¬ 
 posed, except the first stanza. See the Series of their 
 Letters, 4to. p. 333, vol. 1. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 X1U 
 
 While this attention was bestowed on Miss 
 Talbot’s accomplishments, it may readily be 
 supposed that the sciences and modern lan¬ 
 guages- were not neglected. She had a com¬ 
 plete knowledge of French and Italian, and 
 late in life she taught herself German, with a 
 view at first of being merely able to read the 
 “ Death of Abel” in the original. She appears 
 also to have had some small acquaintance with 
 Latin; but of Greek she knew nothing, and 
 often lamented her ignorance of that language, 
 especially while her friend Mrs. Carter was 
 engaged in the arduous task of translating 
 Epictetus. She studied also Geography and 
 Astronomy with much care and attention : and 
 with respect to the latter of these sciences, she 
 had the advantage of being instructed by Mr. 
 Wright, an Astronomer of no small reputation 
 at that time, and an ingenious though visionary 
 man. He was also acquainted with Mrs. 
 Carter, who was about three years older than 
 Miss Talbot, and was already well known in 
 the world. The high opinion which Mr. Wright 
 entertained of both his young friends, naturally 
 made him desirous that they should become 
 acquainted ; and the reputation which each of 
 them was rapidly acquiring, was an inducement 
 
XIV 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 also to them to unite in the same wish. For 
 though Miss Talbot had published nothing, 
 yet her character for piety, virtue, talents, and 
 accomplishments, began already to attract no¬ 
 tice, and to be held in very high and general 
 estimation. For she was moving in a clistin- 
 guished sphere of life; her noble birth, great 
 connections, and residence in the family of so 
 eminent a Prelate as Dr. Seeker was, added 
 
 i 7 
 
 great lustre to her merit, and set it off with 
 every advantage. She was also admired for 
 her personal charms, as may be seen by the 
 verses addressed to her, which are inserted in 
 the Preface to the Letters between her and Mrs. 
 Carter, and she possessed all the graces of the 
 most polished manners, and the most fasci¬ 
 nating and winning address. 
 
 But, besides Mr. Wright, the ladies pos¬ 
 sessed a mutual friend in the Honourable Mrs. 
 Rooke, daughter to John, Lord Ward, and 
 widow of George Rooke, Esq. who resided in 
 the old mansion-house of St. Laurence, near 
 Canterbury. There she was occasionally visited 
 by them both; but they never met till February. 
 1741, though they had once previously seen 
 each other in St. James’s church; a circum- 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 XV 
 
 stance which, though trivial, they were accus¬ 
 tomed to recollect with much pleasure, and to 
 which sometimes they alluded in their Letters*. 
 
 From this time, as may be seen in their 
 correspondence, an intimacy took place be¬ 
 tween the two ladies, which soon ripened into 
 the most warm and intimate friendship; and 
 this never decreased to the hour of Miss Talbot’s 
 death, nor was ever damped by the most trifling 
 disagreement or estrangement whatsoever. The 
 esteem as w’ell as the affection were mutual; 
 it was in the truest sense a religious friendship, 
 and they strictly realized the beautiful idea of 
 the Psalmist, which has afforded the motto to 
 the collection of their Letters, they took sweet 
 counsel together , and walked in the house of 
 God as friends . 
 
 But the warm affections of Miss Talbot’s 
 heart were not confined to Mrs. Carter only. 
 
 * Thus Mrs. Carter says, in one of her early Letters, 
 4to. vol. i. p. p. 
 
 “ Benedetto sia il giorno, e’l mese, e 1 anao 
 “ E la stagione, e’l tempo, e'l hora, e’l punto ; 
 
 and St. James’s church and Mr. Wright, and the particles 
 yes and no, and every other circumstance, and every other 
 person that contributed to make me happy in the sight 
 and conversation of Miss Talbot.” 
 
XVi 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 She possessed also the intimate friendship o i 
 several ladies equally distinguished by their 
 rank and character. Among these, one of the 
 first in both respects, was the celebrated Coun¬ 
 tess of Hertford, afterwards Duchess of Somer¬ 
 set, with whom she passed occasionally a good 
 deal of her time, and kept up a constant cor¬ 
 respondence ; and she often speaks of her in 
 her Letters to Mrs. Carter, in terms of the 
 highest respect and regard. She was also on 
 terms of particular intimacy with all the female 
 branches of the family of Yorke; especially 
 Marchioness Grey and Lady Anson. From 
 this last-mentioned lady, however, some circum¬ 
 stances not explained in her Letters, occasioned 
 a temporary alienation, or rather coolness, 
 liufc before her death this had ceased, to the 
 gratification of both parties, and Lord Anson 
 constantly after that event shewed Miss Talbot 
 the most marked and flattering attention. 
 
 At what age she began to compose does not 
 appear: but certainly it was early in life, for 
 her Poem on reading Hammond’s Elegies, was 
 written when she was not more than 22 years 
 of age ; and though it is by no means one of 
 the best of them, it evidently shews a hand 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT, xvii 
 
 vhich had been used to composition, and 
 powers of mind which had been accustomed to 
 exertion. It is much to be wished that Mrs. 
 Carter had endeavoured to assign their proper 
 dates to her different productions, which pro¬ 
 bably she could have done, but which it is in 
 vain now to attempt. For no part of the Me¬ 
 moirs of genius is more interesting than that 
 which shews the developement of mind ; the 
 opening and progress of imagination; and the 
 difference of sentiment and opinion (if any 
 such there be) in the various periods of life. 
 
 From this omission then, if it really was an 
 omission and not unavoidable, it has happened 
 that the Essays and other prose pieces as well 
 as the Poems, do not follow each other in any 
 chronological order, or regular arrangement. 
 They appear to be exactly as Mrs. Carter took 
 them out of what is frequently spoken of by 
 both ladies in their Letters, under the name of 
 the Green-book; a kind of common-place-book, 
 in which Miss Talbot seems to have written 
 both prose and verse, finished and unfinished, 
 sketches and fragments; just as her health, 
 spirits, and occupations permitted. For all 
 Mrs. Carter’s influence could never prevail 
 
xvill ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 upon her friend either to arrange her paper® 
 properly, or to publish .them herself; though 
 it was what she earnestly desired, and had even 
 succeeded so far as to obtain a promise # from 
 her that she would endeavour to do. 
 
 But however sincerely Miss Talbot designed 
 to perform that promise when she made it, ill 
 health, and weakness of spirits its usual atten¬ 
 dant, formed an insuperable bar to its comple¬ 
 tion. And when she grew better, the exercise 
 necessary for her recovery, and the various 
 engagements which her situation in life made in- 
 
 * “ What shall I answer to your enquiries ,'* says Miss 
 Talbot in a Letter to Mrs. Cajter, 4to. v. i. 344, “ about 
 the green book ? I have remembered my promise faith¬ 
 fully, but am just as far from performing it as I was 
 last year. I have read itr carefully, but can find no order, 
 no connection in it. It wants an introduction—so it is 
 returned to the considering draxver with many of its ances¬ 
 tors.—The other papers, yours and all, lie in the same 
 hopeless condition. But if I gain great strength, spirits, 
 courage and diligence in this happy retreat (Percy Lodge) 
 from every care and every interruption, you may possibly 
 hear a better account of me and them.’’ To this Mrs. 
 Carter replies by complaining of “ the vexatious neglect 
 of my favourite point the green book: but it is really in¬ 
 tolerable of you not to let the world be somewhat the 
 better for you/' 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. 
 
 Xi.X 
 
 dispensable, occupied too much time to allow 
 her to correct and arrange her papers. 
 
 Add to this her domestic employments in 
 the care of a large establishment, and her con¬ 
 stant personal attention to the neighbouring 
 poor both in town and country, and it will ex¬ 
 cite but little surprize that she should so fre¬ 
 quently complain, when in health, of want of 
 time. 
 
 Unfortunately indeed this was not very 
 often the case, for the seeds of the fatal malady 
 which at last conducted her to the tomb, seem 
 to have been very early planted in her consti¬ 
 tution. Hence probably proceeded the listless¬ 
 ness and languor which oppressed her so 
 cruelly, even when she had no formed com¬ 
 plaint ; and hence also the disorder which was 
 mistaken for consumption, and for which Mrs. 
 Carter accompanied her to Bristol, about ten 
 years before her death. Her stay there ap¬ 
 peared to have the desired effect, but she never 
 recovered her health; and from that time, 
 when she was about 40 years of age; when 
 perhaps the powers of the mind and the sound¬ 
 ness of the judgment are at their height, she 
 became a confirmed ivalid. 
 
 8 
 
ACCOUNT or T1IE LIFE OF 
 
 These circumstances may account for her 
 having written so little, considering her love of 
 study, the desire of being useful to the world, 
 and the quickness of her parts. For compo¬ 
 sition seems in her to have been attended with 
 little labour ; her thoughts flowed as fast as her 
 pen could write, and there are probably not 
 many instances of a style so chaste and easy, 
 and obviously formed with so little care and 
 study. The correctness of her language, the 
 strength of her arguments, and the justness of 
 her reasoning, are equally the objects ol admi¬ 
 ration ; and these are set off by a vividness of 
 fancy, and glow of imagination, which seem to 
 be the peculiar property of a poetic genius. 
 And such in truth was her s; for many of the 
 images, illustrations, and similes, even in her 
 gravest prose writings, are really poetry, and 
 require nothing but the mechanical aid of rhyme 
 and arrangement to make them such also in ap¬ 
 pearance *. 
 
 Indeed the world has been sufficiently in¬ 
 clined to do justice to Miss Talbot's talents: 
 
 * See for examples of this assertion, among many 
 others, the close of Essays ix. xiii. xviii. xxii. and xxvi; 
 the passage in Essay v, concerning the Historical Glass; 
 seTeral in the Pastorals; and th e Third Imi tation of Ossian, 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. xxi 
 
 and few books of more moral and religious in¬ 
 struction have had a greater sale, and gone 
 through more editions than the little posthu¬ 
 mous volume ©f her miscellaneous works. Of 
 the “ Reflections on the Days of the Week,” 
 published separately, upwards of twenty-five 
 thousand copies have been sold, and of the col¬ 
 lection of her works, the present is the seventh 
 edition. This is a circumstance not less credit¬ 
 able to the age, than it is to the Author ; and 
 it also proves the correctness of her friend’s 
 judgment into whose hands they were put by 
 Mrs. Talbot. She published them upon her 
 own account and at her own hazard, “ I do 
 not believe*,” says she, in a Letter to Mrs. 
 lalbot, “ that I shall be a loser: and 1 have 
 a better opinion both of the sense and virtue of 
 the world, than to think it in the least degree 
 probable, but that such a work will meet with 
 the approbation it so justly deserves.” The 
 event shewed that she was right; and the ex¬ 
 cellence of her motives for wishing them to be 
 published, appears very evident from the fol¬ 
 lowing paragraph in another Letter to Mrs. 
 Talbot. “ I imagine by this time a good part 
 of a third Edition (of the Reflections on the 
 
 # See Mrs. Carter’s Memoirs, 4to. p. 2S1, 1st. edit, 
 
 h 
 
XXII 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE Of 
 
 Days of the JFeck) is sold off. What a com¬ 
 fort it is to think on the diffusive good which 
 that dear angel has communicated to the world, 
 of which she is now enjoying the reward ! What 
 a blessed change to herself from the suffering 
 state of the last sad year !” This was written 
 in December, 1770, when Miss Talbot had 
 not been dead more than eleven months. 
 
 But this excellent as well as amiable young 
 woman ought not to be considered by posterity 
 merely as an author. Great as her talents, 
 and brilliant as her accomplishments were, she 
 possessed qualities of infinitely more import¬ 
 ance both to herself and society. Her piety 
 was regular, constant, fervent, but not enthu¬ 
 siastic. It was the spring of all her actions, 
 as its reward was the object of all her hopes. 
 Her charity, including the whole meaning of 
 the word in its apostolical sense, was extended 
 to all her acquaintance, rich as well as poor ; 
 and to the latter she gave, not only such relief 
 as her circumstances would allow (for she w^as 
 never rich) but what was infinitely more valu¬ 
 able to her, no small portion of her time. 
 
 It is impossible to read her Letters, especi¬ 
 ally those from Cuddesden, without perceiving. 
 4 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALEOT. j^xiil 
 
 how much of that precious time, of which she 
 so bitterly lamented the want, she bestowed on 
 the necessities of her poor neighbours. She 
 examined, instructed, and rewarded the chil¬ 
 dren ; she gave her advice to all who wished 
 for it, and from those who were in want of 
 pecuniary assistance her liberality was never 
 withheld. In this last respect there is reason 
 to believe that she was often Dr. Seekers 
 almoner: for there can be no doubt that he, who 
 when he became Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 constantly bestowed in charity upwards of two 
 thousand pounds a year*, had been equally 
 bountiful before in proportion to his income. 
 
 Highly accomplished, and admired as Miss 
 Talbot was in her youth, it does not appear 
 that she ever turned her thoughts to matrimony. 
 If she had, circumstanced as she was, oppor¬ 
 tunities for her forming an advantageous and 
 honourable connection could not have been 
 wanting. Her birth and situation in life, the 
 
 * This is a fact which the Editor has frequently heard 
 from the late Mrs. Carter. It is also cofirmed by the 
 testimony of the present Bishop of London, who was 
 then his Chaplain, in his “ Review of the Life and Cha¬ 
 racter of Archbishop Seeker.” 
 
 b 2 
 
Xxiv ACCOUNT OF THE LI IF OF 
 
 sweetness of her manners, and the reputation 
 of her talents, made her the object of general 
 attention and admiration wherever she went* 
 
 i 
 
 Yet there is no reason to believe that she ever 
 had any wish or intention of entering into that 
 state, or had ever formed any such attachment 
 as to induce her to desire it. At least this 
 appears certainly to have been the case after 
 her acquaintance with Mrs. Carter commenced, 
 which was in her 21st year; though there is in 
 one of her Letters a dark hint, as if previously 
 to that time there had once been a scheme of 
 that nature in agitation. And this, from the 
 manner in which it is alluded to, seems rather 
 to have been contrary to her own wishes, and 
 to have been given up in compliance with 
 them. Her health, as has been observed be¬ 
 fore, was always delicate, and early in life even 
 became infirm ; and there are passages in her 
 Letters to Mrs. Carter, which may imply that 
 she had very soon formed a resolution against 
 marriage. But if this was the case, she was 
 
 o 
 
 too prudent, and had too much good sense ever 
 to avow it publickly. , 
 
 t y < < , , 4 
 
 Miss Talbot’s studies were very general and 
 desultory : this was probably occasioned by 
 
/ 
 
 MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXV 
 
 the state of her health, which was such as often 
 to oblige her to read for mere amusement. But 
 her opinions were invariably formed upon the 
 best and truest principles, those of the Gospel. 
 Hence her judgment, whenever morality was 
 concerned, seldom it ever erred. Possibly in 
 the case of Mrs. Carter’s Translation of Lpic- 
 tus # , her fears or her scruples may appear to 
 some to have been needless, or to have been 
 carried too far. But it this was the case, it 
 was at least an error on the safe side. It 
 could do no harm; it might be, and indeed it 
 actually was, productive ot good; for to it 
 was owing the Introduction and Notes with 
 which Mrs. Carter enriched that transla¬ 
 tion. With respect to other books, the pas¬ 
 sages in her Letters which relate to the Ram- 
 bier, the Adventurer, and Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son will probably be read with considerable 
 interest. She was very anxious for their suc¬ 
 cess, and particularly desirous that the moral 
 parts and narratives in them should be such as 
 might improve as well as delight the age. lor 
 this purpose it appears by the Letters that both 
 she and Mrs. Carter lent their assistance to the 
 
 t §ee Memoirs of Mrs. Carter, 4to. p, 109, &c. fst. edit* 
 
XXVI 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 two last-mentioned Works by various hints, 
 and plans, as well of characters as of stories. 
 For both ladies were upon intimate terms of 
 acquaintance with the amiable and respectable 
 author of Sir Charles Grandison, and with 
 some of the gentlemen who wrote occasionally 
 in the Adventurer: in particular it appears 
 from a Letter of Mrs. Carterthat Miss 
 Talbot had revised and corrected Sir Charles 
 Grandison before it was printed; a task, it 
 might be supposed, too long and tedious for 
 her weak health, and fully-employed time. 
 
 Miss Talbot’s Life affords little scope for 
 narrative: it passed on in a smooth equable 
 tenor, without dangers or adventures; and 
 equally exempt upon the whole from any re¬ 
 markable instances of good or bad fortune. 
 This w as a blessing of which her pious mind 
 was deeply sensible; and like her friend Mrs, 
 Carter, she was always “ thankful for days 
 not marked by calamity, nor blackened by the 
 horrors, of guilt.” She was never separated 
 for any long time from her friend, and in¬ 
 deed second father j, Archbishop Seeker. In 
 
 5 ?ee p. 342, vol. i. 4to. of the Series of Letters. 
 
 * !t ma y be proper here just to notice an idle and 
 absurd report raised after her own and the Archbishop's 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXYii 
 
 his various removals to aud from his different 
 preferments, she and Her mother always ac¬ 
 companied him, and they had no other home 
 but his. While he resided as Bishop of Oxford 
 at Cuddesden, they entered into all the society 
 of that neighbourhood; and when they lived in 
 London they had there a large and very re¬ 
 spectable acquaintance, and many friends. 
 The deaths of some of these were almost the 
 only misfortunes, her want of health excepted, 
 which Miss Talbot ever experienced. The first 
 of them was the decease of Mrs. Seeker, which 
 took place in the year 1743. She was her 
 mother's dear and intimate friend, and they had 
 lived together for several years before her mar¬ 
 riage with the Archbishop, then Mrs. Seeker, 
 took place. To her care, in her mothers deep 
 distress for the loss of her husband and the 
 long illness which followed it, Miss Talbot had 
 probably been indebted for the preservation of 
 her infant life, and certainly for a long series 
 
 decease, that they had been privately married. Had this 
 been the case, it could hardly have been kept secret in 
 that large family; but all their most intimate friends are 
 fully persuaded that there was not the smallest foundation 
 for such an idea ; and that neither of them ever thought 
 of standing in any other relation to each other but that of 
 father and daughter. 
 
XXVlil 
 
 ACCOUNT OF TIIE LIFE OF 
 
 of maternal kindness and attention afterwards. 
 And how deep an impression these had made 
 upon her affectionate heart, appears from the 
 Letter which she wrote to Mrs. Carter upon the 
 death of Bishop Benson, Mrs. Seekers brother, 
 about four years afterwards. “ Once before” 
 says she, “ your company was a great relief to 
 me in a melancholy time. I had then just lost 
 the dearest and best of friends, the excellent 
 sister of this last departed saint # . You know 
 her not, and I could not talk of her with you : 
 of him we might talk by the hour; for who 
 that ever saw' him as you have done, could 
 ever be weary of the pleasing subject? Pleasing 
 it is to know by one's own happy experience, 
 that there are such beings in human nature, 
 such amiable and benevolent spirits, so fitted 
 for a higher state of existence.” When Miss 
 
 r 
 
 Talbot lost this dear friend, she was about 
 
 i • 
 
 twenty-eight years age. 
 
 A few weeks only before the death of the 
 Bishop of Gloucester, the event so feelingly re- 
 
 > •* * ■ < , , . . U J 
 
 * Whoever knows any thine of the character of that 
 excellent man, will not think this epithet improperly ap¬ 
 plied. this Letter is printed in the Memoirs of Mrs. 
 Carter, 4to. p. Sy, 1st. edition, and the character is there 
 by mistake referred to Bishop Butler; which error is col¬ 
 lected in the second edition. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXlX 
 
 ferred to in the preceding extract, Dr. Butler 
 Bishop of Durham, the celebrated Author of 
 the “ Analogy*/’ also died. In him Miss 
 Talbot lost one of her earliest and most re¬ 
 spected friends. “ He was,” says she in a 
 Letter to Mrs. Carter f, u my father’s friend. 
 I co.-Id almost say my remembrance of him 
 goes back some years before I was born, from 
 the lively imagery which the conversations I 
 used to hear in my earliest years have imprinted 
 on my mind. But from the first of my real re¬ 
 membrance, I have ever known in him the kind 
 affectionate friend, the faithful adviser, which 
 he would condescend to when 1 was quite a 
 child, and the most delightful companion, from 
 a delicacy of thinking, an extreme politeness, a 
 vast knowledge of the world, and a something 
 
 * The “ Analogy of Religion to Nature,” perhaps the 
 most clear, convincing, and powerful chain of argument 
 of the necessity, propriety, and actual existence of re¬ 
 vealed religion, ever offered to the world. The absence of 
 all fanciful and unsupported theory, the precision with 
 which its data , or first principles, are defined, and the per¬ 
 fect fairness with which every proposition is examined in 
 that admirable work, make it a treasure to every man 
 who wishes to give a reason o) the hope that is in him. For 
 it proves how well and advantageously reason may be ap¬ 
 plied to the service of religion. 
 
 t $ ee Memoirs of Mrs, Carter, 4to. p, §7, 1st edition. 
 
ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 peculiar, to be met with in nobody else. And 
 all this in a man whose sanctity of manners, 
 and sublimity of genius, gave him one of the 
 first ranks among men.” 
 
 But Miss Talbot lived to experience a still 
 severer affliction, though she did not long sur¬ 
 vive it, in the death of Archbishop Seeker. 
 This event, which took place in July, 1/68, 
 was extremely distressing upon many accounts 
 both to her and her mother. They lost the sin¬ 
 cere and affectionate friend, with whom they 
 had now resided for forty-three years, without the 
 most trifling disagreement, or the least dimi¬ 
 nution of kindness. They had to seek another 
 home, when the advanced age of the mother, 
 and the ill health of the daughter, made the 
 necessity of exertion painful and distressing, 
 and rendered them but little able to strusffle 
 with the world. For to increase their sorrows 
 upon this melancholy occasion, even the fear 
 of comparative poverty was not wanting. The 
 Archbishop's will was not found till three 
 months after his decease, and they had the 
 propcct of quitting the large establishment 
 and the affluence of Lambeth Palace, for a 
 precarious state of dependance on a relation, 
 
MRS. CATHARINR TALBOT. XXXI 
 
 % 
 
 or the occupation of a house to themselves on 
 the smallest scale. 
 
 Yet sill the balm of religious consolation 
 Mas tlieirs ; and in patient submission to the 
 will of God, they found both relief and reward. 
 The language of Miss Talbot to her friend was 
 this*; “ In so great a calamity it will some¬ 
 what comfort you to hear that my mother and 
 I are well; composed and resigned/’ And again 
 a few days after, “ Circumstances of the great¬ 
 est distress have been mixed with our heavy 
 affliction, and I more than ever see cause for 
 thankfulness to an over-ruling Providence. 
 God be thanked, our minds are supported in 
 comfort, and our healths wonderfully pre¬ 
 served.” 
 
 But this circumstance, which caused them so 
 much uneasiness at the time, was productive of 
 the great advantage of enabling them to know 
 their real friends. These were many, and 
 highly respectable; nor indeed does it appear, 
 and for the credit of the world it ought to be 
 mentioned, that any of those persons who had 
 lived on terms of intimacy with them in their 
 
 * See Correspondence, 4to, vol. ii. p. 57. 
 
xxxii 
 
 ACCOUNT OF TIIE LIFE OF 
 
 prosperity, deserted them in their apparent ad* 
 versity. Mrs. Carter went to them immedi¬ 
 ately, and remained with them till they re* 
 moved from Lambeth, and was, as Miss Tal¬ 
 bot says, “ a balm and cordial’’ to their spirits. 
 All the Archbishop’s particular friends vied 
 with each other in attention to them; and a 
 younger brother of Mrs. Talbot’s husband, Mr. 
 Talbot of Chart, near Dorking, took them to 
 his own house, as soon as they could leave the 
 Palace, and treated them with every mark of 
 affection and regard. While they were there, 
 the long sought-for will was found, and they 
 became entitled under it, for their lives jointly 
 and separately, to the interest of thirteen thou* 
 sand pounds in the three per cent annuities. 
 
 The bequest, which added to their small 
 fortune, near four hundred pounds a year, a 
 much better income in those days than it would 
 now appear to be, enabled Mrs. Talbot to take a 
 comfortable and convenient house in Grosvenor 
 Street. To this they removed in the December 
 following; and here they remained till the end 
 of June, when Miss Talbot’s increasing com- 
 plaints obliged them to leave London for a cooler 
 and better air. Their kind and constant friend, 
 the late Marchioness Grey, lent them for this 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXXlli. 
 
 purpose her house at Richmond, together with 
 “ every thing she could think of to contribute 
 to their comfort or amusement,” and at the same 
 time recommended them to all her intimate ac¬ 
 quaintance in that neighbourhood. 
 
 From this delightful retreat Miss Talbot only 
 returned in time to breathe her last in her 
 mother’s house in town. She was with great 
 difficulty conveyed thither from Richmond in 
 November, and though she thought herself 
 better for the first few days, she was never 
 afterwards able to quit her own apartment. 
 Her chief disorder, but added to a very weak 
 and now completely worn-out constitution, was 
 a cancer. 
 
 This fatal complaint, which had now for 
 three years been preying upon her enfeebled 
 frame, had been kept a profound secret from all 
 her friends, except the Archbishop, Mrs. Carter, 
 her own maid, and her medical attendants. 
 From motives of kindness to her mother, it had 
 been concealed even from her, till a few weeks 
 only before her death. The Letters which 
 relate to her last illness are added to the close 
 of the Correspondence between her and Mrs. 
 Carter, and are therefore not repeated here. 
 Her dissolution took place on the 9th day of 
 
XXXIV ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 January, 1770, in the 49th year of her age, and 
 was not attended by severe pain, or any pe¬ 
 culiarly distressing circumstances. To her, 
 like the Apostles, to die w*as gain. Her whole 
 life had been a preparation for death; and her 
 last hours were therefore not likely to be dis¬ 
 turbed by the horrors of a wounded conscience, 
 or the agonies of mental disquietude. On the 
 contrary this is the account given of her by a 
 lady # who was with her when her death was 
 hourly expected. “ Her resignation and pa¬ 
 tience through all her sufferings you are well 
 acquainted with; it exceeds all description; 
 cheerfulness does not express her countenance 
 or manner, (I mean on Sunday last) there was 
 a joy I never shall forget, and founded, I am 
 certain, on the very few hours she hoped to 
 remain here; and she told me she had that 
 feel within her, that spoke her happiness near. 
 —I am thankful I have known her, and have 
 sometimes hopes I may be the better all my 
 life, for some conversations passed in this last 
 illness.” 
 
 Mrs, Carter had the comfort of passing a 
 few days with her beloved friend, before her 
 
 * Miss Jeffreys to Mrs. Carter; Letters, 4to. vol. ii. p. 
 
MRS. CATHARINE TALBOT. XXXV 
 
 death dissolved that close and endearing in¬ 
 timacy, founded in the most perfect esteem, 
 which had now existed almost thirty years 
 between them. The account which she gives 
 of this afflicting event, and the short but com¬ 
 prehensive character which she adds of Miss 
 Talbot, in a Letter to Mrs. Yesey, is so su¬ 
 perior to any thing which the Author of this 
 slight sketch could say upon the subject, that 
 he hopes he shall be pardoned for adding an 
 extract from it, as the conclusion of this Me¬ 
 moir, although it has been published before. 
 
 “ Two or three days before her death she w as 
 
 seized with a sudden hoarseness and coufflj 
 
 © > 
 
 which seemed the effect of a cold, and from 
 which bleeding relieved her; but there remain¬ 
 ed an oppression from phlegm which was ex¬ 
 tremely troublesome to her. On the ninth 
 (of January) this symptom increased, and she 
 appeared heavy and sleepy, which was attribu¬ 
 ted to an opiate the night before. I staid with 
 her till she went to bed, with an intention of 
 going afterwards into her room, but was told 
 she was asleep. I went away about nine, and 
 in less than an hour afterwards she waked ; 
 and after the struggle of scarcely a minute, 
 it pleased God to remove her spotless soul 
 from its mortal sufferings to that heaven for 
 
XXXvi ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF 
 
 which her whole life had been an uninterrupted 
 preparation. Never surely was there a more 
 perfect pattern of evangelical goodness, deco¬ 
 rated by all the ornaments of a highly improved 
 understanding, and recommended by a sweet¬ 
 ness of temper, and an elegance and polite¬ 
 ness of manners, of a peculiar and more en¬ 
 gaging kind than in any other character I ever 
 knew.—Little alas ! infinitely too little have 
 I yet profited by the blessing of such an ex¬ 
 ample. God grant that her memory, which 
 I hope will ever survive in my heart may 
 produce a happier effect. 
 
 . « . r * , * 1 k 
 
 • r, *v f 
 
 v ' ' ' ?• \ 
 
 “ Adieu, my dear friend, God bless you, 
 and conduct us both to that happy assembly, 
 where the spirits of the just shall dread no 
 future separation ! And may we both remem¬ 
 ber that awful truth, that we can hope to die 
 the death of the righteous only by resembling, 
 their lives.” 
 
 Mrs. Talbot, although she was then upwards 
 of eighty years of age, bore the loss of her 
 daughter with the most pious fortitude and 
 resignation. She died in her ninety-third year 
 of a paralytic attack, and was able to con¬ 
 tinue her Correspondence with Mrs. Carter 
 till within a very few weeks of her death* 
 
REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON 
 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 The Omnipresence of God, and the prac¬ 
 tical Inferences from it. 
 
 «o LORD, thou hast searched me 
 “ out, and known me: thou knowest 
 “ my down-sitting and mine up-rising: 
 u thou art about my path and about my 
 “ bed, and spiest out all my ways.” 
 
 How true, how astonishing; is this 
 thought ! Almighty God, my Maker, is 
 ever present with me. Pie is infinite in 
 being, and therefore must be every where* 
 He is infinite in knowledge, and therefore 
 every thing must be known to Him, No 
 
 B 
 
 % 
 
REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 creature is too inconsiderable for bis no¬ 
 tice, who is the Maker of all, and “ careth 
 “ for all alike/' The friends, the relations, 
 and acquaintance, whom I see and con¬ 
 verse with every day, know not half so 
 much of my conduct as He does, nor are 
 half so attentive to it. How hourly care¬ 
 ful should I be, then, to approve myself 
 to Him ! Among my relations and friends 
 there are some whom I regard more than 
 the rest, either out of greater affection for 
 their goodness and kindness; or out of 
 reverence for their greater wisdom and 
 dignity ; or out of interest, as being capa¬ 
 ble of doing me more good or hurt. All , 
 these motives of the highest regard are 
 joined in Him. H is excellence is more 
 than thought can conceive : whatever is 
 beautiful, or good, or amiable in the work! 
 flows from Him as its source. In Him is 
 all greatness and majesty, all wisdom and 
 knowledge: every tiling that is glorious, 
 awful, venerable. My hourly dependence 
 is upon Him, and all my expectations 
 through an eternity to come. From Him 
 
SUNDAY. 
 
 1 have received my life, my being, every 
 .power and faculty of soul and body. Every 
 innocent delight I enjoy, is His gift: in 
 every danger, He is my present help. No 
 power but His cpuld guide me safely 
 through the intricate mazes of life. Hi¬ 
 therto His providence has carefully watch¬ 
 ed over me, and His right hand has held 
 me up: and through all my future life. 
 He, who is truth itself, has promised never 
 to fail me nor forsake me, if, on my part, 
 I will but serve Him faithfully, as in my 
 baptismal vow I have promised to do. 
 -That blessed covenant I am going to re¬ 
 new, by partaking of the holy Sacrament. 
 Had not our blessed Saviour died to re¬ 
 deem mankind, we must all have appeared 
 before an all-seeing God, of infinite jus¬ 
 tice and holiness, without security of being 
 considered otherwise than as objects of 
 displeasure. But we know, that He looks 
 upon us now as objects of the tenderest 
 mercy. He invites us to 64 pour out our 
 44 hearts before Him,” at all times: 44 to 
 44 call upon Him in the time of trouble 
 
4 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 “ to look unto Him, and be saved.” O 
 my soul, in all thy ways acknowledge Him, 
 and He shall direct thy paths. 
 
 Let me then ask myself, as in His sight, 
 what is the general Ij^irn of my temper, 
 and disposition of my mind ? My most 
 trifling words and actions are observed by 
 Him : and every thought is naked to Iiis 
 eye. Could I suppose the king or any 
 the greatest person I have any knowledge 
 of, were within reach of observing my 
 common daily behaviour, though unseen 
 hy me, should I not be very particularly 
 careful to preserve it, in every respect, de¬ 
 cent and becoming ? Should I allow my¬ 
 self in any little froward humours ? Should 
 I not be ashamed to appear peevish and 
 ill-natured ? Should I use so much as one 
 harsh or unhandsome expression even to 
 my equal, or my meanest inferior, even 
 were I ever so much provoked ? Much 
 less should I behave irreverently to my 
 parents or superiors. This awful Being, 
 in whom I live and move, and from whom 
 no obscurity can hide me, by whom the 
 
SUNDAY. 
 
 5 
 
 very hairs of my head are all numbered, 
 He knows the obligations of every rela¬ 
 tion in life. He sees in their full light 
 the reciprocal duties of parents and chil¬ 
 dren, of husbands and wives, of neigh¬ 
 bours and fellow-servants. He knows the 
 aggravated guilt of every offence against 
 these ties of society, however we may be 
 disposed to treat them as trifles : and every 
 piece of stubbornness and pride, of ill hu¬ 
 mour and passion, of anger and resent¬ 
 ment, oi sullenness and perverseness, ex* 
 poses us to His just indignation. 
 
6 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 MONDAY. 
 
 The Improvement of Time, and Self-exami¬ 
 nation. 
 
 “ BLESSED are they that do hun- 
 “ ger and thirst after righteousness/’—? 
 Our Lord and Saviour has pronounced 
 this blessedness, and through his grace, 
 I hope to partake of it. Hunger and 
 thirst naturally prompt us to seek, with¬ 
 out delay, the means of satisfying them. 
 What then is the food of the mind ? 
 Wholesome instruction and religious me¬ 
 ditation. If then I sincerely do hunger 
 and thirst after righteousness, I shall be 
 frequently feeding my mind with pious 
 books and thoughts. I shall make the 
 returns of these meals as regular as 1 can, 
 and seldom shall i find any necessity strong 
 enough to make me miss them a whole 
 day together.—But then it ought to be 
 remembered too, that even these, the best 
 
MONDAY. 
 
 7 
 
 hours of my life, ought never to encroach 
 
 upon the duties and employments of my 
 
 station, whatever they may be. Am I in 
 
 a superior station of life ? My duty then 
 
 probably takes in a large compass: and I 
 
 am accountable to my Maker for all those 
 
 talents entrusted with me by Ilim, for the 
 
 « * 
 
 benefit of my fellow-creatures. I must 
 not think of living to myself alone, or de¬ 
 voting that time to imitate the employ¬ 
 ment of angels, which was given me for 
 the service of men *. Religion must be 
 my chief end, and my best delight: it 
 must regulate all I think, or do ; but what¬ 
 ever my station is, I must fulfil all its du¬ 
 ties. Have I leisure and genius? 1 must 
 give a due portion of my time to the ele¬ 
 gant improvements of life : to the study of 
 those sciences that are an ornament to hu¬ 
 man nature : to such things as may make 
 me amiable, and engaging to all whom I 
 
 # How much is it to be wished that those whose 
 disposition is inclined towards enthusiasm, would con¬ 
 sider this admirable sketch of religious employment! 
 
a 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 converse with, that by any means * I may 
 win them over to religion and goodness. 
 For if I am always shut up in my closet, 
 and spend my time in nothing but exer¬ 
 cises of devotion, I shall be looked upon 
 as morose and hypocritical, and be disre¬ 
 garded as useless in the world. When 
 this life is ended, we have a whole eter¬ 
 nity before us to spend in those noblest 
 employments, and highest delights. But 
 man, in this low state of mortality, pays 
 the most acceptable obedience to God, by 
 serving his fellow-creatures. 
 
 Perhaps all these considerations are wide 
 from my case. So far from having leisure 
 upon my hands, I have scarce a moment 
 free from the necessary engagements of 
 business and bodily labour. While I am 
 working hard for bread for myself and my 
 family, or attending diligently the com¬ 
 mands of a strict master, to whom 1 am 
 justly accountable for every hour I have, 
 
 * T am made all things to all men , that I mvdit 
 
 f u 7 O 
 
 py all means save some. 1 Cor. ix. 22. 
 
 5 
 
MONDAY. 
 
 9 
 
 how can I find frequent opportunities for 
 studying the Word of God, or much time 
 to spend in devout meditation ? Why, 
 happily, much is not required, provided I 
 make the best use of what little I have. 
 Some time I must needs have on Sundays, 
 and this I may improve. I may diligently 
 attend to what I hear at church: 1 may 
 examine whether my own practice is con¬ 
 formable to what I am there taught: and 
 I may spend some hours in that day, ei¬ 
 ther in good discourse, with such as are 
 able to instruct me, or in reading such re¬ 
 ligious books as are put into my hands. 
 Still enough will be left for chearful con¬ 
 versation, and pleasant walks. Why should 
 either of them be the less chearful, for a 
 mixture of religious thoughts ? What in¬ 
 deed is there so gladdening as they are ? 
 Be my state ever so mean and toilsome, 
 as a Christian, if indeed I behave like one, 
 I am equal to the greatest monarch upon 
 earth. Be inv misfortunes and sorrows 
 never so severe, as a Christian, I can look 
 beyond death to an eternity of happiness, 
 
10 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 of happiness certain, and unspeakable. 
 These thoughts, therefore, I should keep 
 upon my mind, through the whole week : 
 they should be the amusement of my la¬ 
 bour, and the relief of my weariness : and 
 when my heart is thus ready, I shall gladly 
 take every opportunity to sing and give 
 praise. 1 shall awake early to worship 
 that God, who is my defence and my de¬ 
 light ; and I shall close every evening 
 with prayer and thanksgiving to Him* 
 whose <c ways are ways of pleasantness, 
 “ and all whose paths are peace/' When¬ 
 ever I can have a quarter of an hour to 
 spare Irom the necessary business, and 
 the (at fit times) as necessary relaxations 
 of hie, which, while they are innocent, 
 moderate, and reasonable, will never be 
 disapproved by that good God, who has 
 created every thing that is comely and 
 pleasant in the world, and invites us to re¬ 
 joice, and do good, all the days of our life : 
 when I have any spare time, I shall gladly 
 spend it in reading, with reverence and 
 attention, some portions of the Bible. In 
 
MONDAY. 
 
 11 
 
 all ray common conversation, I shall have 
 my eye continually up to Him, who alone 
 can direct my paths to happiness and im¬ 
 provement, and crown all my endeavours 
 with the best success. I shall try to be 
 something the better for every scene of 
 life I am engaged in : to be something the 
 wiser for every day’s conversation and ex¬ 
 perience. And let me not fear, but that 
 if I daily thus faithfully strive to grow in 
 holiness and goodness, be my growth at 
 the present never so imperceptible, I 
 shall in due time arrive at the measure 
 “ of the fulness of stature in Christ.” 
 
 That I may be better for the last twenty- 
 four hours, let me examine a little what 
 temper I have been in all that time. In 
 general, perhaps, I can recollect nothing 
 much amiss in it: but let me descend to 
 particulars. Things are often very faulty, 
 that appear at first sight very trifling. 
 Perhaps I have so fond a conceit of my¬ 
 self, as to think, that I can never be in 
 the wrong. Has any uneasiness happened 
 in the family this last day ? Perhaps I 
 
REFLECTION'S ON 
 
 It 
 
 think the fault was wholly in others, and 
 the right entirely on my side. But ought 
 I not to remember, that in all disputes, 
 there is generally some fault on both sides ? 
 Perhaps they begun :—but did not I carry 
 it on ?—They gave the provocation :—but 
 cud not 1 take it ?—.Am not I too apt to 
 imagine, that it would be mean entirely to 
 let a quarrel drop, when I have a fair op¬ 
 portunity to reason, and argue, and re¬ 
 proach, to vindicate my injured merit, 
 and assert my right ? Yet, is this agree¬ 
 able to the precepts and example of Him, 
 who, wnen he was reviled, reviled not 
 “ again Is it agreeable to His com¬ 
 mands, who has charged me, if my bro¬ 
 ther trespass against me, to forgive him, 
 not seven times only, but seventy times 
 seven ? Is it agreeable to that Christian 
 doctrine, which exhorts us, not to think 
 of ourselves highly, but soberly, as we 
 ought to think : and that in lowliness of 
 mmd, every one should think others better 
 than himself? And alas, how often do I 
 tnmk this disrespect, though a slight one, 
 
MONDAY. 
 
 13 
 
 provoking to me ? This situation, though 
 a happy one, not good enough for me? 
 How often have I had in my mouth that 
 wise maxim, that a worm, if it is trod 
 upon, will turn again! Wretch that I 
 am, shall I plead the example of a vile 
 worm of the earth for disobeying the com¬ 
 mands of my Saviour, with whom 1 hope 
 hereafter to sit in heavenly places * ? 
 
 * It is proper to observe, that this excellent illus¬ 
 tration of these unchristian passions, though expressed 
 in the first person, conveys no sort of idea of the mild 
 and humble disposition of the writer herself. 
 
14 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 TUESDAY. 
 
 . • * • «. ' * i, A ‘ . I . , 
 
 < ^ < t .• • • i 4 i < V | i ■, k • r j j, 4 * • ] • 
 
 The Duty of constant Employment. 
 
 “ I MUST work the work of Him who 
 “ sent me, while it is day/'—If our 
 blessed Saviour, infinitely great and ex¬ 
 cellent, was, when he assumed human na¬ 
 ture, so far from being exempted from the 
 general law of nature imposed on our first 
 father and all his race, who is there 
 amongst men, that shall plead an exemp¬ 
 tion ? The duty of employment is two¬ 
 fold. First, as we are active and spiritual 
 beings, ill would it become us to sit wrapt 
 in indolence, and sleep away an useless 
 life. Constant activity, and extensive use¬ 
 fulness, is the perfection of a spiritual 
 Being. The great God himself is infi¬ 
 nitely active. “ My Father worketh hi- 
 “ therto, (saith our Saviour,) and I work/' 
 In their various degrees, all the orders of 
 angels are “ ministering spirits/' In the 
 
TUESDAY. 
 
 15 
 
 happy worlds above, all is life and activity. 
 And shall man, who is so fond of life, lose 
 his little portion of it in a lazy, slothful, 
 half state ? Shall he quench those sparks 
 of immortality, that glow in his bosom, 
 and content himself with being, for three 
 paits of his time, little better than a lump 
 of organized clay ? Innocent man in Pa- 
 radise, was not made for idleness. J3ut 
 guilty fallen man is peculiarly born to la¬ 
 bour, and to trouble. Equally just and 
 merciful Was the doom pronounced to 
 Adam; “ in the sweat of thy face thou 
 “ shalt eat bread/' Human nature, cor¬ 
 rupted and depraved by the fall of our 
 first parents, would be incapable of em¬ 
 ploying ease and leisure to any happy pur¬ 
 poses. Greatly do we need constant em¬ 
 ployment to Keep us out of the reach of 
 those temptations from within, and from 
 without, that in idleness particularly assault 
 us. Greatly do we need to have much of 
 our minds taken up with perpetual atten¬ 
 tion to necessaiw business, . and hourly 
 duty, that they may not prey too much 
 
I 
 
 id reflections on 
 
 upon themselves. Labour and pain are 
 the necessary, though unpalatable, medi¬ 
 cine of our souls. Shall we refuse to fol¬ 
 low the prescription of that heavenly Phy¬ 
 sician, who drank the bitterest cup for us ? 
 Toil and trouble are the just punishments 
 of guilty human nature : shall we rebel 
 against our awful Judge ? Activity and 
 employment are the law of our Being: 
 and shall we not obey our sovereign Ruler, 
 our great and good Creator? 
 
 What then is my proper business and 
 employment, that I may set diligently to 
 it? In most stations of life, this is too 
 evident to be asked. And it is equally 
 certain, that every station, even the very 
 highest, has its proper work and labour, 
 which whoever performs not to the utmost 
 of their power, is a wicked and slothful 
 servant, for we have all a Master in 
 Heaven. 
 
 Come, then, my heart, let us chearfully 
 set about our business. Be it stud}' and 
 improvement of the mind, toil of the body, 
 or industry of the hands : be it care of our 
 
TUESDAY. 
 
 17 
 
 families and domestic affairs: be it care 
 ot the public, and distribution of justice: 
 be it care of our neighbours, and charity 
 to the poor: be it education of children, 
 instruction of the ignorant, attendance 
 on the sick, culture of the ground, defence 
 ot our country : whatever it be, let us do 
 H diligently and heartily as unto the Lord, 
 and not unto men. As subjects, children, 
 servants, let us obey our rulers, parents, 
 masters. And if it be the will of provi¬ 
 dence to disable us, for the present, from 
 all active service, by confining us in cham¬ 
 bers of sickness, in a weak and useless 
 state, let us set the example of an uncom¬ 
 plaining submission, and chearful resigna- 
 tion: and let patience, at least, “ have its 
 perfect work/* 
 
 This submissive, this humble, this obe¬ 
 dient disposition, is poverty of spirit. We 
 ought to think nothing beneath us; nor to 
 desire any thing but what is allotted to us. 
 AV e ought to imagine nothing our own, and 
 surely therefore not our time: yet how 
 apt we are to think it quite a hardship put 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 upon us, if any small portion of it is to be 
 spent disagreeably, and if we have not 
 hours, and days, and years, to indulge in 
 careless idleness and giddy pleasure. 
 
 Among other works, that of reforming 
 my temper is surely a most necessary one. 
 Let me therefore take myself a little to 
 task. How have I behaved the last day r 
 
 I have not, perhaps, been positively out 
 of humour: but have I guarded my dis¬ 
 position against every failing ? Have I not 
 indulged a nice fancy, in taking some 
 disgust at any of those that I converse 
 with ; which, trifling as it seems at present^ 
 may, in time, quite alienate our minds 
 from one another ? A disagreeable look,, 
 or manner, too often gives a prejudice 
 against persons, who are really deserving.. 
 —Let me be upon my guard against such 
 prejudices. Let me overlook all trifling 
 infirmities in others : but let me spare 
 them the pain and difficulty of having 
 many such to overlook in me. Let me 
 observe in every thing a perfect cleanli¬ 
 ness and neatness ; for nothing is so dis- 
 
TUESDAY. 19 
 
 gUstful as the contrary. Let me be mild 
 and civil* moderate and discreet in all my 
 ways ot speaking: let my behaviour 
 always be easy and obliging, natural and 
 unaffected. Let me always preserve, as 
 much as I can, even under severe trials, 
 a chearful pleasing countenance: and* 
 among other things, let me try to avoid, 
 as much as possible* falling into those little 
 foolish tricks and peculiarities, which 
 every body is so apt to acquire, without 
 even perceiving it. I cannot help seeing 
 in others, how disagreeable they are, 
 though in them, I ought as little as possi¬ 
 ble to attend to it. But let me watch my~ 
 selt a little, and discover, in order to reform 
 whatever I may have in me, that makes 
 me less agreeable, and therefore less use¬ 
 ful, in society. 
 
20 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 WEDNESDAY. 
 
 On the humble and religious Enjoyment 
 oj the Blessings of Life. 
 
 And God saw every thing that He 
 
 tc had made, and behold it was very 
 “ good.” 
 
 Such was the face of things at the crea¬ 
 tion. Every view, that could be taken, 
 was a view of order and beauty, of happi¬ 
 ness and pleasure. Too soon, by the 
 frailty and by the guilt of man, this happv 
 state was changed ; and through sin, death 
 
 and misery entered into the world. Everv 
 part of our world was affected by the 
 general disorder. 'I he earth produced 
 thorns and thistles. The seasons became 
 unfavourable. The beasts grew wild and 
 savage: and hence sprung a necessity of 
 labour and self-defence. Toil and weari- 
 ness must be its natural consequence to 
 bodies now become mortal and corrupti- 
 
WEDNESDAY. 
 
 21 
 
 ble. Pain and sickness, the infirmities 
 of old age, the fear of death and sufferings 
 both tor ourselves and our friends, with 
 all that variety of evils that burthen hu¬ 
 man life: all are the sad effects of sin. 
 1 he disorder of our minds, the vehemence 
 of our passions, the dimness of our under¬ 
 standings, those tendencies to evil, which 
 even the best people, at some times, must 
 feel strongly working in their bosoms, are 
 the bitter fruits of the original corruption 
 of human nature in the first of men, our 
 common parent. Hence surely we should 
 draw the strongest motives of humility, 
 and throw ourselves down in the deepest 
 abasement of soul, before that God of 
 holiness, in whose “ sight the Heavens 
 “ are not pure; and who ehargeth his 
 “ an gels with folly." “ How much more 
 man which is a worm, and the son of 
 u man, which is a worm ?” Unassisted 
 human nature could not be in a more per¬ 
 fect state than our first parents were 
 created: infinitely superior certainly to 
 whatever we can imagine of good or ex- 
 
m 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 cellent among ourselves. If they were 
 such frail, such wretched creatures, and so 
 soon forfeited their very beings—Good 
 God! then what is the very best of us! 
 “ Let our confusion be ever before us 
 “ Let the shame of our face cover us/' 
 Strange it may seem, after these conside¬ 
 rations, to mention a happy and chearful 
 enjoyment of our beings, as a serious and 
 important duty. Many good persons, who 
 have deeply dwelt on this dark view of our 
 mortal state, have represented it as utterly 
 unfit and sinful for such creatures, in such 
 a world, to think of any thing but suffer¬ 
 ing and mourning. But as sure as our 
 heavenly Father is good to all, and pecu¬ 
 liarly so to us, his helpless new-adopted 
 children, so surely they are widely 
 mistaken The blessed promise of our 
 redemption was uttered in the same mo¬ 
 ment with the doom of our mortality, and 
 from that moment all was good again, 
 
 * See this idea expanded, and its consequences shewn, 
 in the Rambler, No. xliv, by Mrs. Carter; from 
 Which pe haps Miss Talbot took the hint. 
 
WEDNESDAY* 
 
 £3 
 
 Pain, and suffering, and sorrow, became 
 remedies to cure our corrupted nature : 
 temptations, but a purifying fire to prove 
 and to refine our virtue : and death, a kind 
 release from toil, a happy admission into a 
 better paradise. Through our blessed 
 Saviour, we have obtained the grace of 
 God to guide us in all our ways, and to 
 support us underallour distresses. Through 
 Him, in Him, we have every thing that 
 can make us happy, unless we wilfully 
 destroy ourselves. “ Rejoice then, in the 
 “ Lord, all ye righteous, be thankful all ye 
 “ who are true of heart.'” 
 
 Serious and careful indeed we ought to 
 be, watchful and diligent, humble and sub¬ 
 missive; reflecting deeply on the frailty 
 and vileness of our nature, and the im¬ 
 portant, the eternal interest, that depends 
 on this our short, and very uncertain time 
 of trial here. In this sense we ought to 
 u work out our salvation with fear and 
 “ trembling/’ and even to “ rejoice before 
 u the Lord with reverence.” But while 
 we “ keep innocence, and take heed to 
 
24 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 “ thing that is right/’ let our chearful 
 hearts and looks confess the goodness of 
 our gracious Master, who “ gives us rain 
 “ from Heaven, and fruitful seasons, 
 filling our hearts with food and glad¬ 
 ness. Of Him, who has made every 
 thing good and pleasant: who has the 
 tenderest consideration for all our infir¬ 
 mities, and has provided every support, 
 and every relief that can make our passage 
 through this world tolerable and com¬ 
 fortable to us. With joyful gratitude let 
 us accept and improve these his mercies, 
 and indulgencies. Let us make this 
 world as happy as we can to ourselves and 
 one another : to do this, we need only be 
 good Christians. Our wills being perfectly 
 resigned, will acquiesce without pain, in 
 whatever disposals Providence may see fit 
 to make of us, and ours : and taking no 
 “ thought for to-morrow,” we shall nei¬ 
 ther be tormented with vain schemes, nor 
 anxious feas s. Our desires being moderate, 
 we shall pass easily and quietly through 
 
 life . and no unruly passions or vehement 
 5 
 
WEDNESDAY. 
 
 wishes, will discompose our peace. Being 
 free from private interests and selfish views, 
 we shall have no rivalries nor contests with 
 our neighbours. Being in perfect charity 
 with all men, we shall with all be easy, 
 chearful, friendly : in every thing studying 
 to promote their good and happiness: and 
 in our turn receiving from many of them 
 offices of kindness : and from such as are 
 ungrateful, receiving the greatest benefit 
 of all, a noble opportunity to exercise those 
 duties, on which God's forgiveness of our¬ 
 selves depends. With pleasure and com¬ 
 placence our heavenly Father looks down 
 on every society of his children united in 
 brotherly affection, and gives his blessing 
 to every set of friends, and neighbours, 
 and relations, that perform their mutual 
 relative duties, as they ought, and love 
 and delight in one another. Every in¬ 
 nocent entertainment, that keeps up the 
 chearfulness and kindness of society, He ap¬ 
 proves. “ The voice of joy and health is 
 “ in the dwellings of the righteous. v Our 
 health can alone be preserved by temper- 
 
Ct> 
 
 REFLECTIONS OX 
 
 mice, calmness, and industry. Industry 
 too makes the world look beautiful around 
 u$. It turns the barren wilderness into 
 a fertile pleasant land : and for thorns and 
 thistles, plants the rose-tree and the vine: 
 or sows the tender grass and useful corn* 
 Industry preserves us from inclemencies 
 of weather, and finds some means to supply 
 every want. It procures us where-with to 
 give alms to the poor, and thereby enables 
 us to lay up a treasure in Heaven. ' 
 
 Happiness, then, a great degree of it, 
 is in our power, even at present. But 
 fools that we are, we forfeit even present 
 happiness, for the indulgence of every 
 peevish, fro ward humour. Let me examine 
 myself a little on this. As much as I con¬ 
 demn it, am I not often guilty of this un¬ 
 accountable folly ? Am I not readier to 
 cherish unkind suspicions of those I live 
 amongst, than to put a fair, and favourable 
 interpretation upon every disagreeable in¬ 
 cident? Am I not almost upon the watch 
 to take offence at every trifling: disregard ? 
 
 v O O 
 
 Do I not think it beneath me ever to take 
 
WEDNESDAY. 
 
 27 
 
 the first step towards a reconciliation ? Do 
 I not make it a point of honour to keep 
 up resentment, even though it pains me ? 
 IIow much happier are they, who go 
 through the world with an easy good hu¬ 
 mour! Never suspecting that anybody 
 means them ill, who does not really and 
 seriously hurt them : passing over every 
 trifle: and by placing themselves above 
 all such peevish follies, maintaining more 
 real dignity, than those who are the 
 proudest. 
 
23 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 THURSDAY. 
 
 The Dufy and Manner of being useful 
 
 in Society . 
 
 u T3LESSED are the merciful, for they 
 “ shall obtain mercy/' How greatly 
 do we all of us need this blessing; poor 
 guilty creatures, who are every day offend¬ 
 ing infinite goodness, and provoking al¬ 
 mighty power, and perfect justice ! How 
 then shall we be merciful as we ought ? Can 
 this duty be practised by any but the great, 
 or the injured ?—In relieving the distrest, 
 or in pardoning offenders ? Yes : every 
 one of us may practise it every day we live. 
 It is a great mistake to think there is no 
 superiority, but that, which rank and for¬ 
 tune give. Every one of us may in some¬ 
 thing or other assist or instruct some of 
 his fellow-creatures : for the best of human 
 race is poor and needy, and all have a 
 mutual dependence on one another : there 
 
THURSDAY. 
 
 29 
 
 is no body that cannot do some good : and 
 every body is bound to do diligently all 
 the good they can. It is by no means 
 enough to be rightly disposed, to be 
 senous, and religious in our closets: we 
 must be useful too, and take care, that as 
 we all reap numberless benefits from 
 society, society may be the better for 
 every one of us. It is a false, a faulty, 
 and an indolent humility, that makes 
 people sit still and do nothing, because 
 they will not believe that they are capable 
 of doing much : for every body can do 
 something. Every body can set a good 
 example, be it to many, or to few. Every 
 body can in some degree encourage virtue 
 and religion, and discountenance vice and 
 folly. Every body has some one or other 
 whom they can advise, or instruct, or in 
 some way help to guide through life. 
 *1 hose who are too poor to give alms, can 
 yet give their time, their trouble, their 
 assistance in preparing or forwarding the 
 gifts of others : in considering, and repre¬ 
 senting distrest cases to those, who can 
 
30 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 relieve them: in visiting and comforting 
 the sick and afflicted. Every body can 
 offer up their prayers for those who need 
 them : which) if they do reverently and 
 sincerely) they will never be wanting in 
 giving; them everv other assistance, that 
 it should please God to put in their power. 
 Even those whose poor and toilsome life 
 can admit of their giving no other help to 
 society, can by their frugality, and indus¬ 
 try, at least keep themselves, in a great 
 measure, from being burthensome to the 
 public. A penny thus saved, is a penny 
 given. Dreadful state of those idle crea- 
 lures, who dragging on a wretched, pro¬ 
 fligate life, in laziness and rags, draw to 
 themselves those charities, that ought to 
 support the helpless, and really disabled 
 poor! Severely, I fear, shall they be ac* 
 countable for it at the last day : and every 
 one in proportion, who lives a useless and 
 burthensome drone in society. It is our 
 duty to prevent poverty, as well as to re¬ 
 lieve it. It is our duty to relieve every 
 other kind of distress, as well as the 
 
 2 
 
THURSDAY. 
 
 distress of poverty. People who are always 
 innocently chearful, and good-humoured, 
 are very useful in the world. They maintain 
 peace and happiness, and spread a thankful 
 temper among all that live around them. 
 
 Thus lor in general: but it is well 
 worth considering in particular my own 
 duties and obligations. Who are the peo- 
 1 I ought especially to study to 
 
 make happy ? Are they parents ?—What 
 a debt of gratitude do I owe them, for all 
 their care of me, and for me, in my helpless 
 years? How kindly did they bear with 
 the froward infirmities of my childhood : 
 and shall not 1 with most afiectionate ten¬ 
 derness support and relieve all those, 
 which years and cares bring upon them ? 
 My more active strength and vigour, my 
 younger spirits and clearer thoughts, may 
 now make me, in my turn, very helpful to 
 them. If they are good people and good 
 parents, I am sure this is my duty : if 
 otherwise, I owe them one of still higher 
 importance. I owe them the most earnest 
 endeavours I can use for the reformation 
 
32 REFLECTION'S ON 
 
 of their faults, or instruction of their is:- 
 no ranee. This duty extends to all my 
 relations: and to all from whom I have 
 ever received any benefit, or any offices of 
 friendship. If it is my misfortune that 
 any of them should be bad people, though 
 they have been good to me; or if any of 
 those who are related to me, are engaged 
 in a wrong course of life, ought I to fly 
 from them, and leave them to ruin ? No: 
 gratitude and affection forbid it. Ought 
 I then to encourage vice, and flatter folly, 
 if it happens among those that I love ? This 
 my higher duty to Almighty God, to truth 
 and virtue, absolutely forbid. What then 
 is to be done ? To preserve the tenderest 
 affection for their persons, and keep up 
 and declare openly the strongest abhor¬ 
 rence of their faults. To avoid every de¬ 
 gree and every instance of ease and fami¬ 
 liarity, that may seem to give the least 
 countenance to their vices; and at the 
 same time to employ every art, and every 
 earnest endeavour that can have the least 
 chance of reclaiming them. To pray for 
 
THU IiSD AY. 
 
 33 
 
 and pity them: to reprove, and advise them: 
 to please and oblige them, in every thing 
 
 I innocently can.-But ir, upon the 
 
 whole, I find them irreclaimable, and my¬ 
 self in the least possible danger of beinc 
 infected by their example—then to flv 
 them, as I would the plague; then to cut 
 oft a right hand, and pluck out a right 
 eye *, and break through every fondness, 
 and every attachment, that would destroy 
 my highest, my eternal interest. No ties 
 that subsist among human creatures, can 
 he so strong, can be so dear, or ought to 
 be so indissoluble, as those which for ever 
 bind us to our Creator and Redeemer. 
 
 Next to the bonds or nature, are those 
 of choice. Married persons are bound to 
 the observance of very sacred vows, and 
 ought therefore often to recollect them 
 and examine their conduct by them. 
 
 * That is, rather to submit to every misery and mis¬ 
 fortune that might befall me from the want of the sup¬ 
 port and assistance of my parents, than to endanger my 
 salvation. 
 
 r> 
 
34 
 
 _ ftEFLECTTONS Gtf 
 
 Among other things, they should care- 
 fully consider, whether they have so strict 
 a guard upon their temper as they ought, 
 now the happiness of another person is 
 made so greatly to depend on their easy 
 good humour and chearfulness. Whether 
 they assist and improve one another: and 
 whether they are ready to receive assist¬ 
 ance and advice as kindly as to give it. 
 Whether they preserve a delicacy of be¬ 
 haviour, a neat ness of appearance, a gentle¬ 
 ness of manner, a mildness of speech. 
 Whether they enter kindly and affection¬ 
 ately into one another’s interests and con- 
 cerns. 
 
 Friends should consider what engage¬ 
 ments they are entered into with each 
 other, how strictly they are bound dili¬ 
 gently to promote each other’s welfare: 
 to think of one another candidly and kind¬ 
 ly : to overlook little offences, to bear in¬ 
 firmities: to repay kindnesses a thousand 
 fold : to be watchful over each other’s 
 conduct: to be true, sincere, faithfol, 
 obli ging, open, constant: and to have the 
 
THURSDAY. 
 
 
 So 
 
 generous courage of reproving and op¬ 
 posing each others follies and faults. 
 
 All persons should consider to whom 
 they are accountable for their time, then- 
 labour, the superfluity of their fortune: 
 to masters, to friends, to society in general, 
 to the deserving, or the helpless poor. 
 Rich persons owe a due portion of their 
 riches to works of charity and to the pub¬ 
 lic: the great owe their protection to 
 merit: and all people owe it to themselves, 
 to improve every moment, and every op¬ 
 portunity, this life affords them. 
 
 Surely while 1 am making these reflec- 
 tions, i cannot omit more literal debts, 
 and more immediate duties. Do I owe 
 money, I am not able to pay ? Let me re¬ 
 trench every superfluous expence, till my 
 real debts are paid. Let me work and la¬ 
 bour indefatigably, till I am enabled to be 
 honest. and let me not be one moment 
 easy, while I unjustly live on the expence 
 of other people, and am hurtful to the 
 society, that ought to be the better for 
 
/■» 
 
 i3b 
 
 REFLECTIONS 0!? 
 
 It is worth considering too what promises 
 I have made. Were they ever so rash, 
 if they engaged me in nothing contrary to 
 
 innocence, it is my duty to fulfil them. 
 Happy if it teaches me the wisdom, to be 
 more cautious for the future. 
 
FRIDAY, 
 
 
 FRIDAY. 
 
 On the Happiness of the present State , 
 and the Self-denial required in it. 
 
 “ Blessed are they that mourn, for 
 
 “ they shall be comforted.” Alas does 
 • 
 
 it not seem from this, and many other 
 passages of Scripture, worthy of all observ¬ 
 ance, and of all acceptation, as if it was our 
 bounden duty in this world to lead a me¬ 
 lancholy, wretched, uncomfortable life? 
 And can this indeed be the will of Him, 
 wh© delightetn in mercy ? Who filleth our 
 hearts with food and gladness, and has, in 
 not a few places, expressly commanded us 
 to “ rejoice evermore ?” Is there then, 
 an inconsistency in the duties of religion ? 
 God forbid ! Yet short-sighted men, capa¬ 
 ble of ta! ving into one view, but a part of 
 the vast and perfectly consistent scheme 
 of duty, and guided too generally by pas¬ 
 sion or weakness, are perpetually acting as 
 
REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 •A O 
 
 oh 
 
 if this was the case. Some free spirits 
 there are, who throw off all lawful restraint, 
 and fully satisfied with themselves if they 
 keep within the widest bounds of what is 
 just allowable, indulge without caution in 
 every thing they think so. Their whole 
 time is given up to mirth and jollity : their 
 whole fortunes perhaps are spent upon 
 themselves, without any regard to the 
 calls of charity or duty. Jollily they go 
 on in life, till some unforeseen misfortune 
 stops them short, and throws a deep 
 gloom over their sunny landscape. 
 
 Another sort of people, much to be 
 esteemed, and greatly to be pitied, are 
 scrupulous about every thing, and, fright¬ 
 ed by misapprehensions of some alarming 
 texts, dare not allow themselves in the 
 most innocent conveniencics, and most 
 harmless, and, on many accounts, useful 
 and commendable pleasure. Their minds 
 are so truly pious, that they are far from 
 deliberately thinking of the infinitely great 
 and good God, as a hard and rigid master: 
 but they act with such a slavish fear, as must 
 
FRIDAY. 39 
 
 Deeds make those, who are less well-dis¬ 
 posed, frame such horridly false imagina¬ 
 tions of Him: and their well-meant strict¬ 
 ness has the most dangerous tendency in 
 the world. 
 
 Between these two extremes undoubt¬ 
 edly lies the plain path of duty : the nar¬ 
 row, but not thorny road, that leads 
 through the truest comfort this life can 
 afford, to everlasting happiness in a bet¬ 
 ter. 
 
 The natural enjoyments of life are dis¬ 
 pensed to us by a gracious Providence, to 
 mitigate its natural evils, and make our 
 passage through it not only supportable, 
 but, at fit times and seasons, so far plea¬ 
 sant, as to make us go on with vigour, 
 chearfulness, and gratitude : and to give 
 us some kind of earnest of what we are 
 bid to hope hereafter; some kind of faint 
 notion what happiness is: some sensible 
 assurances, that there really is such a 
 thing, though not to be, in any high de¬ 
 gree, enjoyed on this side of the grave. 
 —Still it is a yet more merciful dispensa- 
 
40 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 tion of the same fatherly care, that pain 
 and imperfection, satiety and disappoint¬ 
 ment, should be so mixed up with all our 
 best enjoyments in this low state of being, 
 as to turn our chief aim and desire towards 
 heaven. And let us not fear, unless we 
 wilfully and madly throw ourselves into a 
 giddy round of pleasures, on purpose to 
 be intoxicated by them, Providence will 
 mercifully interpose in the fullest tide of 
 innocent prosperity, and make us, by some 
 means or other, feel an emptiness and dis¬ 
 satisfaction, in the best, this world can 
 give: especially may this be hoped by 
 those, who. take care to keep their minds 
 always open to such serious thoughts and 
 right impressions, as will perpetually pre¬ 
 sent themselves, if not rejected : and who 
 reserve some leisure time in every day, 
 for reading and reflecting. 
 
 Our Maker knows so well the weakness 
 of our frame, that he hatli not left it to us, 
 to inflict upon ourselves, merely by way 
 of punishment, such sufferings as fie sees 
 it necessary for us to undergo. That task 
 
FRIDAY. 
 
 41 
 
 would be so bard a one, that He would by 
 no means impose it upon us. No: He 
 will take care himself, that we shall un¬ 
 avoidably feel and experience a great deal 
 of that evil which sin introduced into the 
 world : and all He requires of us, is to sup¬ 
 port it as we ought. He requires nothin^- 
 contrary to reason, and the innocent incli¬ 
 nations of nature : if any oi his laws appear 
 harsh and difficult, it is from their opposi¬ 
 tion to our acquired habits, our prejudices 
 and corruptions. To forgive injuries, to 
 return good for evil, to live peaceably with 
 all men, to be always mild, obliging, and 
 good humoured, to be kind and patient, 
 charitable and industrious, temperate, 
 sober, and modest; these are no grievous 
 laws to a pure, and well-tuned mind : 
 nor can its genuine dictates be better 
 complied with, than by observing them. 
 Still, they will be a very grievous restraint 
 on the licentiousness of our corrupted wills, 
 our heightened passions, and indulged 
 imaginations. To be continually attentive 
 to our conduct in every minute instance, 
 to set a watch before our mouth, and keep 
 
42 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 the door of our lips, to set scourges over 
 our thoughts, and the discipline of wisdom 
 over our hearts, requires a soberness of 
 mind, a diligence, a resolute adherence to 
 duty, that may undoubtedly deserve the 
 name of self-denial, and mortification: 
 though in effect nothing so certainly 
 ensures our happiness, both here and here¬ 
 after. To think we can do this by our 
 own strength, would be presumptuous and 
 vain. Tell a man, helpless with the palsy, 
 that perfect health is his natural and eli¬ 
 gible state; convince him ever so clearlv 
 liow happy it would be for him to become 
 active and industrious—your eloquence 
 is mockery, and will not help him to the 
 use ot a single limb. But though we 
 daily confess that we have “no health in 
 “ us,” He who did actually say to the 
 sick of the palsy, “ Arise, take up thy 
 “ bed, and walk,” and was immediately 
 obeyed, can effectually relieve our still 
 more helpless state. To this sovereign 
 physician we can apply for help, and by 
 the aid He imparts, are enabled to follow 
 
FRIDAY. 
 
 43 
 
 the regimen He enjoins; and thus to 
 “ go on from strength to strength, till 
 “ unto the God of Gods shall appear 
 “ every one in Sion." 
 
 Though our comfortable passage through 
 this life, and the attainment of unspeakable 
 blessedness in another, are the allowed, 
 the necessary, the enjoined objects of our 
 pursuit, yet still, in a great degree, we are 
 to renounce ourselves. By sincere hu¬ 
 mility we are to consider the vileness and 
 wretchedness of our natural state : we 
 are to acknowledge, that of ourselves we 
 are able to do nothing as we ought: and, 
 far from indulging any thoughts of vanity 
 or self-complacence, we are, when we have 
 done our very best, to confess, with un¬ 
 feigned lowliness, that we are unprofitable 
 servants. We are to trust and hope alone 
 in the merits and intercession of our blessed 
 Redeemer; and to own ourselves, “ less 
 “ than the least of God's mercies." As 
 his creatures, we are to direct all our 
 thoughts and actions to his honour and 
 service. “ Whether we eat or drink, or 
 
REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 44 
 
 “ whatever we do, we are to do all to 
 “ the glory of God." In every thing we 
 are to consider carefully the rule of duty: 
 not scrupulously or superstitiously, for 
 that tends to the dishonour of God and 
 religion, as well as our own discomfort. 
 We are never to do any thing for so low 
 an end, as merely to gratify our own child¬ 
 ish humour; but in all cases, to moderate 
 and guide ourselves by the rules of reason 
 and religion. Thus, even in using the ne¬ 
 cessary refreshments, the easy amusements, 
 and innocent pleasures of life, we are to 
 behave with a due sense of that God, who 
 is every where present. We are to look 
 up to Him with thankfulness, as the boun¬ 
 tiful bestower of all good, and chearfully 
 accept these indulgences for the ends to 
 which he has appointed them. Food, to 
 restore our strength wasted in active ser¬ 
 vice, to preserve our health and ease: 
 sleep, to renew our wearied spirits: plea¬ 
 sure, to gladden our hearts, and fill them 
 with pious gratitude and filial love. This 
 cuts off at once all that intemperance, that 
 
FRIDAY. 
 
 4 5 
 
 crosses those good purposes, destroys our 
 health, distresses our hearts, makes our 
 lives sluggish and useless, and dissipates 
 or corrupts our minds. Riches and ho¬ 
 nours also are to be received with thanks¬ 
 giving, by whomsoever Providence allots 
 them to; but then they are to be dili¬ 
 gently, and carefully, and generously em¬ 
 ployed in the best purposes: and even the 
 richest and the greatest ought to deny 
 themselves all indulgences of mere humour 
 and fancy, how well soever they may seem 
 able to afford it, and kindly and faithfully 
 consider the more pressing wants of their 
 distressed fellow-creatures. To answer the 
 purposes of charity the rich must be fru¬ 
 gal, and the poor industrious; and all give 
 freely and discreetly, as proper calls re¬ 
 quire. Every body, in their turns, to 
 maintain the peace of society and Chris¬ 
 tian concord, must repress the little risings 
 of temper, and fretfulness of humour; must 
 be ready to forgive and forget, to indulge 
 and overlook. 
 
46 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 It is endless to go on enumerating in¬ 
 stances, in which the just, the necessary 
 adherence to our duty, requires us to deny 
 our sinful selves. Our cowardice, our 
 false shame, our vanity, our weakness and 
 irresolution, our fondness and partial af¬ 
 fection, our indolence and love of ease: 
 these, and numberless infirmities more, 
 must be struggled with and conquered, 
 when we are called out to encounter dan¬ 
 gers : to confess our Saviour before men; 
 to withstand the strong torrent of custom 
 and fashion, of importunity and ill ex¬ 
 ample : to turn a deaf ear to flattery, or 
 candidly acknowledge our errors: to resist 
 solicitations: to give righteous judgment; 
 to forget all our private relations and at¬ 
 tachments, where justice or public good 
 are concerned: to resign our dearest 
 enjoyments, when it is the will of God we 
 should: to check our sorrows in their 
 fullest flow; and to go on indefatigablv 
 improving ourselves, and doing good to 
 others, till the night overtakes us, “ in 
 “ which no man can work/’ 
 
 4 
 
FRIDAY* 
 
 47 
 
 The sufferings which it shall please Al¬ 
 mighty God to inflict upon us, we are to 
 accept with humble resignation; acknow¬ 
 ledging his justice, and submitting to it 
 without a murmur. Thus patiently also 
 we are to receive all the lesser crosses He 
 sees fit to lay upon us; nor ever suffer 
 ourselves to fret or repine at the various 
 infirmities of human nature, in ourselves 
 or others. All these we must look upon 
 as parts of that penalty justly inflicted on 
 our first parents guilt; and heartily thank 
 Him, that He does not, according to the 
 terrifying notions of popery, either expect 
 us to inflict them on ourselves, or give us 
 the dreadful alternative of a purgatory 
 after death. Uncommanded severities, 
 that are of no apparent use, but to tor¬ 
 ment ourselves, and sour our natures, and 
 shorten our lives, can never be acceptable 
 to our gracious Maker Our blessed 
 
 * Vengeance is mine; I zcill repay, saith the Lord. 
 Romans xii. CO. Surely then it must follow that we have 
 no more right to revenge, or punish our own offences 
 upon ourselves, than as private individuals we have 
 
48 
 
 REFLECTIONfS O N 
 
 Saviour, when He mentions lasting as a 
 duty, along with prayer and almsgiving, 
 leaves the frequency and strictness of it to 
 our own discretion: and only insists upon 
 one circumstance, which is, that we should 
 avoid in it all hypocrisy and ostentation; 
 and be careful to keep up all ease, good 
 humour and agreeableness of behaviour. 
 There are very proper occasions for exer¬ 
 cising this duty, without the least super¬ 
 stition or moroseness, and where it may 
 tend to the best purposes. Public calami¬ 
 ties, private distresses or temptations, 
 perplexities and difficulties, times of pecu¬ 
 liarly solemn devotion, and of resolutely 
 endeavouring to conquer such obstinate 
 faults and ill habits, as, like the dumb 
 spirit in the Gospel, can “ come out only 
 “ by prayer and fasting/’ But where it 
 makes us appear stiff and disagreeable, in¬ 
 terferes with the innocent chearfulness of 
 
 upon our offending neighbour. In both cases it mu it 
 be left to God; for as we arc unable to judge of the 
 extent of the wrong-doing, so neither can we of the 
 proper measure of the deserved punishment. 
 
FRIDAY. 
 
 49 
 
 society, or may influence our health or 
 temper in any wrong way, in such cases 
 it becomes a hurtful superstition, and as 
 such unallowable. To observe the public 
 fasts appointed by authority, in a manner 
 suited to every person's strength and abi-> 
 lity, with decency and reverence, can have 
 none of these evil consequences : and the 
 practice of this duty, at fit times, and in 
 a reasonable degree, is an excellent re¬ 
 membrancer of the wretchedness of be¬ 
 ing attached to any sensual gratifications, 
 and the easiness as well as necessity, at fit 
 times to forbear them. 
 
 E 
 
56 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 SATURDAY. 
 
 < jf' « 
 
 The Importance of Time in relation to 
 
 Eternity . 
 
 Another week is past; another of 
 
 those little limited portions of time, which 
 number out my life. Let me stop a little 
 here, before I enter upon a new one, and 
 consider what this life is, which is thus 
 imperceptibly stealing away, and whither 
 it is conducting me ? What is its end and 
 aim, its good and its evil, its use and im¬ 
 provement ? What place does it fill in the 
 universe ? What proportion does it bear 
 
 to eternity ? 
 
 * 
 
 This mortal life is the beginning of ex¬ 
 istence to beings made for immortality, 
 and graciously designed, unless by wilful 
 guilt they forfeit it, for everlasting happi¬ 
 ness. Compared with eternity, its longest 
 duration is less than a moment: therefore 
 its good and evil, considered without a re- 
 
SATURDAY, 51 
 
 gard to the influence they may have on an 
 eternity to come, must be trifling to a de¬ 
 gree below contempt. The short scene 
 begun in birth, and closed by death, is 
 acted over millions of times, in every age ; 
 and all the little concerns of mortality are 
 pursued, transacted, and forgotten, like 
 the labours of a bee-hive, or the bustle of 
 an ant-hill. “ The thing which hath been, 
 “ it is that which shall be, and that which 
 “ is done, is that which shall be done: 
 “ and there is no new thing under the 
 “ sun/' Our wisdom, therefore, is to pass 
 through this busy dream as calmly as we 
 can ; and not suffer ourselves to be more 
 deeply attached to any of these transitory 
 things, than the momentariness and un¬ 
 importance of them deserves. 
 
 But considering this short life as a pro¬ 
 bation for eternity, as a trial whose issue 
 is to determine our everlasting state, its 
 importance to ourselves appears beyond 
 expression great, and fills a right mind 
 with equal awe and transport. The im¬ 
 portant day will come, when there shall be 
 
 e 2 
 
52 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 a new thing indeed, but not “ under the 
 “ sun lor “ heaven and earth shall pass 
 “ awaybut the words of Him, who 
 created them, “ shall not pass away.” 
 
 Vv hat t hen is the good or the evil of life, 
 but as it has a tendency to prepare, or 
 unfit us for that decisive day, when “ the 
 “ Son ol man shall come in the clouds with 
 “ great power and great glory, and shall 
 “ send his angels, and shall gather to- 
 14 gether his elect from the four'winds/' 
 That Son of man who is the Son of God, 
 “ blessed for evermore/' and once before 
 came down from heaven, and took upon 
 him this our mortal nature, with all its 
 innocent infirmities and sufferings: and 
 
 O 
 
 subjected himself even to the death of the 
 cross, that he might redeem us from all 
 our sins, and obtain the gift of everlasting 
 
 O 
 
 life for all, who should not wilfully frus- 
 irate this last and greatest effort of divine 
 inercv. 
 
 What then have vve to do, but with love 
 and gratitude unutterable to embrace the 
 oilers of salvation; and henceforth be- 
 
SATURDAY. 
 
 53 
 
 come in every thing His true and faithful 
 disciples ? To whom should we live but to 
 Him, who died for us ? To whom should 
 we give up ourselves, but to Him who 
 gave up himself for us ? whose 44 yoke is 
 44 easy, and his burden light.’' In whom 
 should we trust, but in eternal truth ? In 
 whom should we chearfully hope, but in 
 infinite goodness ? Whom should we copy, 
 but him, who was made like unto us in all 
 things, sin only excepted, and has left us 
 an example, that we should 44 follow his 
 44 steps ?*' Which if we do faithfully to the 
 utmost of our power, his grace shall so 
 assist us, that in the end we shall be 
 where he is, to behold his glory, and par¬ 
 take his bliss. 
 
 Let me think then, and think deeply, 
 how I have employed this week past. 
 II ave I advanced in, or deviated from the 
 path that leads to life ? Has my time been 
 improved or lost, or worse than lost, mis¬ 
 spent ? If the last, let me use double 
 diligence to redeem it ? Have I spent a 
 due portion of my time in acts oi devotion 
 
54 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON 
 
 and piety, both private, public, and do¬ 
 mestic ? And have they been sincere, and 
 free from all mixture of superstition, mo- 
 roseness, or weak scrupulosity ? Have I, 
 in society, been kind and helpful, mild, 
 peaceable and obliging ? Have I been 
 charitable, friendly, discreet ? Have I had 
 a due regard, without vanity or ostenta¬ 
 tion, to set a good example P Have I been 
 equally ready to give and receive instruc¬ 
 tion, and proper advice ? Careful to give 
 no offence, and patient to take every thing 
 in good part ? Have I been honest, up¬ 
 right and disinterested ? Have I, in my 
 way, and according to my station and 
 calling, been ddigent, frugal, generous, 
 and industrious to do good ? Have I, in 
 all my behaviour, consulted the happiness 
 and ease of those I live with, and of all 
 who have any dependance upon me ? 
 Have 1 preserved my understanding clear, 
 my temper calm, my spirits chearful, my 
 body temperate and healthy, and my 
 heart in a right frame ? If to all these 
 questions I can hupibly, yet confidently 
 
SATURDAY 
 
 55 
 
 answer, that I have done my^ best: If. I 
 have truly repented all the faulty past, and 
 made humble, yet firm, and vigorous, and 
 deliberate resolutions for the future, poor 
 as it is, the honest endeavour will be gra¬ 
 ciously accepted * And I may to-morrow, 
 gladly and securely approach the sacred 
 table, and partake that bread of life, which 
 our blessed Saviour gave, to nourish to all 
 goodness those w 7 ho receive it worthily, 
 and to be not only the means of grace, 
 but the pledge of glory. Amen ! 
 

 
 
 
 - 
 
 ... 
 
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 ' * ' . • ' 
 
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 • • 
 
 
 
 
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 - 
 
 ' ' 1 5 : * 
 
 ■ ’ ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ESSAYS 
 
 05 ? 
 
 VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 
 
ESSAY I. 
 
 On the Employment of Time in the different. 
 Situations in Society . 
 
 scarce ever walked, with any set 
 of company, by a neat cottage, but some¬ 
 body or other has expressed their envy 
 of the pastoral inhabitant. It is cpite 
 common, among people of easy and affluent 
 circumstances, to imagine in a splenetic 
 moment, every laborious situation happier 
 than their own: and to wish an exchange 
 with the plough-man, the shepherd, or 
 the mechanic. I have sometimes thought 
 this an affectation : and a very false senti¬ 
 ment it surelv is. For if all made the im- 
 provement they ought of their own way of 
 life, there can be little doubt, but the 
 higher, and more leisurable stations would 
 be, upon the whole, the happiest. That 
 they rarely prove so in fact, is the fault of 
 
 5 
 
60 
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 the possessors: who unable to avoid their 
 necessary cares, and unindustrious to seek 
 out their true advantages, sink under a 
 weight, that they might easily balance, so 
 as not to feel it. 
 
 What is generally called the spleen, is no 
 other than the uneasv consciousness and 
 dissatisfaction of a mind formed for nobler 
 pursuits and better purposes, than it is 
 ever put upon. Mere pleasure is an end 
 too unworthy for a rational being to make 
 its only aim. Yet persons, unconstrained 
 by necessity, are so apt to be allured by 
 indolence and amusement, that their bet¬ 
 ter faculties are seldom exercised as they 
 ought to be: though every employment 
 that serves no other purpose than merely 
 to while away the present moment, gives 
 the mind a painiui sensation, that whether 
 distinctly attended to, or not, makes up 
 when frequently repeated, the sum ot that 
 satiety and tediousness so often lamented, 
 in prosperous life. 
 
 There is, doubtless, to many persons a 
 real difficulty in making the choice of an 
 
ESSAY r. 
 
 61 
 
 employment, when they are left, per¬ 
 fectly at liberty, to chase what they will. 
 Necessity is perhaps the most satisfactory 
 guide: and for that reason alone, the 
 artificer, the shepherd and the farmer, are 
 happier than their affluent neighbours. 
 The poor man must either work or starve: 
 so he makes the best of his lot: works 
 
 enjoys the fruit of his 
 honest labour, lhe rich, the easy, the 
 indolent, have a task as necessary, but not 
 so obvious. There is room for some doubt, 
 and uncertainty as to the way of setting 
 about it. A. lite or sublime speculation is 
 too high for the present state: a life of soft 
 pleasure is loo low. The right medium 
 is a life busied in the exercise of duty: and 
 duties there are peculiar to every situation, 
 
 and an enquiry into these is the leading 
 one 
 
 * This is rather obscurely expressed. The meaning 
 seems to be, that an enquiry into each person's peculiar 
 situation is his leading duty; i. e. that duty, without 
 proper attention to which he cannot practise the rest. 
 
62 
 
 JCSSAT I. 
 
 I was drawn into this speculation by 
 having indulged, last Summer, a whole 
 week of idleness in a visit I made to an 
 old acquaintance in the country. I, too, 
 took it into my head one afternoon, to 
 envy a poor man, who was hard at work 
 for his livelihood mending the roof of a 
 church, where he had some danger, as 
 well as toil. I, who had been seeking out 
 the coolest shade, and reclining on the 
 greenest turf, amid the fragrance of a 
 thousand flowers: I, who had leisure to 
 attend to the warbling of birds around me, 
 or in peace and safety might amuse my¬ 
 self w r ith the liveliest wit and eloquence of 
 Greece and Rome —would have resigned 
 all these delights with joy, to sit whistling 
 at the top of a high ladder, suffering both 
 heat and hunger. 
 
 After ruminating much on so odd a phe¬ 
 nomenon, I could find no better way of ac¬ 
 counting for it, than from the preferable¬ 
 ness of any allotted employment, to an in¬ 
 active indulgence of selfish pleasure. It 
 would therefore be worth while for all of 
 
ESSAY I. 
 
 6 $ 
 
 as to consider what is our allotted employ¬ 
 ment, and sitting down contented with 
 that, all might be more than tolerably 
 happy, and no such great inequalities in 
 the world, as are usually complained of. 
 
 Not that all amusement and indulgence 
 should be severely banished. When pro¬ 
 perly and proportionably mixed with the 
 more serious purposes of life, they become 
 a part of duty. Rest and relaxation are 
 necessary to health: the elegant arts refine 
 our imaginations * : and the most trifling 
 gaities serve to cherish our good humour 
 and innocent alacrity of heart. The en¬ 
 joyment of proper delights fills us with 
 gratitude to their all-bountiful Dispenser, 
 and adds to the bands of society a flowerv 
 chain of no small strength, and does justice 
 to a fair world, that is full of them. The 
 number of them varies according to 
 numberless circumstances : but, in no cir¬ 
 cumstance, are mere amusement and re¬ 
 laxation to be considered as the business 
 
 * --ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes 
 
 Einoilit mores.-— Ovid, 
 
ESSAY I. 
 
 64 
 
 of life, or to be substituted for that real 
 task, which, in some instance or other, is 
 allotted to every .state. 
 
 Let. then the shepherd enjoy his peace, 
 his meadows, and his oaten pipe *. Let 
 the honest artificer pursue his trade with 
 chearful industry, and rejoice that the 
 weight of states and kingdoms does not lie 
 upon his shoulders. Let the man of a 
 middle station know his happiness, in pos¬ 
 sessing with quiet obscurity, all the comforts 
 of society and domestic life, with leisure, 
 and advantage for making the noblest im¬ 
 provements of the mind. Let the rich 
 and great still look higher, and instead of 
 repining at 
 
 “ Ceremony, the Idol Ceremony !” 
 
 which debars them of those free and hum¬ 
 ble joys, delight themselves with their 
 extensive power of doing good, and dif¬ 
 fusing happiness around them. 
 
 * Had Dr. Johnson reviewed this Essay, all its moral 
 worth would not have induced him to pass over the oaten 
 pipe , without severe animadversion. 
 
£ssay I* 
 
 What an alternative is put into tile choice 
 of man ! By employment or misuse of the 
 faculties assigned him, he may rise to what 
 dignity, or sink to what baseness he will, 
 in the class of moral beings. Human ex¬ 
 istence is an inestimable gem, capable of 
 receiving whatever polish we will please to 
 give it: and if heightened with the dili¬ 
 gence it ought, will shine in due time, with 
 a lustre more dazzling than the stars 
 
 It would not be fantastical (for its foun¬ 
 dation is in truth and reality) to form a 
 scale of nobility *f* very different from the 
 common distinction of birth*, titles, and 
 
 * Is not this the very circumstance in which the true 
 dignity of human nature consists; the power inherent 
 in each individual of exalting it to the highest degree of 
 happiness with the capability of retaining that happiness 
 even to eternity ? 
 
 L This was humorously attempted in a late periodical 
 publication, (probably either the Mirror or the Loun¬ 
 ger) in a manner more remotely connected with mora¬ 
 lity ; in which bodily health is made the criterion of 
 greatness; and a man is said to deserve more or less re¬ 
 spect, in proportion to the strength or weakness ol his 
 constitution. 
 
66 
 
 ESSAY r. 
 
 fortune ; and wholly according to that fi¬ 
 gure, persons make in the moral world, and 
 
 according to their various degrees of im- 
 
 • 
 
 provement and usefulness. The change 
 would not be total. Many, who are now 
 high in life, would continue so * : but not 
 
 a few would be strangely degraded. 
 
 | 0 
 
 Of what account indeed in the true sys¬ 
 tem of life is he (be he what he will in 
 greatness) who sleeps away his being in in¬ 
 dolent amusement ? Whose hours hang* 
 heavy on his hands, without the gaming¬ 
 table, the bottle, the buffoon or the tay- 
 ior ? And whose mind amidst them all, is 
 perpetually clouded with a splenetic dis¬ 
 content, the inevitable rust of unused fa¬ 
 culties ? Uncomfortable to himself, and 
 unimportant to his fellow-creatures, what¬ 
 ever- w r ere his advantages of nature and for¬ 
 tune, he has degraded himself from them 
 alL A day-labourer, who does his ut- 
 
 * Miss Talbot’s own character, as has been ob¬ 
 served in the Preface to the Letters between her and 
 Mrs. Carter, forcibly illustrates this observation. Hap¬ 
 pily for the world there are still many instances of it. 
 
ESSAY I. 67 
 
 liiost at the plough and the cart, is a much 
 more respectable being. 
 
 In this scale, the miser's plea of poverty 
 would be readily admitted, as witnessed by 
 his anxious look and sordid life: while 
 the frank heart and open countenance 
 should be set down for the merit of a 
 pluim 
 
 Even the miser himself has a class of 
 inferiors* and that, without speaking of 
 the downright vicious, who come under 
 another kind of consideration. These are 
 the oyster-livers: such as lose the very 
 use of their limbs from mere laziness, and 
 waste year after year fixed to one uncom¬ 
 fortable spot; where they eat and drink, 
 sleep and grumble on : while the duty of 
 their situation properly attended to, would 
 make them happy in themselves, and a 
 happiness to others. Were the pearl taken 
 out of that unsightly shell, what a circula¬ 
 tion of riches and ornaments might it make 
 to society ! But while these poor animals 
 can fatten on their barren rock, it matters 
 not to them. 
 
 V O 
 
 r m 
 
68 
 
 ESSAY I. 
 
 If cowardice sinks persons lower than 
 all other vices, beneath even these will 
 come in the poor slaves of false shame, the 
 mean deserters of their duty. How many, 
 that now pass for men of honour and spirit, 
 would appear more weak and timorous than 
 female fear. Some not daring to refuse a 
 challenge * : others drinking against incli¬ 
 nation, or affronting religion against their 
 own consciences: or prodigal of health 
 and fortune, from merely wanting strength 
 to resist the vain current of fashion. No 
 black slave sold in a market is so far from 
 liberty, as every one of these. 
 
 In numberless such ways, does the be¬ 
 wildered race of man deviate from the 
 paths of felicity and glory, and childishly 
 squander away inestimable advantages. 
 For just in proportion to the improvement 
 of those faculties, with which heaven has 
 intrusted us, our beings are ennobled, and 
 
 * This was a favourite idea with Miss Talbot. See 
 it farther illustrated in the Letters between her and Mrs. 
 Carter, vol. i. p. 327- which produced the story of 
 Eugenio in the Adventurer. 
 
ESSAY I.. 
 
 69 
 
 our happiness heightened. The enjoy¬ 
 ments of a mere animal existence are flat 
 and low. The comforts of. plain ordinary 
 life, in those who have some feelings of the 
 connexions of society, but no idea of any 
 thing higher, rise in the next degree. 
 The pleasures of an improved imagination 
 take in a circle vastly wider and more fair. 
 1 he joys of a benevolent heart animated 
 by an active diligent spirit, refined senti¬ 
 ments, and affections justly warm, exceed 
 the most gay imagination. The strong 
 sense, and genuine love of truth and good¬ 
 ness, with all those noblest dispositions? 
 that fill a mind affected and penetrated, as 
 it ought to be, with a sense of religion, 
 and practising every part of Christian duty, 
 ascends still higher, and raises humanity to 
 that point, from which it begins to claim 
 a near alliance with superior natures. 
 
70 
 
 ESSAY IT, 
 
 ESSAY IL 
 
 On true Politeness . 
 
 Politeness is tlie most agreeable 
 
 band of society, and I cannot help attri-? 
 bating more ill consequences to the ge¬ 
 neral disregard of it, than people, at pre«? 
 sent, are apt to attend to. Perhaps it 
 may be so intirely laid aside, by the time 
 that this manuscript comes into any body's 
 hand *, that the page, which preserves 
 some faint outlines of its resemblance, may 
 be thought no unuseful one; or at least 
 by the lovers of antiquity, may be read 
 ydth pleasure, as containing some curious 
 
 * That time seems now to have arrived, when free¬ 
 dom has so generally usurped the place of politeness, 
 and even gallant attention to the weaker sex has given 
 way to ease not unfrequently degenerating into rudeness 
 itself. If Miss Talbot’s age deserved the censure con¬ 
 tained in the text, what must be thought of the 
 present. 
 
ESSAY II. 
 
 71 
 
 remains of an elegant art: an art, that hu¬ 
 manized the world, for many years, till the 
 fine spirits of the present age thought fit 
 to throw it off, as a narrow restraint, and a 
 mean prejudice of education. 
 
 Politeness is the just medium between 
 form and rudeness. It is the consequence 
 of a benevolent nature, which shows itself, 
 to general acquaintance, in an obliging, 
 unconstrained civility, as it does, to more 
 particular ones, in distinguished acts of 
 kindness. This good nature must be di¬ 
 rected by a justness of sense, and a quick¬ 
 ness of discernment, that knows how to use 
 every opportunity of exercising it, and to 
 proportion the instances of it, to every cha¬ 
 racter and situation. It is a restraint laid 
 by reason and benevolence, upon every ir¬ 
 regularity of the temper, which, in obe¬ 
 dience to them, is forced to accommodate 
 itself even to the fantastic laws, which 
 custom and fashion have established, if, by 
 that means it can procure, in any degree, 
 the satisfaction, or good opinion of any 
 
ESSAY ir. 
 
 \ 
 
 70 
 
 part of mankind. Thus paying an obliging 
 deference to their judgment, so far as it is 
 not inconsistent with the higher obligations 
 of virtue and religion. 
 
 This must be accompanied with an ele-* 
 gance of taste, and a delicacy observant of 
 the least trifles, which tend to please or to 
 oblige : and though its foundation must be 
 rooted in the heart, it can scarce be per¬ 
 fected without a complete knowledge of 
 the world. 
 
 In society, it is the medium, that blends 
 all different tempers, into the most pleasing 
 harmony, while it imposes silence on the 
 loquacious, and inclines the most reserved 
 to furnish their share of the conversation, 
 it represses the ambition of shining alone* 
 and increases the desire of being mutually 
 agreeable. It takes off the edge of raillery, 
 and gives delicacy to wit. It preserves a 
 proper subordination amongst all ranks of 
 people, and can reconcile a perfect ease, 
 with the most exact propriety. 
 
 To superiors it appears in a respectful 
 freedom: no greatness can awe it into 
 
I 
 
 ESSAY II. 73 
 
 servility, and no intimacy can sink it into 
 a regardless familiarity. 
 
 To inferiors it shews itself in an unas¬ 
 suming good nature. Its aim is to raise 
 them to you, not to let you down to them. 
 
 It at once maintains the dignity of your 
 station, and expresses the goodness of your 
 heart. 
 
 To equals it is every thing that is charm¬ 
 ing. It studies their inclinations, pre¬ 
 vents their desires, attends to every little 
 exactness of behaviour, and all the time 
 appears perfectly disengaged and careless. 
 
 Such, and so amiable is true politeness, 
 bv people of wrong heads and unworthy 
 hearts disgraced in its two extremes : And, 
 by the generality of mankind, confined 
 within the narrow bounds of mere good 
 breeding, which, in truth, is only one in¬ 
 stance of it. 
 
 There is a kind of character, which does . 
 not in the least deserve to be reckoned 
 polite, though it is exact in every punctilio 
 of behaviour. -Such as would not for the 
 world omit paying you the civility of a 
 
74 
 
 ESSAY II. 
 
 bow, or tail m tbs least circumstance of 
 decorum: I3ut then these people do this 
 so merely for their own sake, that whether 
 you are pleased or embarrassed with it, is 
 little of their care. They have performed 
 their own parts, and are satisfied. One 
 there is, who says more civil things than 
 half mankind besides, and yet, is “ So 
 obliging that he never obliged.’" Tor 
 while be is paying the highest court to 
 some one person of the company, he must 
 of course neglect the rest, which is ill 
 made up, by a forced recollection at last, 
 and some lame civility, which, however it 
 may be worded, does in effect express 
 only this, “ I protest I had quite forgot 
 you: but as insignificant as you are, I 
 most not, for my own sake, let you go 
 “ home out of humour/" Thus everyone 
 m their turn, finding his civility to be just 
 as variable as his interest, no one thinks 
 himself obliged to him for it. 
 
 This then is a proof, that true polite¬ 
 ness, whose great end is giving real plea¬ 
 sure, can have its source only in a virtuous 
 
 9 
 
ESSAY II* 
 
 75 
 
 and benevolent heart. Yet this is not 
 all: it must observe propriety too. There 
 is a character of perfect good nature, that 
 loves to have every thing about it happy 
 or merry. This is a character greatly to 
 be beloved, but has little claim to the title 
 of politeness. Such persons have no no-* 
 tion of freedom without noise and tumult: 
 and by taking off every proper restraint, 
 and sinking themselves to the level of their 
 companions, even lessen the pleasure these 
 would have in the company of their su-* 
 periors. 
 
 Cleanthes too loved to have every body 
 about him pleased and easy. But in his 
 family, freedom went hand in hand, with 
 order; while his experience of the world, 
 in an age of more real accomplishments, 
 preserved his whole behaviour agreeable 
 to his company, and becoming his sta¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Certainly this regard to the different 
 stations of life is too much neglected by 
 all ranks of people. A few reflections will 
 show this but too plainly. That the go- 
 
ESSAY II. 
 
 76 
 
 vernment of states and kingdoms should 
 he placed in a few hands was, in the ear* 
 liest ages of the world, found necessary to 
 the well-being of society. Power gave a 
 kind of sanction to the persons in whose 
 bands it was. vested; and when the peo¬ 
 ples’ minds were awed into obedience, 
 there was the less need of punishments to 
 restrain their actions. Each various rank, 
 of them viewed, with profound respect, 
 that which was most regularly beautiful; 
 and the pile of government rose, in due 
 proportion, with harmony in all its parts *'* 
 Very different is the present scene, 
 where all sorts of people put themselves 
 upon a level: where the meanest and most 
 ignorant censure without reserve, the great¬ 
 est and the wisest: where the sublimest 
 subjects are scanned without reverence, 
 the softest treated without delicacy. 
 
 * If Mr. Burke never read these Essays, it is a cu¬ 
 rious circumstance that he should have made us of 
 this same metaphor (though much more highly orna¬ 
 mented) in his admired work on the French Revo¬ 
 lution » 
 
£SSAY II. 
 
 77 
 
 There was a time, when from this prin¬ 
 ciple of politeness, oar sex received a thoa*- 
 sand delicate distinctions, which made ns 
 as it were amends for oar exclusion from 
 
 $ m 
 
 the more shining and tumultuous scenes of 
 life. Perhaps it is a good deal our own 
 fault, that within some years, the manner 
 of treating us has been entirely altered. 
 When the fine lady becomes a hoyden, no 
 wonder if the fine gentleman behaves to 
 her like a clown. When people go out of 
 their own proper character, it is like what 
 silly folks imagine about going out of the 
 conjurer s circle: beyond those limits you 
 must expect no mercy. 
 
 It would be endless to reckon up the 
 various errors on each side of true polite¬ 
 ness, which form humourists and flatter¬ 
 ers, characters of blunt or ceremonious 
 impertinence. But that I may give as 
 true a standard of the thing itself, as I am 
 capable of doing, I will conclude my paper 
 with the character of Cynthio, from whose 
 conversation and behaviour I have possibly 
 collected most of the hints which form it. 
 
ESSAY IT. 
 
 78 
 
 “ Cynthio * has added to his natural 
 “ sense a thorough knowledge of the 
 
 world: by which he has attained that 
 “ masterly ease in behaviour, and that 
 « Graceful carelessness of manner, that 
 “ no body, I know, possesses in so high 
 <« a degree. You may see, that his po- 
 « liteness flows from something superior 
 “ to the little forms of custom, from 
 < 6 a humane and benevolent heart di¬ 
 ce re cted by a judgment, that always 
 “ seizes what is just and proper; and 
 6; formed into such an habitual good 
 € ‘ breeding, that no forced attention even 
 puts you in mind, at the time, that 
 
 # Jn one of Mrs. Talbot’s Letters to Mrs. Carter, she 
 says that she believes the character of Cynthio to have 
 been meant by her daughter for Dr. Gregory; but she 
 adds, that in her opinion the character flatters him very 
 much. Dr. Gregory was a Canon of Christ-churchy 
 and had married Lady Mary Grey, with all the branches 
 of which family Mrs. and Miss Talbot were very inti¬ 
 mately acquainted. It is probable that Miss Talbot 
 was a better judge of the minute and delicate circum¬ 
 stances on which true politeness so much depends, than 
 her mother was. 
 
ESSAY ir. 
 
 79 
 
 Cynthio is taking pains to entertain 
 44 you, though upon recollection you find 
 44 him to be, for that very reason, a man 
 44 of the compleatest politeness. 
 
 44 IIis conversation is always suited to 
 44 the company he is in, yet so as never to 
 44 depart from the propriety of his own 
 44 character. As he is naturally indolent. 
 44 he is generally the least talkative of 
 44 the set; but he makes up for this, by 
 44 expressing more in a few words, than 
 44 the generality of people do in a great 
 44 many sentences. He is formed indeed 
 “ for making conversation agreeable: 
 44 since he has good nature, which makes 
 44 him place every thing that can have a 
 44 share in it, in the most favourable liirhc 
 44 that it is capable of: and a turn of 
 44 humour, that can put the most trifling 
 44 subject in some amusing point of view. 
 
 44 In a large company, Cynthio was 
 44 never known to engross the whole at- 
 44 tent ion to some one favourite subject, 
 44 which could suit with only a part of it; 
 44 or to dictate, even in a small one* 
 
SO ESSAY* ff. 
 
 44 With a very quick discernment, to 
 44 avoid speaking or thinking severely of 
 S( the many faults and follies, this world 
 46 abounds with, is a proof of an excellent 
 44 temper too, which can be no way con- 
 44 stantly supported, and made in its 
 44 effects, consistent with itself, but upon 
 44 the basis of serious principles. 
 
 44 This then is the support of Cynthio’s 
 44 character, and this it is, that regulates 
 44 his actions, even where his natural 
 « inclination would direct him diffe- 
 “ rently. Thus, when the welfare of the 
 sc public is concerned, he can assume a 
 « 4 strictness, that carries great awe with 
 « it, and a severity, that a mere constitu- 
 ct tional good nature would be hurt by, 
 « though it answers the most valuable 
 «« ends of true humanity. Thus his 
 46 natural indolence is allowed to show 
 44 itself, only in things of trifling conse- 
 44 quence, or such as he thinks so, be- 
 44 cause they regard only himself: but 
 44 whenever he has any opportunity of 
 44 serving a friend, or doing a worthy 
 
ESSAY II. 
 
 cc 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 66 
 
 action, no body is so ready, so vigilant, 
 so active, so constant in the pursuit; 
 which is seldom unsuccessful, because 
 he has a useful good sense, that directs 
 him to the properest methods of pro¬ 
 ceeding. Upon such an occasion, not 
 the longest journey, or most tedious 
 solicitation, no appearance of trouble or 
 
 “ of danger can discourage him. 
 
 Sincei ifcy is so essential a part of 
 fuendship, that no one so perfect, in 
 us Othei branches, can be wanting in 
 that. Uut how, you will say, can this 
 be reconciled with politeness ? flow can 
 that, whose utmost care is never to 
 offend, ever venture upon telling a dis- 
 “ agreeable truth ? Why this is one of the 
 wonders, which a good and a right in¬ 
 tention, well directed, can perform i 
 and Gy nth 10 can even oblige people. 
 
 by telling them very plainly of their 
 u faults.” 
 
 I perceive, I have wandered from my 
 fiist intention, which was only to give a 
 general sketch of this character, as influx 
 
 0 
 
 / 
 
S2 
 
 ESSAY ir. 
 
 enced 'by that humanity, whose conse¬ 
 quence is such a desire of pleasing, as is 
 the source of politeness. But before I 
 have done with it, I must add this one 
 distinguishing stroke, that though many 
 people may excel in separate good qualities 
 and accomplishments, more than Cynthio, 
 yet I never saw them so equally pro¬ 
 portioned, or so agreeably blended as in 
 him, to form that whole behaviour that 
 makes him the fittest example for an Essay 
 on this subject. 
 
ESSAY III. 
 
 *s 
 
 ESSAY III. 
 
 On the Accommodation of the Temper to 
 
 Circumstances . 
 
 LE f me be allowed to make a new 
 . word, and let that word be accommo - 
 d ableness. 
 
 The disposition of mind, I mean by 
 that word to express, is of such constant 
 and universal use, that it is certainly worth 
 while to distinguish it by a name of its 
 own. We English have not much of it 
 in our nature, and therefore it is no won¬ 
 der we have not an expression to suit it. 
 It is such a flexibity of mind, as hinders 
 the least struggle between reason and tem¬ 
 per. It is the very height and perfection 
 ot good humour, shown as well in an in¬ 
 stantaneous transition from mirth to seri¬ 
 ousness, when that is best suited to the 
 place and people, as it is in the liveliest 
 
 G 2 
 
ESSAY III. 
 
 $4* 
 
 flashes of gaiety. It is an art of sitting so 
 loose from our own humours and designs, 
 that the mere having expected, or intend- 
 ed, or wished a thing to be otherwise than 
 it is, shall not, for a moment, ruffle our 
 brows, or discompose our thoughts. It is 
 an art, for it requires time and pains to 
 perfect it. 
 
 All this is indeed included in what has 
 been said of politeness, but it is worth 
 dwelling upon in a new light. It is the 
 means of making every trifling occurrence 
 jn life, of some use to us. For want of it, 
 liking and luck are ever at cross purposes. 
 To-day we are sad: and then if we fall 
 into a jovial company, all their mirth 
 seems displaced, and but grates upon our 
 fancy. To-morrow, we are as whimsically 
 determined to be merry : and then, how 
 unsuited is our temper, to the scenes of 
 sad improvement, we so often meet with! 
 How unfit are we then to commiserate the 
 wretched, or to draw just considerations 
 from the melancholy side of life ! 
 
ESSAY Hi. 
 
 u 
 
 This body, by some accident or other, 
 we look upon in a light of prejudice : a 
 foolish story told of them, or perhaps a 
 disagreeable look, or a peculiar trick, makes 
 us lose all the advantage, that might be 
 had, by attending to their more valuable 
 qualifications : for every body has some.— 
 Another we despise, merely for our own 
 ignorance of their worth. We look upon 
 persons in a light of burlesque, from some 
 ridiculous circumstance : when, perhaps, 
 their serious character has something 
 really good in it, that is quite past over. 
 I have felt it myself often: and that 
 makes me dwell upon the subject, for I 
 think, one always talks best from expe¬ 
 rience. 
 
 I have read somewhere a Fairy story, in 
 which a princess is described, born under 
 such a charm, that till she came to a cer¬ 
 tain age it was impossible she should ever 
 enjoy any lasting satisfaction. The hap¬ 
 piness of her ensuing life depended upon 
 the observing this condition: and for that 
 
86 
 
 ESSAY lit; 
 
 reason those Fairies, who had the care of 
 her education, were most exact in their 
 attention to it. Did she begin to take 
 pleasure in any employment ? It was im¬ 
 mediately changed, and her application 
 was called off to some new one. As soon 
 as she had got over the difficulties of that, 
 she was engaged in a third: and so on, 
 year after year, till she was quite grown 
 up. If any amusement was proposed, il 
 she began to taste the least delight, in the 
 splendour of a public show, or the gaiety 
 of a rural landscape, the scene was imme¬ 
 diately shifted, and a dull solitude took 
 the place of what had charmed her. 
 
 Such is our situation in this world. In 
 such a case, all the poor princess had for 
 it, was to shift her inclinations, as fast 
 as the Fairies could her amusements: and 
 when she had learned to do this, I think 
 indeed, one might answer for it, that the 
 rest of her life could not fail to be happy. 
 
 Our humours and dispositions are cer¬ 
 tainly as various, as the accidents that 
 
ESSAY III* 
 
 87 
 
 happen to exercise them: but then, the 
 misfortune is, that they are frequently 
 misplaced. 1 have often been in a hu¬ 
 mour for moralizing and improving, when 
 my fancy had much more properly been 
 filled with gay images of an assembly : 
 then, that idleness might not lose its due, 
 how frequently have my thoughts wan¬ 
 dered from a philosophical lecture, to a 
 crowded park, nay sometimes from a ser¬ 
 mon, to a ball-room ? 
 
 To continue always in the same turn of 
 humour, be it ever so graceful on some 
 occasions, is nothing better than dancing 
 smoothly out of time. Some people have 
 such an eternal simper upon their face, 
 that they will tell you the most melancholy 
 story, or express the most pathetic con¬ 
 cern, with a smile. Others have such an 
 earnest attention, that they will listen to a 
 gossip's tale with the gravity of a phi¬ 
 losopher. 
 
 All have some good qualities, something 
 or other, in their character or conversation, 
 
that rightly attended to, we may be the? 
 better for. When in company with peo¬ 
 ple of mere good humour, we should 
 weaken all the mirthful faculties of our 
 mind, and take this time for unbending 
 our more serious thoughts. We are not to 
 consider whether one is of a proper rank, 
 or another of an agreeable aspect, or 
 whether we might not be better employed 
 in our closets, or better engaged in com¬ 
 pany elsewhere; but accommodate our., 
 selves to the present situation, and make 
 the best of it. Be the company ever so 
 dull, they are human creatures at least, 
 capable of feeling pleasure, or uneasiness, 
 in some degree, of being obliged or dis¬ 
 obliged: and therefore, if we are ever so 
 dissatisfied ourselves, it we may contribute 
 any way to the satisfaction of our stupid 
 companions, good nature will find it no 
 disagreeable employment, and it may well 
 enough be put in the balance, against 
 most ot those, we are so angry to be in¬ 
 terrupted in. 
 
 2 
 
ESSAY nr. 
 
 ' 89 
 
 Had I set my heart on such a favourite 
 scheme ? and am 1 disappointed ? This is 
 what children well educated can bear with 
 gieat good humour, and are rewarded 
 with sugar-plums. Shall people then, who 
 have the use of reason, and the pleasure 
 ot reflection upon reasonable actions, be 
 more childish than they, and add one 
 disagreeable thing to another, by tyina- 
 
 ifl humour to the heels of disappoint¬ 
 ment ? 
 
 The mind, that is absolutely wedded 
 to its own opinions, will cherish them to a 
 degree of folly and obstinacy that would 
 be inconceivable but for frequent in¬ 
 stances: very frequent indeed in this 
 country, which is reckoned, I believe 
 justly, to abound in humourists, more than 
 almost any nation of the habitable globe. 
 Whether this be one effect attending on 
 the glorious stubborness of the spirit of 
 hbeity, or whether we take some tincture 
 Irom the November sullenness of the cli¬ 
 mate, I know' not: but our want of ac- 
 
90 
 
 essay nr. 
 
 commodubleness is very perceivable in the 
 reception which our common people usually 
 give to foreigners. Their language is ri¬ 
 diculed, their manners observed with a 
 haughty kind of contempt: all minds 
 seem to sit aloof to them, as if they were 
 enemies, encroachers, that have nothing 
 to do amongst us, no right to give us 
 trouble, or put us out of our way. 
 
 11 we would but learn to put ourselves a 
 little in the place of others, We should 
 soon learn, w r ith pleasure, to suit ourselves 
 to their disposition. But we are apt to 
 imagine, that every body must see every 
 thing, just in the same light that it ap¬ 
 pears to us: if they do not, it is very 
 strange, and they are no companions for 
 us. Thus, it seems monstrous, in a fo¬ 
 reigner to speak our language oddly, when 
 we are so perfectly acquainted with it our¬ 
 selves. We are prodigiously inclined to 
 think people impertinent, for asking ques¬ 
 tions about what we know very well our¬ 
 selves : unless indeed tve happen to be in 
 
ESSAY III. 
 
 91 
 
 a humour of dictating and instructing, 
 and then it is a crime of the same nature, 
 for people to know any thing before-hand, 
 that we have a mind to tell them. 
 
 Thus we forget our first opinions of 
 places, things, and people, and wonder 
 that others do not, at first sight, perceive 
 them, in the same light that we do, just at 
 that time: though perhaps it is by dint of 
 reflection, that we have placed them in it. 
 It may however be speaking too generally 
 to say we. I am sure I have often ex¬ 
 perienced this in myself. 
 
 It was the distinguishing character of a 
 poor idiot, whom I had once occasion to 
 see a ^ood deal of, that he had so little of 
 this accommodableness, as to be quite 
 outrageous, upon the least alteration, in 
 any trifling circumstances, he had been 
 used to observe. He exprest his anger, 
 in one way indeed, and we express ours in 
 another, or perhaps are wise enough to 
 keep most of it to ourselves : hut there 
 still remains enough to take off all the 
 
 9 
 
9$ 
 
 ESSAY lit. 
 
 grace of what we do, or submit to, thus 
 unwillingly, and the principle of folly, that 
 makes us feel so strong a dislike, is the 
 same in both: only this poor creature 
 deserved pity, while in us, it is a matter 
 of choice* 
 
ESSAY IV. 
 
 ESSAY IV, 
 
 On Delicacy of Feeling. 
 
 There is no one disposition of the hu¬ 
 
 man heart that affords such exquisite 
 pleasure, or pain, as that which we call 
 delicacy . It is the polish of the mind* 
 soiled by the least breath, and affected by 
 the slightest touch. A delicate turn of 
 
 thought is, in some cases, extremely agree¬ 
 able, is the sign of a valuable mind, (for 
 base metals are not capable of receiving 
 any great, degree of polish) but will not go 
 halt so well, through the world, as that 
 which is more plain and rough. 
 
 Yet, as there is something in this dispo¬ 
 sition peculiarly elegant and amiable, 
 people are apt to encourage themselves in 
 it, till from a grace, it becomes a weakness, 
 and diffuses unhappiness to all around 
 them, who must weigh with the exactest 
 
91 
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 care ail their words and actions : and it is 
 extremely possible, that all their care may 
 not be enough to prevent giving some 
 grievous offence, which they never meant, 
 and which will express itself in perpetual 
 smartnesses, or an eternal flow of tears, 
 according: as the constitution of the deli¬ 
 cate person inclines to anger, or to melan¬ 
 choly. In the latter case it is more 
 unhappy than in the former: for hasty 
 anger is easily past off; but no body of 
 good nature can bear to see a person 
 affected, in the most painful manner, by 
 things so trifling, as they may be guilty 
 of, every moment, without knowing any 
 thing: of the matter. 
 
 This consideration, should make us ex- 
 
 tremelv careful in our behaviour, to those, 
 %/ 
 
 amongst whom we live. Perhaps some 
 little heedlessness ©f ours, may seem a 
 most cruel slight to one, we never intend 
 to grieve, and oppress a worthy mind 
 with the most melancholy dejection. A 
 careless word, spoken quite at random, or 
 merely by rote, may give a delicate heart 
 
ESSAY IV. 95 
 
 the most anxious distress: and those of 
 us, who have the most prudence and good 
 nature, say and do an hundred things, in 
 our wav of talking, about characters we 
 know little of, or behaving towards those, 
 to whom we little attend, that have much 
 more grievous consequences, than we are 
 aware of. 
 
 But then, on the other hand, we should, 
 in ourselves, most strictly guard against 
 all excess of this delicacy; and though 
 we cannot help feeling things, in the 
 quickest manner, for the moment, we 
 should arm our reason against our feeling, 
 and not permit imagination to indulge it, 
 and nurse it up into a misery : for misery 
 if indulged, it will certainly occasion: 
 since an excess of delicacy is the source 
 of constant dissatisfaction, through too 
 eager a pursuit of something every way 
 higher, than is to be had. 
 
 Ihe person of delicate judgment sees 
 every thing, as it were, with a microscopic 
 eye: so that what would be a pleasing 
 object, to a common spectator, is, to him, 
 
ESSAY IV. 
 
 98 
 
 unsupportably coarse and disagreeable. 
 The person of lively and delicate imagina¬ 
 tion disdains the common routine of com¬ 
 fort and satisfaction; and seeks for hap¬ 
 piness in an airy sphere not formed to give 
 it: or pursues misery, through a wild and 
 endless maze, which at every turning 
 grows more inextricable. By this refined 
 delicacy of sentiment, to put ourselves on 
 so different a footing, from the rest of the 
 world, that it is scarce possible, we should 
 ever understand one another, is only vain 
 vexation. 
 
 In friendships especially, this excess of 
 delicacy is often of fatal ill consequence. 
 From hence spring suspicions and jea¬ 
 lousies ; from hence arise doubts and dis¬ 
 quiets that know no end, unless it be, that 
 
 x 
 
 they often quite weary out the patience of 
 the persons, whom they are thus perpetu- 
 ally teazing for their affection. I have 
 known instances of this kind, that are suf¬ 
 ficient warnings against it. 
 
 As for the affairs of common life, they 
 can scarcely go on where every little nicety 
 
JESS AY IV. 
 
 97 
 
 is to be turned into a matter of import^ 
 ance. I knew a family, good, agreeable, 
 sensible, and fond of each other* to the 
 highest degree: but where each was so 
 delicate, and so tender of the delicacy of 
 the rest, that they could never talk to one 
 another, of any serious business, but Mere 
 forced to transact it all, by means of a 
 third person, a man of plain sense, and a 
 common friend to alb 
 
 Poor Lucius ! How much constraint and 
 real uneasiness does he suffer from the deli¬ 
 cacy that proceeds from having a genius 
 infinitely superior to most he meets with. 
 By having a mind above the low enjoy¬ 
 ments of this state of being, he is deprived 
 of many hours of most innocent chearfui- 
 ness, which other people are happy in. He 
 has an understanding, so fitted for the 
 deepest researches, and the sublimest 
 speculations, that the common affairs and 
 engagements of life seem vastly beneath 
 him. He has a delicacy, in his turn of 
 mind, that is shocked every day, by the 
 less refined behaviour and conversation qj 
 
 H 
 
9$ 
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 the generality of mankind: and it must 
 be a very chosen society indeed, that he 
 prefers to his beloved solitude. This dis¬ 
 position gives him a reserved ness, that in 
 another character, might pass for pride, as 
 it makes him mix less freely in those 
 companies, that he is unavoidably engaged 
 in. However it has certainty this ill con¬ 
 sequence, that it makes his virtues of less 
 extensive influence, than they would be, 
 if they were more generally known. He 
 is naturally, extremely grave, and perhaps 
 with the assistance of reason and ex¬ 
 perience, which prove the insufficiency of 
 any pleasures or attainments, in this life, 
 to make us happy; this seriousness is 
 heightened so as to give himself many a 
 gloomy moment, though other people 
 never feel the effect of it, by any ill hu¬ 
 mour, or severity towards them. A turn 
 of mind so superior to any of the common 
 occurrences, or amusements of life, can 
 seldom be much affected or enlivened by 
 them : but as so excellent an understand¬ 
 ing must have the truest taste for real 
 
ESSAY IV , 
 
 99 
 
 wit, so no one has a more lively sense of 
 all, that is peculiarly just and delicate. 
 These pleasures, however, are little com¬ 
 pensations for the much more frequent 
 disgusts, to which the same turn of mind 
 renders him liable Happy, thrice happy 
 are those humble people, whose sensations 
 are fitted to the world they live in. 
 
 Those pleasures, which the imagination 
 greatly heightens, it will certainly make 
 us pay dear enough for: since the pain of 
 parting with them, will x be greatly in¬ 
 creased, in full proportion, not to their 
 value, but to our enjoyment. The world 
 was intended to be just what it is; and 
 there is no likelihood of our succeeding in 
 the romantic scheme of raising it above 
 what it is. To distract ourselves with a 
 continual succession of eager hopes, and 
 anxious fears, is a folly destructive to our 
 nature, and to the very end of our being. 
 
 * This character of extreme delicacy and high- 
 wrought feelings, so unfit for the common purposes of 
 life, may perhaps remind the reader of that of Fleetwood 
 in the Mirror. 
 
 TT o 
 
 11 A 
 
100 
 
 ESSAY IV. 
 
 We are formed for moderate sensations' 
 either of pain or pleasure; to feel such 
 degrees of uneasiness only as we are very 
 able to support: and to enjoy such a 
 measure of happiness, as we may easily 
 resign, nay thankfully too, when religion 
 has opened the prospect to a brighter 
 scene : to meet with many rubs and diffi¬ 
 culties, which w r e must get over, or stum¬ 
 ble over, as well as we can : to converse 
 with creatures imperfect, like ourselves, 
 and to bear with all their imperfections. 
 It seems then, that the only way of pass¬ 
 ing through life, as we ought, is to place 
 our minds in a state of as great tranquil¬ 
 lity, as is consistent with our not becom¬ 
 ing stupid. 
 
 i 
 
essav V. 
 
 ioi 
 
 ESSAY V T . 
 
 On the Employment of Wealth. 
 
 rp 
 
 1 HE advantages of frugality do not de¬ 
 serve to be less considered than those of 
 generosity : for where, alas ! shall bounty 
 rind its necessary fund, if thoughtless pro¬ 
 digality has squandered it away. When I 
 heat ot thousands, and ten thousands, 
 spent by people, who in the midst of im¬ 
 mense riches reduce themselves to all the 
 shifts and pinches of a narrow fortune, 1 
 know not how to recover my astonishment 
 at the infatuation, that leads them to anni¬ 
 hilate such treasures : for it may really be 
 called annihilating them, when they are 
 spent to no one good purpose, and leave 
 no one honourable memorial behind them. 
 A fortune thus lavished away becomes the 
 prey of the worthless : and is like a quan- 
 tity of gold dust, dispersed uselessly in the 
 
102 
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 air, that might have been melted down, 
 and formed into regal crowns, and monu¬ 
 ments of glory. 
 
 I think one now scarcely ever hears an 
 immense fortune named, but somebody 
 adds, with a shake of the head— It is 
 vastly run out—He is in very narrow cir¬ 
 cumstances—They are in great straits .— 
 Ask the occasion, and you will find few 
 instances of real generosity, or public spi¬ 
 rit, or even of a well-judged magnificence : 
 but all has gone amongst voters, fiddlers, 
 table companions, profuse servants, dis¬ 
 honest stewards, and a strange rabble of 
 people, that are every one of them the 
 worse for it. This is pitiable: and for 
 this, and nothing else, a man of quality is 
 reduced to all the meannesses imaginable. 
 He must be dependent: he must court 
 the smiles of power : he must often be ra¬ 
 pacious and dishonest. 
 
 I remember a friend of mine had once 
 an excellent conceit of a cave, at the up¬ 
 per end of which were two enchanted 
 glasses, with curtains drawn before them 3 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 103 
 
 that were to be consulted every evening in 
 order for the forming a judgment of the 
 actions of the day. The first glass show¬ 
 ed what they might have been, and what 
 effects such and such opportunities ought 
 to have produced. When the curtain was 
 undrawn before the other, it showed, tout 
 an naturel 9 what they had been. Were 
 one to contemplate, in these glasses, on 
 the spending one of those great estates, 
 which reduce our fine people to such dif¬ 
 ficulties, what a coup d’ceil the first would 
 present! A wide track of country adorned 
 and improved ; a thousand honest families 
 flourishing on their well-cultivated farms: 
 I cannot tell whether one should not see a 
 church or two, rising in a plain sort of ma¬ 
 jesty amidst the landscape. In another 
 part of it, would appear manufactures 
 encouraged, poverty relieved, and mul¬ 
 titudes of people praying for the welfare 
 of the happy master. His tradesmen, his 
 domestics, every body that had any 
 connection with him, would appear with 
 a cheerful and a grateful air. They, 
 
104 
 
 ESSAY V, 
 
 in their turns, would dispense good and 
 happiness to all, with whom they had any 
 concern. At the family seat, would be 
 seen an unassuming grandeur, and an 
 honest hospitality, jree from profuseness 
 and intemperance: one may say as of 
 Hamlet’s two pictures, 
 
 Such should be greatness:—Now behold what 
 follows: 
 
 For here is fortune, like a mildew’d ear 
 
 Blasting each wholesome grain- 
 
 In the true historical glass, what may 
 we see ? Perhaps a pack of hounds, a cel¬ 
 lar, an election. Perhaps a gaming-table, 
 with all those hellish faces that surround it. 
 An artful director perhaps, and an indor 
 lent pupil. Oppression gripes every poor 
 wretch within its grasp, and these again 
 oppress their own inferiors and dependents; 
 all look hopeless and joyless; and every 
 
 look seems to conceal a secret murmur. 
 
 \ 
 
 On the fore-ground perhaps there stands 
 a magnificent palace, in the Italian taste: 
 innumerable temples, obelisks, and statues 
 
£ssay V. 
 
 105 
 
 rise among the woods : and never were 
 Flora and Pomona, Venus and Diana, 
 with all the train of fabulous divinities more 
 expensively honoured in Greece and Rome, 
 than in these fairy scenes *. The Church 
 in the mean time, stands with a wooden 
 tower: the fields are poorly cultivated, the 
 neighbourhood discontented, and ever 
 upon the catch to find all possible faults in 
 those proud great ones, with whom they 
 have no cheerful friendly intercourse. 
 Fine cloathes, and costly jewels glitter, 
 perhaps, in some part of the glass : but how- 
 can they adorn faces grown wan with in¬ 
 ward care : or give gracefulness to those, 
 who must always have the humbled air of 
 inferiority, when they happen to meet the 
 eye Ol then unpaid tradesmen, whose 
 
 * It might almost be supposed that Miss 'Talbot was 
 here giving a real description ol the beautiful seat of the 
 late Lord Le De Spencer, at West Wycombe; but that 
 a handsome new church there is placed on a hill, as an 
 object from the house. The indignant question of 
 Horace therefore does not apply to this case: 
 
 •- — Quare 
 
 'iempla ruunt antiqua Drum - 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 106 
 
 families are starving upon their ac¬ 
 count ? 
 
 1 he man of thoughtless good nature, 
 who lavishes his money to a hundred poor 
 devils, (as is the genteel phrase to call 
 those, that have run themselves into misery 
 from mere worthlessness) I say, when 
 wretches, that deserved only punishment 
 and ignominy, have drained this generous 
 sieve ot all he had to bestow, to what grief 
 is he exposed, when he meets with an object 
 of real distress, one that has, perhaps, been 
 mined through his means, and is forced to 
 sav with the fine gentleman, in Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, 
 
 “ I wanted whence to give it, yet his eyes 
 Spoke for him ! I hese I could have satisfied 
 With some unfruitful sorrow”-. 
 
 / 
 
 Would it not be quite worth while for any 
 bociy to avoid such uneasinesses as these, 
 when it can be done merely bv a little 
 thought, and a little order? Methinks an 
 exactness of method, and a frequent review 
 of our affairs would make every thing per* 
 
 9 ° 
 
.ESSAY V. 
 
 10 7 
 
 feet!y easy. Might it not be possible for a 
 man of fortune to divide his estate into 
 several imaginary parcels ? And, appropri¬ 
 ating each to its particular purpose, spend 
 it, within those bounds, as freely, and with 
 an air as open, as the thoughtless prodigal: 
 and yet be sure, by this means, never to 
 run out, and never to bestow upon any 
 one article more than it deserved. 
 
 I will suppose myself at this present pos¬ 
 sessed of ten thousand a year: nor will 
 the supposition make rne at all vain, gentle 
 reader, since it implies but the being a 
 steward * to other people, and a slave to 
 propriety. Oh it is ten times the more 
 indolent thing to have but a little, and 
 yet the same kind of management is re¬ 
 quired in all. Well: but what shall I do 
 with this estate of mine ? First of all I buy 
 me a large and pompous account book. 
 Then I consider how much must necessari- 
 
 # If the possession of wealth was indeed considered 
 in this light, the owners of it might perhaps sometimes 
 recollect that their books must at last be examined.— 
 'Give, an account of thy stewardship, fyc. Lukexvi.2, 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 ,103 
 
 ly be employed in mere living: and I write 
 down the sum total, on the first page. 
 This is afterwards subdivided into its pro¬ 
 per distinct articles: and each of them 
 has a page allotted to itself. And here it 
 must be observed, that there are innume¬ 
 rable proprieties of appearance, as indis¬ 
 pensably necessary to the rich man, as 
 bare food and cloathing to the poor. The 
 other pages of the book must each have 
 their title at top, as thus : Charities 3000/. 
 —For the Service of my Friends, and of 
 the Public, 1000/.— For proper Improve¬ 
 ments of my Houses, Gardens, Estates, 
 1000/. and so on. I doubt whether knick- 
 knacks, cabinets, or anv immoderate ex- 
 pences, in jewels, plate, or pictures*, would 
 find a place in such a list as this. 
 
 * It should be observed that it is not the purchase of 
 these articles that is here censured, but immoderate ex- 
 peuce incurred in them. For if it be proper that the 
 arts should be encouraged at all, it must be by the li¬ 
 berality of the opulent; but it by no means follows that 
 they should so distress themselves for that purpose, as 
 to have iiQtuing lert for more essential and necessary 
 pursuits. 
 
ESSAY V. 
 
 U)9 
 
 It would surely be easy, by frequently 
 comparing the daily articles of expence 
 under each head, with the determination 
 marked at top, to keep every one within 
 bounds, and to enjoy what is in our own 
 power, without, in the least, pining after 
 what is not: For that we may read the 
 precepts of the stoics : and for the other, 
 let us consider, a little, those instances, we 
 may see all around us, of good characters 
 disgraced by an ill-judged savingness in 
 some insignificant particulars, and by a 
 want of ease and propriety, in trifling ex- 
 pences. 
 
 If people have any esteem for frugality, 
 they should try to do it honour by show¬ 
 ing, that it is not inconsistent with a be¬ 
 coming and a generous spirit. I have 
 heard very many people accused of cove¬ 
 tousness, and generally hated, under that 
 odious character, who perhaps had no 
 principle of that kind, and who threw 
 away, often, as much upon foolish ex- 
 pences, that had not struck them in the 
 saving view, as they pinched out of others. 
 
no 
 
 ESSAY V. 
 
 which made them look paltry and mean 
 in the eyes of the world. Few people, I 
 believe, are heartily covetous throughout: 
 and this makes it so easy for them to 
 flatter themselves, that they are not tainted 
 at all with a vice, the very notion of which 
 
 would affront them : and for those in the 
 
 % 
 
 other extreme, they too deceive them¬ 
 selves, in the same sort. Whence comes 
 the old proverb, 
 
 Penny wise and Pound foolish . 
 
ESSAY vr. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ESSAY VI. 
 
 On the Importance of Riches . 
 
 r p 
 
 1 HERE are a great many things, that 
 sound mighty well in the declamatory 
 way, and yet have no sort of truth or just¬ 
 ness, in them. 1 he equality between po¬ 
 verty and riches, or rather, the superior 
 advantages of the former, is a pretty 
 philosophical paradox, that I could never 
 comprehend. I will grant very readily, 
 that the short sleeps of a labouring* man. 
 are full as sweet and wholesome as the 
 slumbers indulged upon down beds, and 
 under gilded roofs. I will readily confess, 
 that let people have never so many apart¬ 
 ments, they can be but in one at a time \ 
 and in a word, that the luxury and pagean¬ 
 try, that riches bring with them, is despi¬ 
 cable, and infinitely less eligible, than the 
 simplicity of plainer life. It must be 
 
m 
 
 ESSAY vr* 
 
 owned too, that greatness and fortune* 
 place people in the midst of innumerable 
 difficulties: and that they are severely 
 accountable for all those advantages, they 
 neglect to improve. But so, indeed a 
 man is a more accountable creature than 
 a hog: and yet none but a Gryllus, I be¬ 
 lieve, would prefer the situation of the 
 latter. 
 
 I do not say, that people should upon 
 all occasions, put themselves forward, and 
 aspire to those dangerous heights, which 
 perhaps, they were never formed to ascend. 
 The fable of Phaeton would be much more 
 instructive than such a lesson as this: but 
 I would say, and say it loudly, to all, 
 whom Heaven has placed already in the 
 midst of riches and honours, that they 
 possess the highest privilege, and ought to 
 exert themselves accordingly. These peo¬ 
 ple have advantages of improving their 
 being to the noblest purposes: and with 
 the same degree of pains and application, 
 that furnishes the poor artificer a daily 
 provision for himself, and his family, they 
 
ESSAY vr. 
 
 113 
 
 hiay become a kind of beneficent angels 
 to their fellow-creatures, and enjoy them¬ 
 selves, a happiness superior to all plea- 
 surei 
 
 It is a pretty thought of Seneca, that as 
 a mei chant, whose goods are considerable, 
 is more sensible of the blessing of a fair 
 wind, and a safe passage, than he that has 
 only ballast, or some coarse commodity in 
 the vessel \ so life is differently enjoyed 
 by men, according to the different freight 
 ol their minds. Those of indigent for¬ 
 tunes are generally obliged to have their's 
 too much filled, with an attention to 
 provide the low necessaries of life. Indeed 
 riches and greatness are as strong an ob¬ 
 stacle as the other, to spending life in 
 theoiy and speculation ; but it is, however 
 nobler, and a more delightful task to pro¬ 
 vide for the general good of multitudes, 
 than for the subsistence of a few indivi¬ 
 duals. I speak of what riches might be : 
 God knows, not of what they are. 
 
 The rich, the great, who act an insmni- 
 /leant part in life, are the most despicable 
 
 i 
 
314 
 
 ESSAY VT. 
 
 wretches of the whole creation: while the 
 poor, the mean, the despised part of man¬ 
 kind, who live up to the height of their 
 capacity and opportunities, are noble, ve¬ 
 nerable, and happy. 
 
 Is it not amazing, that creatures so fond 
 of pre-eminence and distinction, so biassed 
 by interest, so dazzled by fortune, as all 
 the race ot men are, should so blindly 
 trample under foot the only true advan¬ 
 tages of fortune ? The only pre-eminence, 
 the only honour, the highest joy, the 
 brightest lustre, that all those gay things 
 they pursue, could bestow upon them ? 
 Where is the beautv to be found, that will 
 choose to waste her youth where no eye 
 can behold her ? Where is the man of wit 
 that will sit down contented with his own 
 admiration, and lock up his papers in a 
 chest for his own private reading ? Yet the 
 covetous man, as far as in him lies, con¬ 
 ceals the advantage he is fondest of, and 
 puts himself, as much as possible, upon a 
 level with that poverty he despises. Good 
 Hea\ en ? that people should not rather 
 
ESSAY vr„ 115 
 
 choose to lay hold on every honest means* 
 that can raise them into a kind of superior 
 being. Who would not go through toil, 
 and pain, and danger, to attain so glorious 
 a pre-eminence* an honour beyond the 
 Olympic crown of old. And yet it is but 
 at the expence of a little openness of heart, 
 a little thought and contrivance, a little 
 honest generous industry in bestowing pro¬ 
 perly, that a man of rank and fortune may 
 shine out like the sun, and see a gay world 
 flourishing under his cheerful influence. 
 
 All these things have been said a hun¬ 
 dred times. The miser has been painted 
 in all his unamiable colours : and the pro¬ 
 digal has had his lecture too. But still, 
 methinks, there is a great deal wanting, 
 and I do not know how to express it. 
 The indolent, the thoughtless people of 
 fortune, want to be put in mind of their 
 own importance. Some are so lazy, some 
 so careless, and some even so humble^ 
 that they never once think of themselves 
 as having any place to fill, or any duty to 
 perform, beyond the immediate calls of 
 
 T 
 
 .1 M 
 
116 
 
 ESSAY VI. 
 
 domestic hie. Aias what a mistake is this ! 
 and what noble opportunities do they neg¬ 
 lect ! 
 
 i . v. r _ - . ' ~ J T 
 
 iiiit v hat must people do ? r l iiey must 
 _ , 
 
 awaken in their minds that principle of ac¬ 
 tivity and industry which is the source 
 of every thing excellent and praise-worthy, 
 they should exert themselves in every way, 
 improve every occasion, employ every mo¬ 
 ment. Let the great survey the whole 
 scene, the whole sphere of their influence, 
 as the masiei-farmer, from a rising* vround 
 overlooks the whole of his estate. The 
 
 labouring hinds indeed are confined to a 
 
 > * • 
 
 spot: they have their daily task appointed, 
 and when that is done, may lay them down 
 to sleep without a further care. But the 
 master must wake, must consider and deli¬ 
 berate. This spot of ground wants better 
 cultivation : that must be laid out to more 
 advantage . a shade would be becoming 
 here: in yonder place 1 mean to lead the 
 little rivulet, that wanders near it, to re¬ 
 fresh those parched meadows. Those hus¬ 
 bandmen should be encouraged: these 
 
ESSAY VI. 117 
 
 should be rewarded.—A word, a look, a 
 gesture from a superior, is of importance. 
 Thus might the rich, the great, the power¬ 
 ful, consider in like manner. “ This part 
 66 of my fortune will be nobly employed 
 “ in relieving the miserable : that, in 
 “ works of public generosity : so much in 
 66 procuring the agreeable ornaments of 
 “ life : in this manner I may encourage 
 “ the elegant arts : by this way 1 may 
 set off my own character to the best ad- 
 “ vantage: and by making myself beloved 
 “ and respected, I shall consequently gain 
 u an honest influence over such as may 
 66 be bettered by my good example : my 
 a advice, my approbation will be useful in 
 “ such a case : in this I may do honour to 
 “ my country : in that ”—-Up and em¬ 
 ploy yourselves, you who are lolling in 
 easy chairs, amusing away your lives over 
 French novels, wasting your time in fruit¬ 
 less theory, or your fortunes in riotous 
 excesses. Remember, you have an im¬ 
 portant part to act. It is in your own 
 
118 
 
 Essay vr, 
 
 choice whether you will be, the figure in 
 the tapestry, the animated chair *, orflower- 
 pot, or the hero that draws the whole at¬ 
 tention of the theatre, and goes oft' with a 
 general plaudit. 
 
 f See Spectator, No. 23. 
 
ESSAY VII. 
 
 ESSAY VIE 
 
 On Literary Composition . 
 
 W ITHOUT at all pretending to criti¬ 
 cism, it is almost impossible to read a va¬ 
 riety of books, and not form some reflec¬ 
 tions on the variety of stile in which they 
 
 %r 
 
 are writ. One of the first and most 
 obvious, to me, is, that the plainest and 
 least ornamented stile is ever the most 
 agreeable to that general taste, which is 
 certainly the best rule, by which an 
 author can form himself. Particular or¬ 
 naments will not more please some fancies, 
 than they will displease others. The 
 flowery epitheted way of writing wearies 
 the imagination, by presenting it with a 
 multitude of wrong objects, in way of 
 simile and illustration, before it has half 
 informed the understanding, of what was 
 its main purpose. 
 
 The human mind has so long a journey 
 to take, in search of knowledge, that it 
 grows peevish at being led out of the way* 
 
i£0 
 
 ESSAY VII. 
 
 every minute, to look at prospects, or 
 gather daisies. The original use or epithets 
 v/as to paint ideas stronger upon the mind, 
 by a complication of little circumstances: 
 but, I know not how, of late, they are 
 grown into a sort of unintelligible language, 
 that signifies nothing more to the slightly 
 attentive reader, than, that the author has. 
 a mind to be poetical; like those Indian 
 alphabets, which first were the plain repre¬ 
 sentation of sensible objects, from thence 
 grew into hieroglyphics, and last of all into 
 a mere cypher. 
 
 The common sort of metaphorical epi¬ 
 thets is very disagreeable. When we would 
 indulge our fancies with the idea of a cool 
 limpid running stream, to have a piece of 
 crystal thrown across one's way is quite 
 provoking. I remember two lines, in a 
 very good poem, that often offended me, 
 
 -and strew 
 
 Her silver tresses, in the crystal tide. 
 
 Would not the image be more natural, and 
 make less clatter in one's head, thus: 
 
 -and strew 
 
 Her hoary lock, wide floating o’er the stream. 
 
ESSAY VII. 
 
 121 
 
 Gold and Jewels do not become the 
 Muse herself, half so well, as an elegant 
 simplicity. But elegant it must be, and 
 noble, or else the stile of writing desehe- 
 rates into mere chit-chat conversation. 
 Nor should a writer think it any restraint, 
 that he is obliged to attend to the minutest 
 strictness of grammar: since whatever 
 serves to make his composition most clear 
 and intelligible, contributes to the giving 
 it the greatest beauty it can possibly have. 
 For this reason, too long sentences, and 
 the intricacies of parentheses ought, by all 
 means to be avoided, however the sun¬ 
 like genius of some authors, may have 
 gilded those clouds into beauty. 
 
 4 .' 
 
 This one rule of perspicuity will hold 
 good, for all sorts of people, from those of 
 mere business, to those of absolute specu¬ 
 lation. r i he next is, that writers put no 
 constraint upon their natural turn of mind, 
 which will always give a truer spirit than 
 is within the reach of any art. Yet of¬ 
 ten from an admiration of that in others, 
 which is utterly unsuitable to themselves, 
 
essay vrr. 
 
 322 
 
 they put on a character in writing, that is 
 mighty difficult to support throughout. 
 The affectation of wit and humour leads 
 into that low burlesque, which is, of all 
 dulness, the most disagreeable. Unable 
 to reach the true sublime, they are willing 
 to bring it down to their own pitch. Hence 
 spring such multitudes of travesties, paro¬ 
 dies, and such like perversions of passages 
 really fine : when, it they can but present 
 you with low, and often dirty images, in¬ 
 stead of such as are noble and beautiful, 
 yet in such a manner, as strongly to put 
 you in mind of the difference, all the way, 
 they are greatly conceited of their own 
 ingenuity. Where any of these have real 
 Humour in them, it must arise from some 
 particular occasion ; and is by no means 
 inherent in that kind of composition 
 
 * Such also was the opinion of her friend Mrs. Car¬ 
 ter, who had so great a dislike to parodies and traves¬ 
 ties that she could rarely be persuaded to read them, 
 and when she did, received no amusement from them. 
 She used to say that they shewed a squint or perversion 
 of mind in the author, which hindered him from seeing 
 the beautiful or sublime in its true colors. 
 
ESSAY VII. 
 
 223 
 
 But while little wits think, that lowering 
 and debasing the sublime, is being witty 
 those, who with an exalted genius, have a 
 sportive liveliness of temper, can find 
 means of ennobling their easiest and light¬ 
 est compositions. Of all people Mr. Prior 
 has succeeded the best in this way, if he 
 had not, now and then, allowed his pen 
 too much license for the demureness of 
 the Muse. As Homer’s dreams were the 
 dreams of Jupiter, so Prior’s gaieties are 
 the sportings of Apollo : and where he in¬ 
 troduces his fabled deities, in a mirthful 
 scene, it is not by depressing them to the 
 level of merry mortals, but by employing 
 (to use the phrase of an excellent modern 
 author) “ a new species of the sublime 
 6C that has, hitherto, received no name.” 
 
 There is a celebrated passage in Lon¬ 
 ginus, in which he prefers, upon the whole, 
 a mixture of striking faults and beauties, 
 to the flat correctness of an uncensurable, 
 laboured author. One of the books, which 
 to those, who for want of translations can 
 know little of Isocrates and Demosthenes, 
 
124 
 
 ESSAY VIr. 
 
 has most convincingly proved the justness 
 of this determination, is Dr. Barrow’s 
 Sermons, who seems most exactlv to ans- 
 
 J 
 
 wer what Xjongmus says of the irresistible 
 Greek orator. His expressions are fre¬ 
 quently singular, and though crouded to¬ 
 gether, are so poured out from the abun¬ 
 dance of one of the best hearts, that the 
 finest turned periods are insipid in com¬ 
 parison. His genius too, whatever were 
 the littlenesses of language, in those days, 
 was certainly poetical and noble : and his 
 imagination so warmed and delighted with 
 the fairest view of every thing in the 
 scheme of Providence, that religion wears, 
 through every page of his, its proper 
 grace. 
 
ESS A Y V11X. 
 
 ESSAY VIII. 
 
 On Prior’s Henry and Emma . 
 
 1 O enliven an airing, the other morn¬ 
 ing, Prior's Henry and Emma was read 
 aloud to the company: and the different 
 sentiments they exprest, upon it, deter¬ 
 mined me, to put down my own upon 
 paper, as that Poem has always been a 
 favourite with me, and yet wants, I think, 
 a good deal of explanation, and excuse. 
 
 The Tale is introduced, in a way so much 
 more interesting, than one commonly meets 
 with, in pastoral dialogues; with circum¬ 
 stances of such tenderness and delicacy, 
 and images so smiling and engaging*, that 
 one is concerned, before his characters 
 have said a word, to have them keep up 
 to the ideas, which partial imagination has 
 formed of each. That of Emma is dis¬ 
 tinguished by something so peculiarly mild 
 
ms 
 
 ESSAY VIIf. 
 
 and affectionate, that if we do not attend 
 to this, as her chief characteristic, we shall 
 he apt to be surprised at many of her most 
 beautiful sentiments, as too different from 
 the common wavs of thinking on such oc- 
 
 o o 
 
 casio ns* 
 
 Emma susceptible of soft impressions* 
 beyond what were to be wished in a cha¬ 
 racter, where it set up for a general pan- 
 tern, her soul entirely turned to those 
 tender attachments, that are not inconsist¬ 
 ent with strict virtue, had long been wooed 
 with every irresistible art by an accom¬ 
 plished youth, whose virtues and excellen¬ 
 cies could not but discover themselves, in 
 such a space of time, on a thousand occa¬ 
 sions. By the characters given on each 
 side, their passion seems to have been 
 grounded on a just esteem : and the known 
 truth, and goodness of Henry, had pro¬ 
 duced in her mind, such an unlimited 
 confidence, that it was impossible she 
 could suspect him of any crime. To try 
 her constancy, he accuses himself, in the 
 harshest terms, as a murderer: but it was 
 
ESSAY VII r. 
 
 easy for Emma’s heart to furnish him with 
 sufiicient excuses. The wild unsettled 
 state o{ the island, in those early' times, 
 torn by so many, and so fierce factions, 
 involved the young and brave, in perpetual 
 bloodshed. What was called valour in one 
 party, would, in the other, be branded 
 as murder. In those days, the vast forests 
 were filled with generous outlaws: and the 
 brave mixt with the vile, from a likeness 
 of fortune, not of crimes 
 
 I have dwelt upon this, because, at first 
 reading, it offended me to imagine, that 
 Emma should be so unmoved with a sup¬ 
 position of her lover's guilt, and continue 
 her affection, when she must have lost her 
 esteem. That point, I think, is now cleared 
 up: but I am extremely sorry, that to 
 
 * An ingenious conjecture of Dr. Whitaker, that 
 Henry Clifford, first Earl of Cumberland, was the hero 
 of the Nut brown Maid, cannot be supported, be* 
 cause that Ballad was printed in 150 C, when Henry 
 Clifford was only nkie years of age. There is however 
 some reason to suppose that his father Henry, Lord 
 Clifford, might be the Poet’s Henry. For this curious 
 and interesting enquiry, see Ceusura Literaria, Vol. VII 
 Article XX. 
 
ESSAY vm. 
 
 prevent all scandal, Prior did not alter a 
 few lines, in the answer she makes hint, 
 to his open declaration of inconstancy. 
 In spite of all prejudice, there is certainly 
 a want of all spirit and delicacy in it. If 
 what he told her was fact, he,could not be 
 faultless, nor could her affection continue 
 to be innocent* The same mild benevo¬ 
 lence to her rival, might surely have been 
 exprest without the extravagance of de¬ 
 siring to attend them as a servant. Per¬ 
 mit me to insert the alteration here. 
 
 (C Go then, while I, in hopeless absence prove 
 “ By what I shall endure, how much I love.” 
 
 This potent beauty, this triumphant fair. 
 
 This happy object of our different care. 
 
 Her shall my thoughts, thro’ various life attend. 
 With all the kindness of the fondest friend : 
 
 Lov’d for thy sake, howe’er her haughty scorn 
 May triumph o’er me as a thing forlorn ; 
 
 For her my warmest wishes shall be made, 
 
 .And Heav’n implor’d for blessings on her head. 
 
 O may she never feel a pain, like mine! 
 
 Never—for then a double guilt were thine. 
 
 Here must I stay: like thought, were actions free 
 No wrongs, no hardships should divorce from 
 thee 
 
 Thy Kmma,—not a rival’s company. 
 
ESSAY VII r. IOC 
 
 But wandering thoughts, and anxious cares are now 
 All that a rigid virtue will allow. 
 
 Go happy then, forget the wretch you leave, 
 
 Nor for a woman’s weakness vainly grieve. . 
 rhy fate decreed tiiee false: the same decree 
 Entail’d a hopeless constancy on me. 
 
 The few following lines, in tile same 
 speech, are so easily adapted to these, 
 that the change in them, is not worth 
 mentioning:. 
 
 o 
 
 There is something infinitely beautiful 
 in all the tender passages of this Poet 
 He has the art of representing all the 
 softness of the passion, without any of its 
 madness. Other writers raise their ex¬ 
 pressions, with such hyperboles, as are a 
 profanation of much nobler sentiments. 
 Methinks softness and tenderness are the 
 only characteristics of a mortal love. The 
 strains of adoration ill become Anacreon*s 
 lyre : and are ill add rest to human imper- 
 fection. Those imagined everlasting at- 
 
 o o 
 
 tachments, that rebel against mortality; 
 those infinite ideas, that grasp at all ex¬ 
 cellence, in one finite object, are fatal ab« 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 ESSAY VIII. 
 
 surdities, that have both their guilt and 
 punishment. 
 
 This kind of sentiment is quite unneces¬ 
 sary : we may survey those we love, sur¬ 
 rounded with all the frailties and imper¬ 
 fections of human nature, and yet be par¬ 
 tial to these imperfections, as we are to 
 our own. Pity does but endear the ten¬ 
 der tie, where it is not incompatible with 
 esteem. The pleasures of giving and re¬ 
 ceiving from the dear object of affection, 
 
 mutual protection, comfort and relief, are 
 
 • 
 
 the joys that we are formed most sensible 
 of, as such a disposition was, in our pre¬ 
 sent situation, most necessary for the pre¬ 
 servation, and happiness of society. 
 
 The expressions of this kind of sentiment 
 are, on the other hand, as offensively mis¬ 
 used, when applied to sacred subjects, 
 as they too often are by the soft enthusiasm 
 of constitutional Pietists*. Of human 
 
 # - ' • - * f * ■ 
 
 * Surely this opinion ought to have much weight, 
 when proceeding from a writer of such uniform and ac¬ 
 knowledged piety: and they who talk of loving their 
 Saviour, in such terms as they would use concerning - 
 their fellow-creatures, would do well to consider it. 
 
£ssay VIIIi 
 
 131 
 
 love, kindness, compassion, mutual care, 
 mutual assistance, mutual forgiveness of a 
 thousand little blemishes and errors, are 
 necessary ingredients, have their merit, 
 and their reward. All that refined ca¬ 
 price, that shows its kindness, like Alicia 
 in Jane Shore, 
 
 u In everlasting wailings and complainings,” 
 
 is as contrary to this system, as it is to the 
 happiness of whoever is honoured by its 
 persecution ; and proceeds from a failure, 
 in point of confidence, which, when once 
 the honour of a character, justly esteemed 
 worthy, is seriously engaged, should re* 
 main unshaken as a rock. This is prettily 
 exprest, by Prior's Celia, 
 
 Heading thy verse, who heeds said I, 
 
 It here, or there, his glances flew 
 
 O free for ever be his eye. 
 
 Whose heart to me is ever true. 
 
 \ * 
 
 Another great, as great a contradiction 
 to the amiable kind of temper, that Prior 
 
 ji sr 
 
1352 
 
 ESSAY VIII. 
 
 describes, is that violent detestation up¬ 
 on even just cause of offence, which so 
 much too often verifies the poet’s expres¬ 
 sion, 
 
 Heaven has no curse, like love to hatred turn’d. 
 
 Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn’d. 
 
 The hatred of anger can justly proceed 
 only from injury. Real, premeditated in¬ 
 jury can proceed from no such character, 
 as could ever be the object of a well placed 
 love; and therefore, in this last, the in¬ 
 jury retaliates on a person's own mistaken 
 choice : who has therefore no more reason 
 to be angry with the other, for not acting 
 up to an ideal perfection, than to be dis¬ 
 pleased at any other instance ot wrong be¬ 
 haviour in those, who never were the ob¬ 
 jects of any just partiality. 
 
 Rut if the character be mixt, faulty in¬ 
 deed, but not totally bad, pity methinks 
 should gladly take hold on the occasion, 
 and banish, at once, all bitterness of re¬ 
 sentment. Religion itself forbids the spi¬ 
 rit of 'uncharitable anger and revenge, 
 4 - 4 * 
 
ESSAY VIIf, 
 
 133 
 
 \\ hen there has ever been a real affection 
 it can never, I fancy, be so rooted oat, as 
 to give place to those hateful emotions. 
 
 "U hoever then yield up their minds to 
 these excesses, must confess their former 
 partiality to have been founded merely in 
 pnde, vanity, and selfishness; for kindness 
 and benevolence will never cease to exist, 
 whilst their opjects remain, in any degree 
 unchanged. If those objects were onlv 
 our dear selves, every disappointment of 
 Qui pride, interest, and vanity, will wound 
 us to the heart. But if our thoughts had 
 a more generous aim, if the happiness of 
 one deaier than ourselves, was the center 
 of our wishes, we shall joyfully acquiesce 
 in any means, by which that happiness 
 may be attained, laying ourselves entirely 
 out of the case i and should the injury to 
 Us, be ever so grievous, we shall only wish 
 foi them, with the same disinterested ar- 
 
 Jf Miss Talbot be right this may be the proof of 
 the reality of the affection ; but it is a proof which can¬ 
 not be given, till the affection has been shewn to be mis** 
 placed by the injury suffered. 
 
134 
 
 ESSAY VIII. 
 
 dour, Aristides did for the Athenians, 
 who had banished him, that the time may 
 never come, when they shall repent it 
 
 * It may perhaps admit of a doubt whether such per¬ 
 fection of disinterested attachment be ever really felt, 
 and still subsist after the circumstances that caused it 
 have ceased to exist. Possibly the feeling in Aristides* 
 heart, very contrary to his words, might be the hope 
 that a time would come when the Athenians should re^ 
 pent of their conduct. 
 
 i 
 
ESSAY IX. 
 
 l05 
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 On the Separation of Friends by Death . 
 
 I KNOW nothing more common, and 
 almost unavoidable, than the disposition 
 of censuring those manners and inclina¬ 
 tions in others, which we are sensible 
 would, in our own tempers, be faulty, or 
 which lie cross to the bent of our natural 
 humours. Yet I am persuaded, in many 
 of these instances, were we to make but 
 common allowances for the difference of 
 constitution, of situation, of knowledge, 
 and of perception, we should find, ac¬ 
 cording to a good-natured French saying, 
 that tout le tnonde a raison . 
 
 That tenderness, which we feel for a 
 true friend is, in some minds, so insepa¬ 
 rably blended with every idea, that the 
 dearer half of every enjoyment is licible to 
 be torn away at once, and the stroke of a 
 
 9 
 
136 
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 moment shall cast its ajoom over the loner** 
 est years of life. Kindness and gratitude, 
 
 the very laws of constancy, and the frame 
 
 ■ 
 
 of h liman nature, seem to exact of us this 
 melancholy return, for all that refined and 
 superior happiness, which in such an union, 
 
 we have enjoyed. 
 
 I cannot help imagining, however, that 
 there may be a good deal of reason on the 
 contrary side : and as one never is so sen- 
 sible of the force of reason, as when it is 
 heightened by the eloquence of some pre¬ 
 sent feeling; so this came most strongly 
 into my head, during some solitary hours 
 of illness, that very lately put me in mind 
 of such an eternal separation from my 
 friends. The enjoyments of life, are what, 
 I believe, all persons of serious thought, 
 would easily resign for themselves, when 
 they are sure, at the same time, to be 
 freed from its disquiets. But, to think 
 that we may carry away with us, into the 
 grave, all the joy and satisfaction of those, 
 to whom we ever wish the most; and leave 
 them behind us, in a world where every 
 
ESSAY IX. 
 
 137 
 
 support is wanting, entirely destitute of any 
 (of any such, I mean, as the ordinary me¬ 
 thods of Providence have appointed) is the 
 only reflection, which, at such a moment, 
 can disturb the composure of an innocent 
 and religious mind. 
 
 I do not know how far the pride of giv¬ 
 ing pain may extend, in some people, but 
 for myself I protest, that as earnestly as I 
 wish to be remembered with a kind esteem, 
 I could not bear the thought of that re¬ 
 membrance being a painful one. For this 
 reason, I was summoning up, in my mind, 
 all that might be alledged, for what I used 
 to call lightness of temper, and found it 
 much more, than I had imagined. 
 
 Indeed, if the persons we lament, were 
 truly dear to us, we ought for their sakes, 
 to lestiain that immoderate sorrow, which, 
 n they could behold it, we are sure, that 
 it would be with the utmost concern. This 
 however, is an argument, that will by no 
 means hold, in all cases: but there aie 
 others more general. I will not argue 
 that so short a life, as ours, seems to con- 
 
138 
 
 ESSAY IX, 
 
 tradict the idea of eternal attachments: 
 because I cannot help flattering myself 
 that they may be continued, and improved 
 through every state of being But that 
 they ought to be so moderated, as to con¬ 
 tradict no purpose of the state, we are at 
 present placed in, is a truth, that will 
 scarcely be denied. The inferiority of our 
 station, the frailty and imperfection of our 
 nature, make submission to unerring wis¬ 
 dom, one of our first duties: and how do 
 we set ourselves up, in opposition to it, 
 when upon withdrawing any one blessing', 
 however kindly to us, we stubbornly de¬ 
 termine to shut our minds against every 
 other, which it indulgently continues ! 
 
 Yet after all these considerations, the 
 characters of Arachne and Maria still sur¬ 
 pass me, though they no longer give me 
 disgust they used to do. To hear them 
 talk, with the greatest good nature of any 
 present object of compassion, otherwise 
 
 * Mrs. Carter seems to have been of the same 
 opinion.—See the Memoirs of her Life^ First Edition^ 
 page 473 , 
 
essay ix. 139 
 
 ever so in different to them: to see how 
 really they are affected by every little in¬ 
 stance of kindness, and how happy they 
 are in every trifling amusement, one would 
 imagine them extremely susceptible of im¬ 
 pressions. But then, in the midst of a 
 gay conversation, to hear them run over, 
 without the least emotion, a long list of 
 once intimate friends, and then go on as 
 earnestly about trifles, as if such people 
 had never been.—It is impossible not to 
 wonder at their happy constitutions, and 
 eternal flow of spirits. When I tell you, 
 I really esteem these women, shall I be 
 reckoned severe, if I say they are inge¬ 
 nious, without parts, and good humoured, 
 without sentiments ? 
 
 Theagenes is scarcely less happy, in his 
 frame of mind, but more so, in his strength 
 of reason. His genius is the most exten¬ 
 sive, his imagination the most flowery that 
 can be: and these supply perpetual em¬ 
 ployments for his mind, diverting it from 
 too deep an attention to melancholy sub* 
 
140 
 
 ESSAY IX. 
 
 jects. His temper is really generous and 
 benevolent: this makes him interested in 
 every body's welfare, that comes within 
 his reach: and such an activity of mind 
 is the surest food of cheerfulness. As some 
 people are peculiarly turned to amuse 
 themselves with the oddnesses and defor¬ 
 mities of natures, Theagenes has an eye 
 for its beauties only. His speculations 
 wander over the great objects of the uni¬ 
 verse, and find something curious, in the 
 detail even of mechanic arts. In charac¬ 
 ters, he often errs on the favourable side; 
 and by this means, sometimes loses too 
 much, the distinction of different kinds 
 of merit, and subjects himself to a friendly 
 laugh. As he looks upon the world with 
 a philosophic, and a grateful eye, he can 
 find something endearing, in whatever part 
 of it he is placed; like a strong plant that 
 will take root and flourish, in every soil. 
 "When one set of acqnaintance is swept 
 away, by time, his social temper unites 
 itself with the next, he falls into; and is 
 
ESSAY IS. J4J 
 
 to be considered in this view, like a drop 
 of water, which, though separated from 
 its native stream, yet naturally blends with 
 any other mass of the same element, while 
 disunited it would lose its use, and it* 
 very being. 
 
 i 
 
142 
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 On Self-Love. 
 
 IT is a reigning maxim, through all the 
 works of Epictetus*, that every body may 
 be happy if they please : and the desire of 
 being happy, is but in other words, the 
 definition of such a virtuous and reason* 
 able self-love, as was originally implanted 
 in us, hy the author of our nature, for in¬ 
 numerable wise and gracious purposes. 
 No part of our constitution was given us* 
 without important reason: and therefore 
 it were folly to suppose this of so essential 
 a one as self-love : but how often it errs, 
 in its aim, and in its degree, there needs 
 no instance to prove; nor that when it 
 
 * This Essay therefore must have been written after 
 the year 17in which Mrs. Carter finished her trans^ 
 lation of the works of that Philosopher, which she sent 
 to her friend in manuscript.—See her Memoirs, p. 11 [)j 
 1st. edition. 
 
ESSAY X. 
 
 143 
 
 does so, ^ is of all other principles tho 
 most mischievous, as it is ever the most 
 active. 
 
 ' Violent declamations, either for, or 
 against any thing of the great frame of 
 nature, serve but to shew an injudicious 
 eloquence, which by proving too much, 
 in effect proves absolutely nothing. Even 
 passion may be improved into merit *: 
 and virtues themselves may deviate into 
 blameable errors. Unbiassed reason, if 
 such a thing there be, in this mixt state 
 of human nature, surveys both sides at 
 once, and teaches us to moderate our opi- 
 * nions, to draw the proper advantages, from 
 every circumstance, and carefully to guard 
 against all its dangers. 
 
 The same principle of self-love, that 
 
 * In passion itself, abstractedly considered, is nei¬ 
 ther merit nor demerit. It is either the reward of vir¬ 
 tue fiotn the delight which attends the practice of it, or 
 eise it is the means to an end. If regulated by duty 
 and principle, it leads to good, and to the enjoyment 
 ol the gratifying feelings resulting from it; if impro¬ 
 perly indulged, it becomes the lrandmaid to every vice 
 the inlet to every misery. 
 
144 
 
 ESSAY X. 
 
 adds new fire and strength to every passion, 
 when the loose reign is given up to fancy, 
 at other times checks our indulgence of 
 those passions, and pursuits, by making us 
 reflect on the danger, and pain, that at¬ 
 tends them. The same tie, that so closely 
 binds us down to our own interest, makes 
 14s sympathize, in the fortunes of our fel¬ 
 low-creatures. By self-love we learn to 
 pity in others, what we dread, or fear 
 for ourselves. In this balance we weigh 
 their distresses with our own: and what 
 self-love has shown us, under the name 
 of such, to ourselves, we shall always 
 suppose the same to every one else, and 
 kindly commiserate the sorrows we have 
 felt. 
 
 Self-love endears virtue to us, by the 
 tenderness it gives us, for whatever de¬ 
 gree of it we perceive in ourselves: and in 
 the same way, makes us look with a pe¬ 
 culiar charity on those, whose faults are of 
 the same kind with ours. Every body 
 has, I believe, a favourite virtue, and a 
 favoured weakness, which being first used 
 
ESSAY X; 
 
 145 
 
 to in themselves, they are sure to give 
 quarter and applause to, in every one else. 
 By this partiality, particular friendships 
 are generally determined; 
 
 There is a lower degree of it, which 
 would be quite ridiculous, if that too had 
 not its valuable use in connecting humaii 
 hind together. As we grow any way ac¬ 
 quainted with people, though sometimes 
 it is only by character sometimes even by 
 some circumstance of no more signification, 
 than having sat at the same table: re¬ 
 ceived* or payed some trifling mark of ci¬ 
 vility, nay even having it to say, that we 
 have seen them, we assume a kind of pro¬ 
 perty in them. Such is the importance, 
 which the least connexion, with our dear 
 selves, can give to whatever we please, 
 that if we have seen people* but one single 
 time, it makes often a wide difference in 
 our way of attending to what is said about 
 them. Recollect but any conversation you 
 have been in* where persons though of 
 very little consequence, have been talked 
 of, and I dare say you may remember, 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 essay x * 
 
 that two or three of the qompany, immedi* 
 ately fell to recollecting such idle circum¬ 
 stances in their knowledge of them, as 
 could receive no value, but from that know¬ 
 ledge itself. 
 
 This disposition, I think, shows how 
 much we were intended to mix in life: 
 and it must be a strong reason, that will 
 draw the same advantages for practice, 
 from the enlarged views, given by reading 
 and speculation, which even the com¬ 
 monest understandings are fitted to re¬ 
 ceive, from their natural constitution. If 
 these are neglected, we fall into a.thou¬ 
 sand faults, of which every one carries its 
 own punishment along with it. People 
 who confine themselves strictly to a small 
 circle of acquaintance, are in great danger 
 of contracting a narrowness of mind : while 
 those, who enter freely into society, gain 
 by it such an ease, and openness of tem¬ 
 per, as makes them look upon every in¬ 
 terest and pleasure, to be in some degree, 
 their own. 
 
 The great, who live immured, as it were, 
 
ESSAY" X* 
 
 147 
 
 within the inclosures of their vast posses- 
 sions, look upon those of a lower rank, as 
 inhabitants of a distant world from them¬ 
 selves. If ever they have any thing to do 
 with them, it is matter of constraint and 
 uneasiness, and therefore can never be 
 done with a good grace. Their senti¬ 
 ments and amusements, are something 
 delicate and mysterious, that the vulgar 
 are not supposed capable of apprehending, 
 but are to be kept at an awful distance, 
 which, it ever they leave, it is insufferable 
 intrusion. 
 
 All distinct sets of people are apt to con¬ 
 sider themselves as separate from the rest 
 of mankind. Hence the perpetual enmities 
 and prejudices of different professions: 
 hence the continual opposition of par¬ 
 ties, sects, and ages: hence the general 
 censures, thrown at random, on all. When 
 once what we have censured and laughed 
 at, comes to be our own case, we learn to 
 make those reasonable allowances, that, 
 before, we never so much as thought of. 
 
 L 2 
 
ESSAY X. 
 
 US 
 
 A beauty, that has been severely used 
 by the small-pox, learns to esteem people? 
 for something more than the person. A 
 misrepresented character can allow a great 
 deal for the uncharitableness of people s 
 opinions* and think mildly of a blemished 
 one. The age, which at fifteen, seemed 
 almost antediluvian, grows strangely sup¬ 
 portable, as we approach it: and Lysis, 
 in an airy dress, no longer ridicules peo¬ 
 ple that go without hoods, after thirty. 
 “I grow trifling. This subject of self- 
 love, aflords matter of serious reflection 
 and gratitude. It is surely one of the 
 greatest marks of infinite wisdom, that 
 what, at first sight, may seem only to re¬ 
 gard ourselves, is one of the strongest ties 
 to social virtue : and that the very atten¬ 
 tion to others, which should seem most 
 contrary to our first notions of self-love, 
 is, indeed, the truest support, and most 
 rational pursuit of it, and which alone can 
 preserve it from degenerating into mise¬ 
 rable weakness and folly. 
 
ESSAY X, 
 
 14*9 
 
 Man, like the generous vine, supported lives. 
 
 The strength he gains is from the embrace he gives, 
 <On their own axis, as the plauets rup. 
 
 Yet make at once, their circle round the sun. 
 
 So two consistent motions act the soul. 
 
 And one regards itself, and one the whole. 
 
 Thus God and nature link’d the general frame. 
 And bad self-love, and social be the same. 
 
 Pope. 
 
ESSAY XX. 
 
 150 
 
 ESSAY XL 
 
 On the Principle of Self interest as applied 
 
 to Education . 
 
 I WAS making a visit the other day, to 
 people, that pass for what are called your 
 very sensible clever folks. They have a 
 large family of children, of whom they 
 seem fond without indulgence: and to be 
 sure they educate them mighty well. Who 
 is more capable of doing it ? They are 
 prudent, have good sense, and know a 
 great deal of the world : but alas, it is 
 this knowledge of the world, as they call 
 it, that spoils every thing. “ Come hi- 
 46 ther, my dear,” (said the lady of the 
 house to a little girl about live years old, 
 who was crying to go out of the room al¬ 
 most as soon as she came in) 46 come hi- 
 tl^r Lucy. Look ye my dear, if you 
 5 
 
ESSAY XI. 
 
 151 
 
 will behave yourself prettily, and go and 
 talk to all the company, papa will give 
 you a fine new doll to-morrow.”—This 
 you may be sure, stopt the crying for the 
 present. But what will be the effect oi 
 it ? Every time Miss Lucy wants a new" 
 plaything, she has only to misbehave her¬ 
 self, and she is sure of being bribed into 
 good humour again. Thus by an excess 
 of good management in her mama, the 
 little gipsy will be taught to be artful and 
 •peevish, at an age, whose greatest orna¬ 
 ment is innocence and good humour. 
 
 Two or three instances more, of the 
 same kind of prudence, had quite awaken¬ 
 ed my sincerity, and 1 could not forbear 
 speaking of it, with the freedom of an old 
 acquaintance, as soon as the more formal 
 part of the circle was dispersed. “ My 
 dear,” (replied Prudentia, with a com¬ 
 passionate kind of smile) 66 you have lived 
 “ in the clouds, all your days, and I am sorry 
 “ to see you are not out of them yet. For 
 “ my part, who have long been sensible, 
 “ that it is upon this earth, and not up in 
 
. ESSAY XI, 
 
 the air, that I am to act my part in life, 
 X confess, nothing seems more natural 
 to me, than that children should be 
 taught to follow the same motive, by 
 which they are sure to be actuated all the 
 rest ot their lives/*—Can you possibly 
 mean so low a motive as interest ? said I.— 
 “ I certainly do. For as low as you think it, 
 you must be sensible, it you reflect a mo¬ 
 ment, that it is what we all of us pursue. 
 Those, who give up their happiness, in 
 the piesent state, with the most disin¬ 
 terested air, do it only to intitle them?- 
 selves to the blessings of a future one/’ 
 Supposing that this was the case, inter¬ 
 rupted I, the nature of the rewards, in 
 these two instances, is so very different, that 
 it would hinder you from drawing any infer 
 rences from them, in favour of your own 
 scheme. It the greatness, or gaieties of 
 this v\ 01 Id were to be our recompence, I 
 should think, that to reward a child with 
 a doll, or a hobby-horse, were framing its 
 mind to proper expectations and desires, 
 but—will you let me talk a little upon sub- 
 
 9 
 
ESSAY XI. 
 
 153 
 
 jects, that are certainly above my reach?_ 
 
 O by all means, answered Prudentia, Cle- 
 mene was not to call upon me till eight, 
 and I shall be mighty glad to hear your 
 romance of education, in the mean time. 
 I dare say it will be pretty: but you will 
 find it a mere romance, I am persuaded, 
 ten years hence, when you have a family 
 of your own.—Well, be that as it will: you 
 have given me leave to talk, and this is all 
 1 have to do at present. 
 
 I was going to say, continued I, that I 
 cannot help imagining, that a great part 
 of our happiness, in a future state, may 
 arise from a sense of right, abstractedly 
 from all other considerations. That, at 
 least, as much of it will proceed from the 
 thought, of having acted agreeably to the 
 infallible will of the most perfect of beings, 
 us bom that of having deserved the favour 
 of the loi d of the universe, and from the 
 hopes or any happiness, which infinite 
 goodness and power may bestow on us. 
 i n short it seems to me, as if to contribute, 
 each in our inferior way, to the order and 
 
154 
 
 £6SHAY XI. 
 
 y 11 o universe, was at once the 
 
 noblest, and the justest motive, and the 
 highest reward of goodness. 
 
 Lucia is not old enough to enter into 
 “ all these abstracted reasonings,” said 
 Prudentia. “ in our world, we must treat 
 children, as children, and convince 
 “ them by their senses, in default of their 
 judgments. I do not know what people 
 66 may do in Fairy land. I suppose, if you 
 “ had a son you would expect, he should 
 be divinity professor at five years old : 
 4,6 but I am afraid, Lucy would not be 
 56 at all a fit wife for him.” 
 
 Look ye, said I, you shall not laugh me 
 out of my argument: and so arm yourself 
 with patience, and hear me out. Your sup¬ 
 position is an excellent good one : but I 
 am airaid, 1 shall be less mistaken, in sup¬ 
 posing, that a child, who has been taught 
 no other end in behaving itself well, than 
 tne gaming some uivourite point, or some 
 darling toy, will never make a disinterest- 
 * ^ ^ never regard the reality 
 
 of virtue, and will be ready to throw off 
 
ESSAY XI. 
 
 155 
 
 even the appearance of it, when it is con¬ 
 tradictory to interest. 
 
 “ But must one never give a poor child 
 “ any encouragement then?’" cried Pru- 
 dentia. 
 
 You mistake me entirely, said I, let 
 good behaviour be always attended by re¬ 
 ward ; but you make it the consequence 
 of bad behaviour. As for the particular 
 rewards ot toys and sugar-plumbs, I con- 
 iess myself, in general, no great friend to 
 them. The approbation of friends is a 
 better incentive to act right; and gives, 
 even to such children, a pleasure of a much 
 higher kind. These should be mixed, 
 however, in a proper degree: and certainly 
 even the last ought not to be too much in¬ 
 sisted on. The notion of doing right, for 
 the sake of doing right, should be gently 
 inculcated, and strengthened by degrees, 
 as they advance in age, and understanding. 
 This will settle, in time, into a firm and 
 stedfast rightness of mind, which interest 
 
 shall never bias, which adversity shall 
 
 * «/ 
 
 never shake, which prosperity shall never 
 
156 
 
 ESSAY XT. 
 
 enervate. From hence will proceed a 
 calm and even cheerfulness of temper, a 
 regular and uniform conduct, that shall 
 make them for ever happy in themselves, 
 and respected by others. Not the wild 
 gaiety of one hour, damped by uneasy re¬ 
 flections, the next: not a perpetual dis¬ 
 pute, between reason and passion, which 
 makes people good by fits and starts only. 
 Miserable is the state of these: and yet 
 perhaps it is almost always the effect of 
 their not knowing, from the first, what end 
 to aim at. Interest and ambition attract 
 them, by a thousand glittering temptations: 
 and yet, in spite of all these, in the midst 
 of their pursuit, they feel themselves often 
 checked by the secret monitor in the heart, 
 who tells them, we were formed for some¬ 
 thing nobler than greatness, and that, 
 neither riches nor pleasures are the chief 
 end of life. 
 
 Fut what is this nobler end ? Perhaps 
 it is the applause of men, the immortality, 
 which fame bestows, or at least, the plea¬ 
 sure ot being well looked on, and esteemed 
 
157 
 
 ESSAY Xf. 
 
 by the people among whom we live.—* 
 Fatal imagination! Source of wild and 
 mischievous exploits* of wars and desola¬ 
 tions : and, in less noble minds, the origin 
 of hypocrisy, and ever hateful deceit. To 
 look upon the respect and admiration of 
 men, as the ultimate end of life, is, perhaps, 
 one of the most dangerous errors, into 
 which we can fall. While it is the perfec¬ 
 tion of a character to pay a proper regard 
 to it, to rejoice in it as the amiable at¬ 
 tendant of real virtue : but to be willing 
 to sacrifice the fairest appearance, to what 
 is really right: and bear the contempt qf 
 mankind, rather than not deserve their 
 esteem. 
 
158 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 On the Distinction betzvecn Cunning and 
 
 Prudence. 
 
 Lord BACON has an Essay upon 
 
 cunning, that if it falls into wrong hands, 
 is more likely to teach people sleights and 
 devices, than to furnish a warning against 
 tuem And vet the Essay is, in itself, 
 excellent; hut methinks it were time well 
 bestowed to make ajust distinction between 
 cunning and prudence, a blameable art¬ 
 fulness, and a laudable dexterity. To fix 
 the bounds of these tw r o borderers and 
 determine the nice difference, 
 
 “ Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice/' 
 
 To exercise tne authority of superior rea¬ 
 son and understanding, to make use of 
 
 ►Jwnts advice to servants is liable to the same ob¬ 
 jection. 
 
\ 
 
 ESSAY XIT. 159 
 
 their lawful advantages, can surely be no 
 fault. On the contrary, it is making the 
 best of our nature, and employing facul¬ 
 ties that were not intended to lie idle. It 
 is by reason and understanding, that hu¬ 
 man kind are superior to brutes of infinite¬ 
 ly greater strength and force of body, and 
 the same sort of difference subsists among 
 men. A brutal nature is to be considered 
 in the same light, whether the animal, it 
 governs, go upon two legs or four, only in 
 our behaviour towards the brutes of our 
 own kind, we have this additional consider¬ 
 ation, that there is, at the same time, a 
 mixture of something divine and excellent 
 in every human soul, which claims strongly 
 our assistance, in subduing that worse 
 half, so prevalent in the many. Thus, 
 those who by wisdom lead others less wise, 
 to act wisely, not only make them, as in¬ 
 ferior natures, subservient to excellent pur¬ 
 poses, but at the same time, do them a 
 real and important good, and raise them 
 above what they were. When, by inno¬ 
 cent arts, we soothe an uneasy temper: 
 
wo 
 
 ESSAY XU* 
 
 when, by suspending the impetuosity cf a 
 person s passion, we give him leisure to 
 recall his reason* we do but free him from 
 the worst of tyrants* and defend the good 
 and reasonable man, within him* from the 
 hasty influence of the madman. 
 
 But to do evil* that good mav come of 
 it, nothing can ever make allowable *. 
 The moment we deviate from truth and 
 integrity* our very best intentions are all 
 poisoned and perverted. 
 
 To learn what we can, by an acute ob¬ 
 servation of the countenances and manners 
 
 I 
 
 of those with whom we are concerned, is 
 certainly a very blameless point of wisdom. 
 To pry into their secret thoughts, uninte¬ 
 rested, and only to betray them, is the 
 baseness of hearkening at doors, and look^ 
 ing in at windows. 
 
 * So also thought St. Paul; but some modern moral 
 Philosophers have been of a different opinion, and by 
 stating extreme cases, and arguing from supposed cir¬ 
 cumstances which never have existed, and probably 
 never can take place, have strangely confounded right ami 
 wrong, and done much mischief to persons unused to 
 metaphysical reasoning. 
 
ESSAY XII. 
 
 161 
 
 The cunningly preventing objections to 
 any thing, we have a mind should succeed, 
 by unfairly withdrawing the attention of 
 persons from it, can only be allowable, in 
 cases of great exigence, or in absolute 
 trifles. Mere humour is a thing, that we 
 are at liberty to controul and guide, in 
 what way we please: but when the case 
 is of importance, we are scarcely fit judges, 
 if it touches ourselves, whether we are at 
 liberty to deceive another, to what, we 
 may think, ever so good an end. If it is 
 a person, over whom we have any autho¬ 
 rity, the case is somewhat clearer. Mad¬ 
 ness and folly we have a right to govern, 
 founded in the utter incapacity of those, 
 who are thus governed: and the point is 
 indisputable, that children may be cheated 
 into health, with a sugared portion; and 
 that to steal away the sword of a distracted 
 person, or humour his frenzy, till we have 
 secured him, is no theft or deceit. 
 
 But to surprize any person’s reason is 
 utterly unjustifiable: and be the end we 
 propose ever so good, the means is most 
 
] trJ 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 / 
 
 detestable. If people will not make a right 
 use of leisure and reflection, their fault is 
 gieat. but it we do not allow them both, 
 ours is much greater. 
 
 All hypocrisy is hateful and despicable: 
 out there certainly are infinite cases, where 
 others have no right to know our private 
 thoughts and resolutions. Reserve is 
 always allowable. Where we go a step 
 farther, it is accompanied with a kind of 
 shame that is sufficient to instruct us. Yet 
 sometimes, to be sure, we may put on an' 
 appearance of something better than we 
 aie, as showing a disdain of our present 
 mipenections, and provided we put this on, 
 with a real intention and aim of rising to 
 the mark we have set. But any appear¬ 
 ance contrary to what we are in our hearts 
 and wishes, is vile. 
 
 Once again: people's humours we may, 
 nay ought to soothe and wind, and govern, 
 as we best can: for humour is the childish¬ 
 ness of the mind. reason its maturity, and 
 children ought to submit to the direction 
 of grown persons. These are the little 
 
ESSAY XII. 
 
 1 63 
 
 arts that humanize society, and give it a 
 pleasing and a gentle air. But to work 
 upon people's weaknesses, to take advan¬ 
 tage of their simplicity, to side with their 
 passions, for our own purposes—-this is 
 that monstrous policy, which is the wisdom 
 of this world, and the foolishness of a 
 better. 
 
 To introduce any perplexing subject in 
 the easiest manner, provided our intention 
 be a good one, is but using fit means to a 
 laudable end. But let all have a care how 
 they grow too fond of their own ingenuity 
 and dexterity, in managing even laudable 
 undertakings: the step is too easy to a low 
 sort of cunning, that is as far from the 
 true sublime of virtue, as any species 
 of false wit is from the true sublime in 
 writing. 
 
 o 
 
 Most comedies are very pernicious in 
 this way. They turn upon a thousand 
 little stratagems and intrigues, that even 
 when they are innocent tend strangely to 
 corrupt the amiable simplicity of an honest 
 mind, 
 
 M 2 
 
164 
 
 ESSAY XII. 
 
 True taste in every thing is plainness 
 and simplicity, the least deviation from 
 nature that is possible; for that is very 
 consistent with the highest improvement 
 of it. Buildings, gardens, statues, pictures, 
 writings of all sorts, come within this rule, 
 and it holds full as strongly in character 
 and behaviour. It is the saying of a very 
 excellent author, that the true art of con¬ 
 versation, if any body can hit it, seems to 
 be this, an appearing freedom and open¬ 
 ness, with a resolute reservedness as little 
 appearing as is possible. I stumbled at it 
 at first: but upon consideration I must sup¬ 
 pose him, and from what goes before it 
 seems most probable, to mean by reserved¬ 
 ness, a strict watch over ourselves, not to 
 be led into saying any thing improper, 
 or that can be of the least harm to others, 
 and this may most allowably be tempered 
 with such a winning carriage, and so easy a 
 good humour, as shall take off from the 
 height of virtue and discretion all appear¬ 
 ance of stiffness and moroseness. 
 
 To insinuate instruction in a pleasing 
 
ESSAY XII. 
 
 105 
 
 way, to introduce useful subjects by un¬ 
 affected transitions, and to adorn truth 
 with a mixture of pleasing fictions, is the 
 highest merit of conversation, and has no¬ 
 thing to do with cunning*. To watch 
 for a favourable opportunity of doing peo¬ 
 ple good, or reclaiming them from some 
 
 error-who ever complained of being so 
 
 over-reached ? 
 
 * Witness those most perfect models of all improving 
 conversation; the discourses and parables of Jesus 
 Christ. 
 
 / 
 
166 
 
 ESSAY Kill. 
 
 ESSAY XIIL 
 
 On the Necessity of encouraging Hope • 
 
 I DO not know whether it is a pragmati¬ 
 cal disposition, or whether it is the effect 
 of a happy inclination to hope, in spite 
 of all discouragements; but for my part, 
 I cannot abide to hear people in a des¬ 
 ponding way, give up every attempt in 
 which they cannot thoroughly succeed. It 
 is, generally too, the best and wisest sort 
 of people, and who would therefore be the 
 most likely to succeed in some degree, that 
 by carrying their wishes of success too far, 
 and finding it impossible to attain them, 
 in their full extent, sit down in a useless 
 despair and moralize upon the world: 
 which, because it is too bad to be com¬ 
 pletely reformed by them, they disdain to 
 mend as far as they might. 
 
 Thus the best and most useful designs are 
 the soonest discouraged, while those of the 
 
ESSAY XIII. 
 
 167 
 
 wicked and the trifling are pursued day 
 after day : the one too violent to be check¬ 
 ed by any consideration, that would op¬ 
 pose the ruling passion: the others too 
 thoughtless to attend to any difficulties, 
 are continually weaving one web after 
 another out of their idle imaginations, for¬ 
 getful of all that have been brushed away, 
 and thinking themselves well rewarded, if 
 they can catch a few worthless flies, the 
 vanities and amusements of life 
 
 There is something quite grievous in this 
 to a mind full of spirit and activity, that 
 thinks it glorious, at least to struggle in the 
 cause of virtue, though ever so sure to be 
 overpowered. But this is by no means 
 the case: every effort does something, 
 whether enough to be perceived, at the 
 moment, or not, is very little material: 
 since in time it will certainly have its due 
 effect, and whether that be soon enough 
 for our pride to be flattered by it, or not, 
 
 * The allegory in this passage may perhaps remind 
 the reader of the 4th stanza of Gray’s beautiful Ode on 
 the Spring, written in 1742, but not published till 1758.. 
 
168 
 
 ESSAY XIII. 
 
 is a consideration, which truly generous 
 minds should overlook. They will, indeed, 
 go on with less alacrity and satisfaction; 
 but ease and pleasure are, at best, but the 
 secondary ends of our being, in such a 
 state of trial as this life. If, therefore, we 
 do but our duty here, w T e may trust our 
 reward to futurity : and we should never 
 urge the difficulties we meet with, as any 
 objection to the main business of our life, 
 whicn would by no means be free from 
 uneasiness, even should we neglect our 
 duty. 
 
 But, after all, what are these so terrible 
 difficulties of which people so heavily com- 
 plain ? Ours is not, with all its faults, an 
 age, or country of persecution or tyranny; 
 people s lives and fortunes are secure: their 
 virtues involve them in no danger, and 
 though very possibly they may hinder 
 them from rising in the world, yet though 
 ever so openly and strenuously persisted in, 
 
 no great damage. The 
 utmost they can suffer is a little contradict 
 tion, a little chagrin, the vexation of seeing 
 
ESSAY XI11; 
 
 169 
 
 many good endeavours turn out to but little 
 good purpose, the uneasiness of living 
 amongst a mixture of people little suited 
 to their better turn of mind, and to whom 
 they cannot do so much good, as they 
 would. But is this a reason why they 
 should choose to do none at all ? Will the 
 world be the better for all the good people, 
 that are in it, running to hide themselves 
 in deserts and solitudes ? If it is not, what 
 then is the sudden retirement, but an idle 
 and selfish pursuit of their own indolent in- 
 clinations ? Does the industrious planter 
 forbear his toil, because he expects not to 
 enjoy the shade of those flourishing oaks, 
 that will spring from his acorns ? Is he dis¬ 
 couraged by the fear, or frequency of 
 blights ? Does he at once declare that all 
 the young trees are degenerate, and no 
 good to be hoped from them ? The worse 
 the world is, the more need it has of good 
 people's trying to mend it: and should 
 they be ever so unsuccessful, in regard to 
 themselves, at least, they have not lost 
 their pains. Meanly indeed do they be- 
 
170 
 
 ESSAY XIII. 
 
 tray the cause of virtue, if they, its only 
 friends, suffer themselves to be overcome 
 by so weak enemies as spleen and indo¬ 
 lence. Of all people they have the least 
 cause to despond: they, who pursue the 
 noblest end, by the fairest means, they 
 who are sure of being in the right, they 
 who are sure to have the best applause for 
 it, they who can doubt of nothing, but that 
 their present fancy may not be gratified in 
 seeing an immediate success of their en¬ 
 deavours : and this they need not doubt 
 
 about neither, since they ought not to think 
 of it at all. 
 
 If sometimes such a glorious instance 
 of success appears, this ought no more to 
 mislead their hopes, than the notion of a 
 magical wand, that raises places and 
 gardens in an instant, should make peo¬ 
 ple disdain to cultivate their country, by 
 the slow and vulgar methods of planting 
 and building. Inconveniences that can¬ 
 not be removed may be palliated at least. 
 The first who formed habitations to defend 
 them trom the cold were certainly much 
 
ESSAY XIII. 
 
 171 
 
 wiser than if they had sat down and pite¬ 
 ously lamented those inclemencies of the 
 weather, which none of their complaints 
 could alter, but against which their in¬ 
 dustry could easily secure them. 
 
 From this restless activity in the mind 
 of man, this busy hope for ever springing 
 up in his heart, this notion of bettering 
 every situation, and never resting contented 
 while he can aspire to any thing further, 
 all those improvements, which form half 
 the enjoyment of civil life, have arisen. 
 But with them many errors have shot for¬ 
 ward too ; and if the more delicate flowers 
 of virtue should be left to sicken and decay 
 jn their offensive shade, the world will 
 soon be over-run with the most noxious 
 weeds. 
 
1/2 
 
 ESSAY XIV. 
 
 ESSAY XIV. 
 
 On the moral Uses of Geography. 
 
 Among 
 
 those studies, which are usu¬ 
 
 ally recommended to young people, there 
 are few that might be improved to better 
 uses than Geography. 1 mean by this, 
 indeed, not a bare acquaintance with the 
 outlines of a map, but some general know¬ 
 ledge of the people who inhabit this our 
 globe: not their situation only, but their 
 history and manners. It may perhaps be 
 objected, that the title, which I have given 
 to this study, belongs to a subject much 
 more bounded, than the definition, which 
 I have since been making of it: but I 
 think it may very well include a general 
 knowledge of history, as extended to all 
 parts of the habitable globe, though a 
 more particular application to the histories 
 ©1 those few people, who have made them- 
 
ESSAY XIV. 
 
 1/3 
 
 selves very remarkable on it, may belong 
 to a different science. 
 
 It is not only the error of the peasant 
 boy, who imagines there is no habitable 
 land, beyond those mountains, that inclose 
 his native valley, but of many more, that 
 we have to guard against, and of much 
 more important tendency. How the idea 
 of greatness and superiority vanish in a 
 moment, at the unrolling a large map of 
 the world, where we see England itself, 
 make so inconsiderable a figure ! Let our 
 thoughts be never so strongly attached 
 to any particular place, in this inconsi¬ 
 derable spot, it must give us a moment's 
 reflection, upon the insignificance of all 
 those cares, that center in so imperceptible 
 a point *! Innumerable interruptions in¬ 
 deed, trifling and vexatious, will often 
 happen to call down our most exalted 
 thoughts, but for that very reason, we 
 have the more need of returning to them 
 
 # "I he classical reader will recollect that Socrates 
 endeavoured to check the early vanity of Alcibiades by 
 this very means. 
 
174 
 
 ESSAY XIr. 
 
 often: and not only taking a transient vievr 
 of them in our minds, as shadows passing 
 before a looking-glass* ; but trying to fix 
 them there, by reducing them to some¬ 
 thing solid, and ever drawing some practi¬ 
 cal precept from them, that may remain in 
 our hearts, to whatever trifles imagination 
 is hurried away, by the various avocations 
 of life. 
 
 Considered as a part of space, the spot, 
 each of us, takes up, is indeed very insigni¬ 
 ficant: but nothing is so as relating to the 
 internal system of the universe : and there¬ 
 fore properly to fill the station, there assign¬ 
 ed us, deserves an equal degree of care in 
 persons of every rank, and is not to be 
 measured by the acres they possess. 
 
 This sort of consideration restores a 
 higher value to the elevated circumstances 
 of life, than the former has robbed them 
 of, in the low notion of intrinsic value. 
 
 * In how many places does Miss Talbot’s intimate ac¬ 
 quaintance with the Scriptures discover itself, even per¬ 
 haps without any consciousness of it in her own mind! 
 See St. James i. 23, and 24. 
 
ESSAY IV. 
 
 175 
 
 I his should teach the miser, to esteem 
 his riches, rather by the treasure spent, 
 than by his secret hoard : it should teach 
 every body in general, from the day- 
 labourer to the king, by every possible 
 means to raise themselves, in the moral 
 world, to a degree of consideration, that 
 
 their place in the natural world can never 
 attain. 
 
 Gomd we, (it is a strange wild fancy) 
 imagine to ourselves a map delineated of 
 ihis, as well as of the other, we should see 
 tnen, that those vast continents which over- 
 spiead tiie one, would be reduced, upon 
 the other, to moderate bounds: while the 
 smallest civilized tracts of land became ex¬ 
 tensive empires, in proportion to the im¬ 
 provements they have made, in religious 
 virtue and knowledge. This, after all, is 
 the map of real consequence, and which 
 will remain with indelible strokes, long 
 
 after the other, when all that it relates to, 
 is reduced to nothing. 
 
 Can any one imagine riches the soul of 
 
ESSAY XIV. 
 
 176 
 
 iife and source of joy ? Let him but con¬ 
 sider those vast tracts of land, where the 
 bosom of the earth is filled with glorious 
 gems, and glows with unnumbered mines 
 of p;old. Let him consider these countries, 
 
 O 
 
 barbarous and wretched, ignorant of al¬ 
 most every useful art and speculative 
 science; untaught both in the elegance 
 and use of life : then let him see in some 
 character of civilized generosity, at home, 
 what it is, that gives all the gloss to 
 fortune, and whence alone riches derive 
 their lustre. 
 
 Is power the idol of the soul ? Cast 
 your eyes on the monarchs of Mogul, or 
 Emperors of China. See how infinitely 
 their grandeur, in immensity of wealth, 
 in extent of dominion, in the adoration of 
 their subjects, exceeds whatever greatness 
 we are dazzled with, in those minute in¬ 
 stances, that come within our sphere of 
 personal knowledge. Then consider this 
 greatness in itself: divested of all higher 
 considerations, what is it but a wonderous 
 
tSSAY XIV. 
 
 i 17 
 
 tale, to astonish foreigners *; the shining 
 subject of a book of voyages perhaps, that 
 will be thrown aside by the first incredulous 
 person, as a lye, and read by the serious 
 and the thoughtful, with such reflections, 
 as the pride of the monarch would little 
 approve. It must be considered too as 
 subject to hourly revolutions: besides, 
 that all the state of an eastern monarch is 
 incapable of affording the least relish, to 
 one, who has been used to the refinements 
 of life, in more humanixed nations. 
 
 The highest gratitude must surely bs 
 raised in us, by such comparisons as these, 
 when we reflect, that those moral and civil 
 improvements, which seem to' set our 
 little corner of the globe, so far above the 
 
 *-1 demens et saeves curre per Alpes, 
 
 Ut pufcris placets, et declamatio fias. 
 
 Juv. Sat. x. 
 
 Thus elegantly paraphrased by Johnson in his ap¬ 
 plication of the Satirist’s character of Hannibal, to that 
 of Charles xii. of Sweden. 
 
 “ He left the name at which the world grew pale. 
 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale/* 
 
ESSAY XIV. 
 
 178 
 
 rest, that, like that mountain, which the 
 Siamese imagine to stand on those gems* 
 in the midst of the earth, the sun and 
 moon, seem to have their revolutions only 
 round that, cheering and enlightening it 
 with their warmest beams. 
 
 Such an extensive view of human kind, 
 as this, leads likewise to a general benevo¬ 
 lence, dilates and enlarges the heart, as 
 well as the imagination. Where we be¬ 
 hold a cultivated spot of land, the eye 
 dwells on it with pleasure : and when we 
 see nothing but wild and barren deserts 
 around us, we wish that they could be 
 improved into the same smiling scene. 
 We learn to look on the savage Indian, as 
 our fellow-creature, who has a mind as capa¬ 
 ble of every exalted satisfaction, as ours : 
 and therefore we pity him for the want 
 of those enjoyments, on which we pride 
 ourselves. From compassionate thoughts 
 kind actions naturally flow: our endeavours 
 will, in some degree, follow our wish, 
 wherever it is sincere: and would we all 
 join our endeavours to do all the good we 
 
ESSAY XIV. 179 
 
 are able, this earth would soon become 
 a subject of such delightful contemplation, 
 as should make us reflect, with infinite 
 delight, upon the study, that had first led 
 us into so useful a train of thoughts* 
 
180 
 
 ESSAY XIV 
 
 ESSAY XV. 
 
 On consistency of Character. 
 
 IT is very strange, and not less grievous, 
 that almost all people should have such 
 an inequality in their conduct, as in ten 
 thousand unheeded instances, daily to con¬ 
 tradict those fundamental principles of 
 duty and reason, which, in matters of 
 more acknowledged importance, they just¬ 
 ly make it their glory to act up to. 
 
 The person who goes contrary to those 
 principles, upon deliberate reflection, we 
 all shun and detest: and is mere heedless¬ 
 ness so great a virtue, as to atone for our 
 behaving, in the same faulty way, because 
 we do it, without making so deep reflec¬ 
 tion, as we ought ? 
 
 A tew instances may explain what I 
 mean, and I believe, there are few persons* 
 
ESSAY XV. 
 
 181 
 
 r * • , 
 
 who will not find something of the same 
 Sort, at home, within themselves. 
 
 Good nature is a quality that people are 
 as fond of possessing as any.—Does it 
 ever hold, throughout ? That pain, which 
 we should abhor to inflict on the body of 
 a friend, or a dependent, do we never 
 suffer our caprice or humour to inflict it 
 on their mind , an infinitely tenderer part ? 
 —That resentment and dislike, which we 
 are strongly upon our guard against feel¬ 
 ing, in return for real injuries, and should 
 justly reckon ourselves very bad Christians 
 if we did otherwise, do we never make 
 them the punishment of trivial offences, 
 and slight disagreeablenesses, in those to 
 whom, perhaps we have solid obligations? 
 At the same time that we should desire, 
 in cases of importance, to do all our fellow- 
 creatures all possible good, do we seriously 
 enough consider that the repeating an idle 
 story, or spreading upon slight grounds, 
 a disagreeable report, is acting most 
 directly contrary to those laudable desires ? 
 We can actually do good but to few : but 
 
182 
 
 ESSAY XV. 
 
 We ought to wish it as sincerely and aa 
 warmly to all, as if they were truly within 
 the small circle of our own influence : and 
 
 Ml 
 
 consequently, a mind, that is as good as it 
 should be, will feel itself heartily interest¬ 
 ed in every interest of our fellow-creatures* 
 Should we then listen with complacency, 
 or even with careless ears, to the story of 
 such faults, frailties and follies, as are 
 real misfortunes to them ? 
 
 Patience and resignation are what, in 
 the severest trials, we should earnestly wish 
 to be distinguished for. Do we practise 
 them on trifling occasions ? Let every one 
 of us be asked—can you bear to be put 
 out of your own w ? ay, to accomodate your 
 humour to the varieties of human life, and 
 however your day is turned and inter¬ 
 rupted, cheerfully make the best of it ? 
 Can you improve little inconveniences 
 into something tolerable and even useful ? 
 It may generally be done if people would 
 hut set their minds to it. 
 
 You are convinced, perhaps that a cheer* 
 
ESSAY XV. 
 
 183 
 
 ful, grateful disposition is that, which 
 above all others, ought to be cultivated by 
 creatures formed for immortal happiness, 
 guided in their way to it, by the most 
 gracious Providence, and continually under 
 the eye, and care of the most excellent 
 and amiable of beings. But do you al¬ 
 ways act, and think and speak consist- 
 ently with this persuasion ? Is none of 
 your breath w r asted in vain sighs ? Do you 
 never voluntarily indulge the overflowings 
 of a fruitless sorrow? Do you never, by 
 giving way to a momentary disgust, resent¬ 
 ment or peevishness, rob yourself of that 
 highest delight, which flows from perfect 
 kindness and good humour ? Do you 
 never encourage disagreeable thoughts 
 and jarring passions to disorder the har¬ 
 mony of your soul, and make you tasteless 
 to all the joys of life, and to all the charms 
 of beautiful nature? Do you never nourish 
 a fond and blameable anxiety—never 
 heap times and circumstances of trouble 
 and sorrow in your mind, till the load 
 
c 
 
 184 ESSAY XV. 
 
 grows too heavy for imagination to bear ? 
 Do you never please yourself with heighten¬ 
 ing the paintings of your distress"? Do 
 you often recollect all the happy and de¬ 
 lightful circumstances of vour situation? 
 
 •/ 
 
 state is without very many, and those 
 veyy important,, 
 
 Again : you are generous, it may be, 
 free and open-hearted; your dispositions 
 are all noble and liberal: your bounty 
 would be inexhaustible if your estate was 
 so: you would dp good to all the world: 
 no eye should see you, that cpuld not 
 <s bear witness” to your kindness. But 
 in the free indulgence of this amiable tem¬ 
 per, how possible is it, that you may in¬ 
 jure those whom you are the most bound 
 to help ? If proper regard to the limits 
 of your power be not observed, this dignity 
 and generosity must be supported by tha 
 cruellest injustice, and the most wretched 
 condescensions. To what straits, what 
 meannesses are those often reduced, whom 
 iQ.i tune had once placed in a high ranki 
 
ESSAY XV. 
 
 From what proceeds this, but from in¬ 
 equality of conduct! 
 
 The elegant beauty, whose fondest aim 
 is to please to and be admired, has some¬ 
 times small regard to that complete har¬ 
 mony of manner and behaviour, which 
 perfects the charm. Indeed we are, all of 
 us, so short-sighted, that to take in a 
 whole view at once is impossible. Yet 
 these views of life we ought surely to 
 chuse and study, with at least as much 
 taste and attention, as a landscape painter 
 does prospects. The most considerable 
 objects should take up the chief place, 
 and be finished with the highest art. 
 The rest should be thrown off, in due 
 proportion, and lessening by impercepti¬ 
 ble degress. But what a picture would 
 he make, were the distant hills to be 
 painted with a vivid green, and the nearest 
 objects softened into a purplish blue: here, 
 every flower touched up with exquisite 
 art: and these objects as near, and more 
 considerable, sketched only with rude out- 
 
IB 6 
 
 ESSAY KV. 
 
 lines?—Inconsistent throughout, we are 
 seriously offended at the disproportion of 
 any work of art, and utterly insensible of 
 it in a thousand instances, where, to the 
 eye of reason, it is infinitely more mon¬ 
 strous. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
ESSAY XVI. 
 
 18 ? 
 
 ESSAY XVI. 
 
 On the Art of phasing in Society , 
 
 One great reason why people succeed 
 so little in the art of pleasing, while they 
 seem wholly possest by the ambition of 
 shining, is their not observing proper rules 
 of place and time. They shine, indeed, 
 in their own eyes extremely: but they do 
 not suit their manners to the taste of those, 
 with whom they converse. Whatever is 
 their favourite and superior accomplish¬ 
 ment, they are apt to imagine a sufficient 
 recommendation, wherever they go; when 
 probably there are a thousand less striking, 
 which, properly placed, would make them 
 appear, with infinitely more advantages. 
 Nor is even the favourite accomplishment 
 by this means lost; for when once you 
 have condescended to win people's esteem. 
 
I S3 
 
 ESSAY XVI, 
 
 in their own way, they are willing enough 
 to see every additional grace in your 
 character, and dwell upon it with plea¬ 
 sure. 
 
 To instance only in the character of the 
 fine lady. Struck with the praise of 
 beauty, and conscious of such a superior 
 claim to admiration, the absolute fijie lady 
 will be such through every scene of life, 
 
 cd t/ y 
 
 and in every variety of circumstances. 
 But after all what good is it to the in¬ 
 dustrious tradesman, that after many a 
 morning’s attendance, he can see her lady- 
 ship with a pair of fine eyes ? It is not 
 beauty, wit, or learning, that pass for 
 current coin, in our dealings with people 
 who live by their business. Punctuality 
 and exactness, with a strict care to save 
 them as much time and labour as we pos¬ 
 sibly can, is the least we owe them, for 
 the pains they voluntarily take to furnish 
 us w ith every convenience of life. 
 
 Ibis is meant for a rambling sort of 
 Essay ■ and now I have named punctuality, 
 I cannot help digressing, to praise it. There 
 
\ 
 
 ESSAY XVr. lf$ 
 
 is nothing that makes us more welcome 
 members of society. Exactness even in 
 trifles, amounts in a long life, to a consi¬ 
 derable sum ot merit. People know how 
 to depend upon us, and are sure, we shall 
 never give them the least uneasiness or 
 disappointment if we can possibly help it. 
 I his makes them the more easily bear 
 with us, on occasions more important, 
 where interests will sometimes very inno¬ 
 cently interfere: and it is a piece of true 
 policy never to forfeit that credit, in small 
 things which we may possibly want, in 
 great ones. There are numberless little 
 arts of ingratiating ourselves, with our 
 fellow-creatures, which are equally con¬ 
 sistent with sincerity and prudence: nor 
 wa3 ever any thing more wise and humane 
 than the Apostle's precept of “ becoming 
 all things to all men/’ Little disobli- 
 gations will be perpetually occurring, if we 
 allow ourselves any liberty, in point of 
 exactness; the even tenor of our conduct 
 is broken, and people begin to think them¬ 
 selves indebted more to chance than to us, 
 
290 ESSAY xvi. 
 
 for any civility or kindness we may sho\V 
 them. 
 
 There is a kind of shatter-witted amiable 
 character, which gains no confidence, and 
 loses all respect. I think, I never saw 
 any particular description of it, and it may 
 not be amiss to draw one here. It is a 
 careless, gay, good humoured creature, 
 as full of liveliness and entertainment, as 
 void of caution and discretion, living on 
 from moment to moment, without meaning 
 any harm, or ever taking thorough pains 
 to do good. In such persons, fifty good 
 qualities are lost, in the mere hurry of 
 inconsideration. Every thing goes on at 
 random: every thing is unequal and odd, 
 and yet every body loves them. Their 
 affairs for the most part run to ruin with¬ 
 out any extravagance : nay by starts, they 
 will be the best managers, andthe strictest 
 oeconomists in the world; but alas this 
 is all the while, only whimsy masquerading 
 in the dress of a housewife. 
 
 They who come under this description, 
 whatever their principles may be, are 
 
ESSAY XVI. 
 
 191 
 
 guided in all the common affairs of life by 
 mere humour and frolick. They run, 
 with the prettiest harmlessness in the world, 
 into acts of injustice, that make all around 
 them suffer severely, while they themselves 
 -are perfectly insensible whence the mis¬ 
 chief comes, because they are conscious to 
 their own hearts of having the best designs 
 
 o o 
 
 and sentiments imaginable. By all I 
 could ever learn, the great and amiable 
 Sir R. S. was one of these whimsical, un¬ 
 happy mortals. "With a genius and a 
 heart, that few have ever equalled, he had 
 this defect in conduct, to such a degree 
 as made him, in every respect, but that 
 of an author, as hurtful a member of 
 society as well could be. Wit like his 
 turned his very distresses into entertain¬ 
 ment, and it is hard to say, whether he 
 raised in his acquaintance, more love, di¬ 
 version, or compassion. But what pity it 
 is, that such a mind should have had any 
 blemish at all * ! 
 
 # This character of Sir Richard Steele has given 
 much offence to some persons who think more highly 
 
192 essay xvi. 
 
 My dispbsition has led me a great way i 
 bat when a favourite subject is fairly 
 thrown before one, who can resist it? 
 Not gravity and decorum itself. I re~ 
 member a story of a, good old lady, who 
 used pretty equally to divide her time, 
 between the church and the quadrille- 
 table. A young man of some humour, 
 and of more smartness than discretion, 
 had laid a wager, that he would make her 
 talk over her cards in prayer time. He 
 contrived, the next day to kneel down by 
 her : and when the litany began, whisper¬ 
 ed in a low voice—I had the terriblest 
 luck last night! No mortal was ever so 
 unfortunate.—Hush : be quiet, Sir, pray 
 have done.—Madam, you shall but hear 
 me.—Pray Sir, fie, by no means, pray be 
 gone, for goodness sake.—I had four 
 matadores: and so on lie went telling: his 
 
 o 
 
 » ‘ I 
 
 of bis moral qualities than Miss Talbot seems to have 
 done. However the character given of him in fe> 
 words by that wonderful prodigy of early genius, and 
 Christian virtue, II. Kirke White, exactly agrees with 
 hers. See his “ Remains” by Southey, voh i. p. 2Q8.< 
 
KS8AY XVI, 
 
 J93 
 
 hand, and the whole process of the game: 
 while she, poor woman, was very seriously 
 angry, and, as she thought, perfectly inat¬ 
 tentive to him. He goes on however.—A 
 club was led, I put on a small trump.— 
 Human patience could endure no longer. 
 Pooh, says the good lady, you should have 
 played your ponto. 
 
 o 
 
154 
 
 ESSAY XVII. 
 
 ESSAY XVII. 
 
 On the Power and Necessity of Confidence. 
 
 The stedfastness of a rock, the im- 
 xnoveableness of a center, the firmness of 
 a deep foundation, a pillar of adamant, an 
 everlasting anchor, such to the fluctuating 
 mind of man is a well-grounded confi¬ 
 dence Without it, all his thoughts are 
 lighter than the leaves in autumn, the sport 
 of every momentary hurricane. His opi¬ 
 nions are changeable by every varying 
 circumstance : every mote in a sun-beam 
 suggests some new fancy : he hopes and 
 fears, dislikes and .o^es, doubts to-day, 
 
 # It is impossible to read this passage without being 
 reminded of the sublime ode of the stoical Poet, 
 
 Justum et tenacem propositi virimi 
 Non civium ardor prava juhentium. 
 
 Non vultus instautis tvranni 
 
 Mente quatitsolida; &c.—H or, Lib.iii. Ode 3 * 
 
ESSAY XVITe 
 
 195 
 
 G 
 
 trusts to-morrow, accuses himself of cre¬ 
 dulity the next, then again grows inad¬ 
 vertent, and never lets his busy disquieted 
 imagination rest. His reason, one hour, 
 convinced by weighty arguments, has no 
 impression left of them, another: but, 
 suspecting judgment to be in fault, when 
 only memory is blameable, frankly gives 
 itself up to the next contrary system, and 
 so on ad infinitum . 
 
 In the intercourse of life, this fatal dif¬ 
 fidence insensibly alienates the dearest 
 friends, breaks the kind bonds of mutual 
 trust, or dissolves them, by scarce percep¬ 
 tible insinuations. It particularly oppresses 
 weak spirits : and challenges all the knight- 
 errantry of reason, to free them from the 
 power of this wicked enchanter. It is in¬ 
 deed in his insorcelated palace that, like 
 the people in Ariosto, friends and lovers, 
 deceived by false appearances of one an¬ 
 other, are perpetually wearied in a vain 
 pursuit, and groan under a thousand ima¬ 
 gined slights and injuries, of which all are 
 equally guiltless; and never gain an 
 
 o 2 
 
 ex- 
 
196 
 
 £33A Y XVI t. 
 
 planation to rectify the miserable error, 
 A hero, who lately, perhaps, appeared 
 crowned with laurels, is now, on the sud¬ 
 den, transformed into a monster. Credu¬ 
 lous minds ! that do not know that the 
 laurel of some virtues, is so absolute a se¬ 
 curity against all grosser failings, that 
 their eyes must deceive them whenever 
 they represent such a metamorphosis. 
 
 But judgments are usually formed, more 
 from particular instances, than from ge¬ 
 neral rules: and lienee it is, that the}' are 
 so contradictory. Every fresh glaring ap¬ 
 pearance is believed, against the most ab¬ 
 solute evidence, that past experience can 
 furnish : and by mere following our noses, 
 we miss the great land-marks, that should 
 direct our journey. 
 
 But to grow more methodical: this 
 paper is of too mixed a nature, to allow r the 
 dwelling seriously on that religious confi¬ 
 dence, which is the ground of all the rest, 
 and of every assured satisfaction in life, or 
 support at the close of it. This is the in¬ 
 exhaustible, eternal source of cheerfulness, 
 
.ESSAY XVI I, 
 
 197 
 
 patience, and courage: of that true un¬ 
 daunted fortitude, that inspires the real 
 hero, 
 
 JVho asks no omen , but his country's cause *. 
 
 Distrust and danger vanish at its radiance : 
 constancy and indefatigable perseverance 
 crown it with the noblest success, and with 
 immortal honour. Even the weakness of 
 constitutional cowardice may be relieved 
 by it, from a thousand anxious fears ; and 
 raised, upon any extraordinary occasion, 
 into an absolute disregard of all those un¬ 
 real evils, which so swell the sickly list of 
 apprehension. 
 
 In friendship, a mutual confidence is of 
 so absolute necessity, that it is scarcely 
 possible it should subsist, for any time, 
 without it. W hen once upon reason, and 
 experience, we have given persons an al¬ 
 lowed title to our esteem, it is the highest 
 injury both to them, and to ourselves, to 
 remove it upon less than an entire cer- 
 
 # Pope’s translation of 
 
 oiwos apifos aiAvvioQzi irepi Trarpns. —II. xii. 24S. 
 
193 
 
 ESSAY xvir. 
 
 tainfcy; and there are some degrees ol 
 esteem, that ought to outweigh the very 
 strongest appearances. In such cases we 
 should misdoubt ail judgments of our own, 
 rather than suspect the fidelity of a tried 
 friend : and never give it up till we have 
 allowed them the fullest opportunity for 
 vindicating themselves, if appearances have 
 injured them. By this means, nothing 
 will remain perplexed or uneasy upon the 
 anxious mind, but every thing will be fair, 
 clear, and honest. 
 
 W hen truth is presupposed as the foun¬ 
 dation, this dependence follows ol course, 
 even when the circumstances do not ad¬ 
 mit of a present explanation.—“ Appear- 
 66 ances would give me reason to be un- 
 Ci easy at your behaviour, if friendship 
 
 u aid not forbid my suspecting you/'-* 
 
 “ It is very true: and I cannot yet ex- 
 
 “ plain those appearances.”-What a 
 
 world of trouble, and distrust, would such 
 short explanations avoid. 
 
 There are few things, which have more 
 struck my imagination, than the meek an« 
 
ESSAY XVII. 
 
 199 
 
 swer of Balaam's ass, when his master un¬ 
 reasonably corrected him, for what had 
 only the appearance of a fault, and was, 
 in reality, the highest instance of duty and 
 care. In which, after hating received a 
 very passionate return to a very gentle ex¬ 
 postulation, she only replies,— u Vas I 
 46 ever wont to do so unto thee ? 
 
4 
 
 £00 
 
 ESSAY XVI I r. 
 
 ESSAY XVIII. 
 
 On true Friendship . 
 
 HP 
 
 A HE only unshaken basis of friendship 
 is religion. True friendship is a union of 
 interests, inclinations, sentiments. Where 
 these greatly clash, here may, indeed, be 
 outward civility, but there can be nothing 
 more. What then becomes of all those 
 fair ideas, and many fair histories too, of 
 generous friendship sacrificing every in¬ 
 terest of its own ? What becomes of that 
 worthiest complaisance that bends disa¬ 
 greeing humours into perfect sympathy ? 
 AVhat becomes of that powerful affection^ 
 that makes often so thorough a change in 
 the sentiments and tempers of persons ? 
 All these may consist with a maxim ap¬ 
 pearing so contrary: for few people look 
 so deep as the real and solid foundation of 
 all, but take those for important interests 
 
-ESSAY XVIII. 
 
 201 
 
 and essential points, which indeed are but 
 a temporary superstructure, liable to per¬ 
 petual alterations. 
 
 Whoever to the constancy and faith of 
 rriendship sacrifices the interests of for¬ 
 tune, or the indulgence of inclination, pur¬ 
 sues still his true and essential interests : 
 since he is strictly performing an important 
 duty. However the opinion of the good 
 may differ in a thousand things, in this 
 they agree, that there “ is one thing 
 “ needful,” and that in all lesser points, 
 candour, complaisance, and good nature, 
 are the temper of mind it requires. 
 
 Agreed in this, their inclinations, their 
 pleasures, their pursuits, in all that is im¬ 
 portant, must be the same *. What open¬ 
 ness of heart, what harmony of sentiments, 
 what sweetness of mutual conversation 
 must be the consequence. 
 
 * See tills beautiful idea expressed also iu terms near¬ 
 ly similar, but before Mrs. Carter had seen this Essay, 
 in her Letters to Mrs. Vesey appended to the corres¬ 
 pondence between her and Miss Talbot, Letter xxxvi. 
 
202 
 
 essay xv/rr. 
 
 Truth, perfectly clear, and undisguised, 
 constancy unchangeable through all the 
 varieties of humour and circumstances, the 
 kindest affection, and the most winning 
 manners flow almost naturally from this 
 source of every good disposition. This in¬ 
 fallible rule is a sure guard against all 
 those errors and extremes which the best 
 affections are liable to run into. It makes 
 particular friendships keep within such 
 hounds, as not to interfere with general 
 charity and universal justice. It teaches 
 to distinguish between those errors and 
 frailties of human nature, which in true 
 friendship must be absolutely past over, 
 and those contagious faults which neces¬ 
 sarily dissolve it. It heightens the delights 
 of happy friendship, while it teaches us to 
 look upon our friends, as blessings indulged 
 to us, by the All-Giver: and it provides 
 the only halm, that can heal the wounds 
 of friendship cut short by death. It softens 
 every kind anxiety we can feel for those we 
 love, and must feel frequently in a world 
 so full of varied distresses : by bidding us 
 
 
ESSAY XVIII. 
 
 £03 
 
 look up to the almighty Friend and Fa¬ 
 ther of all, “ who careth for all alike/’ and 
 trust in him to give them that assistance 
 and relief, of which we poor helpless crea¬ 
 tures, can at best be but very poor instru¬ 
 ments. To him we can pour out the affec¬ 
 tionate fulness of our hearts, when over¬ 
 whelmed with a tender concern for their 
 welfare : and may rest assured, that he 
 will guide and prosper our sincere endea¬ 
 vours for their real good. 
 
 When the heart has long been used to 
 the delightful society of beloved friends, 
 how dreadful is absence, and how irksome, 
 solitude. But these phantoms of absence 
 and solitude vanish before the sun-shine 
 of religion. Every change of life, every 
 variety of place, allotted us by an all-ruling 
 Providence, grows welcome to us; and 
 while we consider ourselves and our friends, 
 however distant, as equally under the care 
 and protection of the same gracious and 
 omnipresent Being, our common Creator, 
 Redeemer, and Preserver, the distance be¬ 
 tween us, with all its terrors is annihilated ; 
 
£04 
 
 ESSAY xvm. 
 
 •while solitude and retirement gives us but 
 the opportunity for a wider range of 
 thought on subjects, that ennoble friend¬ 
 ship itself. Then may our minds look 
 forward, through an endless succession of 
 ages, in which the spirits of just men made 
 perfect, renewing .in a happier world the 
 affectionate engagements, just began, as it 
 were, in the days of their mortality, shall 
 rejoice in one another’s continually improv¬ 
 ing happiness and goodness, to all eter¬ 
 nity. Blessed mansions, where we shall 
 meet again, all those beloved persons whose 
 remembrance is so dear to us ! Our friend¬ 
 ship shall then, probably, be extended 
 through the whole society of the blest. 
 Every one amiable, every one benevolent, 
 how can it be otherwise ? The excellent, 
 of all ages, and nations, shall then be num¬ 
 bered among our friends. Angels them¬ 
 selves will not disdain to admit us to their 
 friendship. Beyond all these glories, we 
 may still raise our thoughts to the supreme 
 Friend and Father, till they are lost in 
 the dazzling, hut delightful contemplation. 
 
ES3AT XVII r. 
 
 205 
 
 Vv hen so fair a superstructure rises from 
 so fair a basis, who but would build their 
 friendship on this everlasting rock ? But 
 alas the slight connections of the trifling 
 world, are but like those wooden build- 
 
 T F m . 
 
 ings raised suddenly for pompous festivals, 
 adornetl with every elegance and splendor 
 for a day, and with all the mimickry of 
 marble pillars, and the most solid archi¬ 
 tecture. The least accident destroys them 
 
 l/ 
 
 at once: and a very short time, of course, 
 sees the spot, where they were erected, 
 forlorn and bare 
 
 * If Mr. Cumberland ever read the passage which 
 concludes this noble Essay, it might be supposed dial 
 he had taken from it the hint of the last speech of the 
 third act of his tragedy ot the Carmelite. But the same 
 biilliant ideas may often occur to the minds of authors 
 of real genius, without rendering them liable to the im¬ 
 putation of plagiarism. 
 
20 6 
 
 ESSAY XIX, 
 
 ESSAY XIX, 
 
 On our Passage through Life; a Reverie , 
 
 DO not much love the tribe of dream¬ 
 ing writers. There is something very un¬ 
 natural in supposing such products of un¬ 
 derstanding, such a regular series of ideas, 
 generally abstruse and allegorical enough 
 to put the comprehension of a waking rea¬ 
 der upon the stretch, to be the effects of 
 wild imagination, at those hours when she 
 is most unassisted by reason and memory. 
 Yet it is pity a lively fancy should be 
 balked, and confined to the dull road of 
 essay-writing, merely toavoid such a trifling 
 absurdity in the phrase. It might cer¬ 
 tainly be changed with great propriety into 
 that of a reverie , which, by people that 
 indulge their imaginations, is often carried 
 on a very considerable time, with as gay a 
 variety of circumstances, and as lively co- 
 
 9 
 
ESSAY XIX. 
 
 207 
 
 louring as the poppy-dipt pencil of Mor- 
 pneus could ever produce, lie it allowed 
 me then to say, that one afternoon this 
 summer, I fell into a deep reverie , lulled 
 by the whispering of groves, the soft de¬ 
 scent of a refreshing shower, and the mu¬ 
 sical repetitions of a thrush. The air 
 around me was perfumed with jessamins 
 and woodbines, and I found myself per¬ 
 fectly m a poetical situation. The volume 
 I had in my hand should of right, to be 
 sure, have been Ovid or Petrarch, but it 
 was Sunday, and the genteel reader must 
 excuse me if I own that it contained the 
 book of Ecclesiastes. 
 
 The soothing scene about me had at 
 length suspended my reading; but my 
 thoughts were still filled with many beau¬ 
 tiful images of the nothingness and vanity 
 of human life. There is something so 
 bounded, and so shadowy in our existence^ 
 that the celestial beam of understanding 
 which shows us what it is, must give us 
 almost a disgust of life itself, were not our 
 affections attached to it by so many tender 
 
208 
 
 ESSAY XIX. 
 
 ties, as call back our proud thoughts 
 every moment. Most miserable state, con¬ 
 tinued I, in a melancholy soliloquy, what 
 wretchednesses are we conversant in, to 
 what mean objects are we bound down, 
 how little a way can we see round us, how 
 much less can we comprehend, through 
 what a wild of errors lies the narrow path 
 of truth ! Narrow and long !—Long ? 
 Why then it is not methinks so strange, 
 that one should not step to the end ot it 
 at once. Well, suffice it that our progress 
 be gradual.—Lut what a thick dark hedge 
 
 o 
 
 is here on either side. How much plea¬ 
 santer would it be to break through it, and 
 view the fair varieties of the universe as 
 we pass along. Suppose it quite away. 
 —In the midst of this vast trackless plain 
 how will you now distinguish your path ? 
 
 ■—This brink of a precipice that you are 
 to pass along, does not your head turn at 
 it? Do not you wish again tor your safe 
 boundary ?—Well, but here the path is 
 safe and open.—A muse yourself, look round 
 you.—1 do not like my own path. Yonder 
 
 8 
 
Jess ay xix. 
 
 209 
 
 is one much fairer, passing over a much 
 nobler eminence. I like my own path less 
 than ever. 1 do not j^et see far enough.— 
 O thou spirit of disorder and confusion, 
 canst thou not be contented to move in 
 the way allotted thee ? Deviate then into 
 ruin. Many a winding walk presents it¬ 
 self on each hand* Art thou willing* to 
 
 o 
 
 venture?—No, let us pursue this safer, 
 vulgar path. Must we have dirt and 
 cloudy weather too ?—You must. It 
 belongs to this portion of the universe. 
 This rain that displeases you here, is 
 nourishing sweet herbs and delicious fruits, 
 that will refresh you a few furlongs hence. 
 Behold now the advantage of these despi¬ 
 cable things you are hedged in with. 
 These thorns that sometimes pull you 
 back, are often crowned with gay and 
 fragrant blossoms, to make the tedious 
 journey seem less irksome. Those thick 
 trees, that bar your wandering view, are 
 drest in a soft verdure that relieves your 
 eye, and enables it sometimes to take a 
 better glimpse through the branches, on 
 
 p 
 
r 
 
 / 
 
 210 ESSAY XIX. 
 
 objects that it could not dwell upon, till 
 it becomes stronger.— Beneath a cypress 
 lay a gloomy philosopher, who called out 
 in a dismal tone, whoever you are, foolish 
 passengers, know your own misery. It is 
 impossible to have any rational enjoyment, 
 in this your despicable state. Banish the 
 thought of comfort. \ou are a parcel of 
 wretches, to be happy is none of your 
 business, to be cheerful is an absurdity. 
 These blossoms are transient as the spring, 
 those vile fruits you gather as you pass 
 along, ought not to detain your attention 
 one moment from those gems that glitter 
 on your heads, which are your only real 
 treasure. Those wretched fruits what are 
 they ?—They are what support us from one 
 state to another, said a plain man, who past 
 by, and our stock of gems is gradually in¬ 
 creasing, if we keep but steadily in the 
 right path, and gently and patiently re¬ 
 move the thorns and briars, that molest 
 ns, as we move towards the country of dia¬ 
 monds.—Immediately my Reverie trans- 
 ported me into a fair. Long streets of 
 
ESSAY XIX. 
 
 211 
 
 booths crossing each other at right angles 
 formed very regular squares, of which some 
 were handsome and some very ugly, from the 
 different structures of the booths. Several 
 market-women were carrying away bundles 
 and baskets marked with the names of the 
 various proprietors. I met a hag of a very 
 untoward look, bent almost double with the 
 weight of years, her brow wrinkled, and 
 her complexion weather-beaten. The 
 .sight of her displeased me, but she was 
 not to be avoided. Here, said she, offer¬ 
 ing me a filthy basket, covered at the top 
 with thorns, take your purchase, and make 
 much of it. My purchase, said I, stepping 
 back: Nay, said she, e'en take it, and 
 flung it at my head, hut as she turned 
 away, a smile that began to brighten on her 
 solemn face, discovered to me that she was 
 the good Fairy Experience, I sat down 
 with the encouragement this discovery 
 gave me, and began to examine her basket. 
 
 1 he thorns it was covered with cost me a 
 good deal of time to disentangle, and take 
 them out with safety to my fingers, but I 
 
 p 2 
 
ESSAY XIX. 
 
 2.12 
 
 recollected them distinctly every one to be 
 such as had perplexed me and torn my 
 clothes, as I past along the narrow path, 
 and which one by one 1 had gently broken 
 off the boughs while I pursued my journey. 
 These were the very individual thorns and 
 briars, and while I was wondering how 
 they should come to be so collected, I 
 came to the bottom, where I found a row 
 of inestimable pearls, equal, in number to 
 the briars, large, even, round, and of an 
 exquisite polish. Beside them lay a 
 scrip of paper with these words written 
 on it. 
 
 “ Philosophy and evenness of temper 
 “ are pearls, which we purchase at the 
 u price of those vexations and crosses in 
 “ life, that occur to us every day. No- 
 “ thing in this world is to be had for no- 
 “ thing. Every difficulty we surmount 
 is the purchase of some advantage. Go 
 through the fair, and see.” 
 
 I perceived a good genius standing near 
 me, and desired him to be my cicerone. 
 We went through the booths and examin- 
 
 O 
 
ESSAY XIX. 
 
 213 
 
 ed the purchases. Here the coin paid 
 down for health and ease, and freedom 
 from perplexity, was stamped with care 
 and prudence. There, the copper mo¬ 
 ney of mere plodding perseverance was the 
 price of wealth, honour, learning and 
 accomplishments. In one place there was 
 a sort ot Monmouth-street, where people 
 were bartering old bad habits for new ones, 
 every way more becoming, but seemed to 
 think their bargains very hard, and the very 
 article ot fitting them on, occasioned such 
 a variety ot wry faces, as would have given 
 great diversion to a grotesque painter. It 
 was a melancholy amusement to see how 
 people mistook in the value they set upon 
 things, how often they passed by, with a 
 slighting air, those goods which at first 
 they might have had tor a trifle, and never 
 knew the worth or them, till they' were 
 engaged to other bidders, or the price 
 raised very high, or themselves perhaps 
 gone so far off before they took the fancy 
 of returning, that they could not find their 
 way back without a guide ; and in the 
 
214 - 
 
 essay XIX. 
 
 whole place there was but one guide to be 
 met with, and she of so forbidding an as¬ 
 pect, and so disagreeable a conversation, 
 as made her a very undesirable companion. 
 She severely reproved their folly, and 
 obliged them to throw away the bargains, 
 on which they had most set their heart, 
 and then led them back to the fair, by a 
 rough, round about way, to buy those 
 they had formerly slighted. By the time 
 tney had got there, she began to wear a 
 gentler aspect, and they found so much 
 advantage in the change of their purchases, 
 that notwithstanding all her rude treat¬ 
 ment, they acknowledged llepentance as a 
 very useful friend. 
 
 Leisure, I found, was a metal that proved 
 more or less valuable according to the 
 image stamped upon it, and as I saw what 
 admirable curiosities it purchased in the 
 hands of good managers, I was quite pro¬ 
 voked to see what quantities of it were 
 flung away : but this was nothing. I saw 
 many fine people throw away handfuls of 
 
/ 
 
 ESSAY XIX. 215 
 
 diamonds, that they might have their 
 fingers at liberty to catch butterflies. 
 
 In some parts of the fair, every body 
 seemed to be playing at cross purposes. 
 The most valuable gems were squandered 
 away for trifles, which yet they could not 
 purchase, and trifles offered for jewels of 
 the highest price. I saw my friend Tosco 
 the antiquarian, among a multitude of the 
 same class, who brought such a quantity 
 of time and industry, as would have pur¬ 
 chased any thing in the whole place, and 
 poured it out before a cabinet of copper 
 coins, which, still after all, wanted one 
 or two of being perfect. I saw others of 
 gayer appearance buy a shadow, a flower, 
 a feather, at still a higher price.—At last, 
 to my infinite vexation, a less shadowy 
 figure stood before, and a summons to 
 attend some visitors that were just alighted, 
 put an end to my reverie . 
 
216 
 
 ESSAY XX. 
 
 ESSAY XX. 
 
 On our Capacity for Pleasure* 
 
 There is a magnificence in nature, 
 like that of some sumptuous feast. The 
 objects of our enjoyment are multiplied 
 infinitely beyond our capacities ol enjoy¬ 
 ing : and there is something, in the human 
 mind, perpetually dissatisfied with its pre¬ 
 sent advantages, because it cannot take 
 in every thing at once. Like silly chil¬ 
 dren, possessed of all within our reach, we 
 cry for all we see. 
 
 The desires of our nature so vast, and 
 its capacities so bounded, are demonstrar 
 tions of a being in its infancy here, and 
 to be perfected hereafter. But having 
 traced this uneasy sentiment, this per¬ 
 petual craving to its natural source, we 
 should from thence learn to suspend its 
 
ESSAY XX. 
 
 £17 
 
 force, during our present state; and when 
 once we know at what sort of enjoyments 
 we can arrive, and how vainly we strive to 
 go further, sit down contented with our lot, 
 and try to make the best of it. Were 
 this done, as it should be, spleen would lose 
 half its empire in the world. We should 
 not be much mortified at find ins: ourselves 
 tied down for a while, to such childish 
 amusements, because we should consider, 
 that our existence has a nobler aim, a higher 
 end in view. In the mean time, till that 
 can be attained, we shall welcome every r 
 small satisfaction, with a cheerful coun¬ 
 tenance, and never be too proud to be 
 pleased. 
 
 I cannot help looking upon pleasure as 
 a real, and amiable being, and blessing the 
 
 o o 
 
 author of nature, who has created this 
 charmer to lead man on towards final 
 happiness through, as Shakespeare calls it, 
 this worky-day world. This soft enchan¬ 
 tress waves her wand, and all nature ap¬ 
 pears drest in smiles and elegance. Sweet 
 smells, gay colours, musical notes, are 
 
218 
 
 ESSAY XX. 
 
 diffused through the whole globe. Every 
 thing is beautiful in its season*. All we 
 have to do, is to open our minds to so rich 
 a variety of delightful impressions: to ac¬ 
 commodate ourselves with joy and thank¬ 
 fulness to the present scene, whatever it 
 is, and to make the most of that good, 
 which e.verjr thing has in it. To a free 
 mind all is agreeable : but violent attach¬ 
 ments to any particular objects narrow 
 the soul, and lessen its capacity for enjoy¬ 
 ment. 
 
 The first care to be taken is, to keep our 
 minds so loose and disengaged from the 
 world, that setting, as far as possible, the 
 true value upon every thing in it, and no 
 more, we may enjoy all the satisfaction it 
 can possibly afford us, and avoid those 
 anxieties, which misplaced affections 
 create. Violent partialities, must have 
 violent antipathies to balance them : those 
 who set up to themselves idols to worship, 
 
 # And God saw every thing that he had made, and 
 behold, it was very good. Gen. i. 31. 
 
ESSAY XX. 
 
 5210 
 
 will, at the same time, raise to themselves 
 hob-goblins, to fear. We can seldom find 
 in our hearts to exalt one character, with¬ 
 out depresssing another : and we must 
 generally have an object of ridicule and 
 dislike, as well as one of esteem and ad¬ 
 miration. Nay I am afraid, there are 
 more people, who amuse themselves with 
 seeing every thing in a burlesque and dis¬ 
 agreeable light, than of such, as will take 
 the pains to be pleased with an amiable 
 view of this fair world. We are most in¬ 
 genious to find out what is wanting or 
 amiss in our situations: but how ready to 
 overlook the other side ! What complaints 
 of the scorching heat of summer, the 
 pinching cold of winter! For some people, 
 no da}' is good enough, no place without 
 its faults, no company without its failings. 
 Alas, alas ! as it it were any thing new or 
 unexpected, that this world should he, 
 in many things, deficient: as if it were a 
 proot of genius to discover, what it is a 
 much better proof of good sense to pass 
 over, and as if it needed quick eyes to 
 
ESSAY XX. 
 
 G 
 
 no 
 
 discern the flaws in this rough cast or a 
 globe. Who could ever expect it to be all 
 made of solid pearl, and polished to the 
 highest lustre ? \ et such as it is, it we 
 make the best of it, we shall enjoy no small 
 degree of happiness. 
 
 There is in every thing, a charm, a 
 good, that we have capacities to taste, ii 
 we would use them. The enthusiastic lan¬ 
 guage of poetry alone, is fitted to describe 
 the bloom of nature, in a country scene. 
 One breath of vernal air diffuses serenity 
 and joy, through the soul. The music of 
 the woods, tunes every thought to har¬ 
 mony. The clear height of the firma¬ 
 ment, and the bright blueness of the 
 aether, is transport to the eye, and gladness 
 to the heart. While the sight wanders 
 through the gay expanse, the mind rises 
 to the noblest contemplations, and our 
 thoughts expatiate upon future scenes of 
 fair existence, in worlds all of harmony 
 and beauty. 
 
 But, to give us a just view of our capa¬ 
 cities for pleasure, and sure this is a rent- 
 roll well worth looking over, we may con- 
 
E b'SAY XX. 
 
 221 
 
 sider what joy almost every kind of object 
 affords to some set of men or other, and 
 resolve out of duty and prudence to draw 
 some degree of that satisfaction from them, 
 which these do from inclination, or ac¬ 
 quired partiality: at least not to overlook 
 with contempt, or regard with aversion, 
 whatever is not contrary to innocence or 
 reason. See but how delighted the florist 
 and botanist are with those blossoms and 
 herbs, which the rest of mankind tread 
 
 carelessly under foot. Observe the astro- 
 */ 
 
 nomer, with what transport he views those 
 clear stars, which the mortal of business, 
 or the butterfly of amusement, scarce ever 
 find leisure to look up to. Mind the 
 
 A 
 
 painter, who sees all things in a picturesque 
 view, how charmed he is with the blended 
 lights and shades, in every landscape. 
 Nothing escapes him; each figure has an 
 attitude, an air, something graceful or gro¬ 
 tesque*: and so far is not ridiculous. 
 
 * The late good and amiable Mr. Gilpin was a strik¬ 
 ing instance of this kind. In his various tours he 
 seems to have attended (as indeed he professed to do) 
 
acrcj 
 
 Aa *o4- 
 
 ESSAY XX, 
 
 Every kind of virtuoso has his darling 
 
 attention, and each one is the source of 
 
 some pleasure unknown to the rest of the 
 
 world. Why may not we share in them 
 
 %/ %/ 
 
 all? What a veneration has the antiquary for 
 dust and mould ? How pleaseu is the col¬ 
 lector of rarities, with moths and shells, 
 nay, with what many of us should look upon 
 as the refuse and deformities of nature. 
 These good people as much as they de¬ 
 spise one another, have, all of them reason 
 on their side, as far as it will carry them. 
 But when attached to one particular thing, 
 we indulge our fondness to an extrava- 
 gance, then ridicule comes in, with a just 
 reproof. But this belongs only to the de¬ 
 gree, to the immoderate fondness; for in 
 some measure, every thing deserves a plea¬ 
 sed attention. The flower, the butterfly, 
 the shell, has exquisite beauty : the herb, 
 
 to scarcely any tiling else, and even in his views and 
 landscapes he drew them not as they were, but as they 
 ought to have been to produce the desired picturesque 
 effect. 
 
ESSAY XX. 
 
 OOQ 
 
 invaluable use Every species of learning 
 is an improvement to human nature : and 
 those of which the use is not obvious, may 
 tend, perhaps, to important discoveries 
 yet unthought of. Antiquity is truly vene¬ 
 rable, its simplicity amiable, its annals in¬ 
 structive. Modern refinements have their 
 merit. The most trifling gaieties of social 
 life exhilarate the heart, and polish the 
 manners. One might as fairly number 
 the sands on the sea shore, as reckon up 
 the multitude of things, that may afford a 
 wise and reasonable pleasure. Were our 
 lives here stretched out to some thousands 
 of years, we might still be learning or en¬ 
 joying something new. Yet this consider¬ 
 ation does not make long life at all desira¬ 
 ble, since our advantages in another state 
 will be superior to all, that our best im¬ 
 provements can help us to acquire in 
 this. 
 
 4 And this our life exempt from public haunt. 
 
 Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks. 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. 
 
 Shakespeare. As you like it, Act JL 
 
224 
 
 &SSAY XXI. 
 
 On Reflection as the Source of Cheerfulness < 
 
 How vain, and how vexatious is the 
 flutter of the world! Even I, who am suf¬ 
 ficiently sensible, perhaps too much so, 
 to its pleasures and amusements, can find, 
 after a little while, my spirits quite worn 
 out by them, and learn from a frequent 
 experience, that reflection of the most 
 serious sort, is the onlv true and lasting 
 
 J o 
 
 source of cheerfulness. 
 
 As most of our affections here take 
 their deepest tinge from the. workings of 
 imagination, so there are perhaps scarce 
 any, that will maintain their terrifying 
 shapes against the calm efforts of reason: 
 but, when amidst the hurry of a mixed 
 and varied scene, we give them only now 
 and then a transitory glance, these airy 
 phantoms cast a gloom and horror over 
 
ESSAY XXI; 
 
 225 
 
 mr whole lives. It is then* that poverty 
 and pain, and sickness, disgrace and dis¬ 
 appointment, nay satiety itself, strike upon 
 our unguarded fancies* in the most dread¬ 
 ful manner. Our hearts are filled with 
 sorrow, and poured out in ungrateful 
 complainings. Cool reflection alone can 
 disdain these bugbears of the mind: and 
 to one who comprehends, so far as our 
 bounded understandings can comprehend* 
 the universal scheme of Providence, few of 
 its particular dispensations wall appear se¬ 
 vere, while every present suffering is over¬ 
 balanced by a glorious futurity. 
 
 How naturally the contemplation of 
 Mhat is most melancholy, leads to the most 
 enlivening hopes* may be seen in some 
 verses* which I will insert here, and which 
 flowed from a natural chain of thoughts 
 from the trifling, but gloomy incident 
 of a bell tolling at midnight. 
 
 Hark! with what solemn toll the midnight bell 
 Summons Reflection to her dusky cell : 
 
 With leaden sound it dully strikes the ear. 
 
 Bids Horror wake and careless Fancy hear; 
 
 Q 
 
ESSAY XXI* 
 
 ■226 
 
 Chill’d Fancy hears with awful gloom opprest. 
 
 Thus by the deep-felt wordless voice addrest. 
 
 Wake mortal! wake from Pleasure’s golden dream 
 The present gay pursuit, the future scheme; 
 
 The vain regret of hours for ever past. 
 
 The vain delights in joys not made to iast: 
 
 The vainer prying into future days. 
 
 Since, ere to-morrow’s sun exerts its rays. 
 
 My toll may speak them vain to thee. Thy fears. 
 Thy hopes, thy wishes vain, and vain thy tears. 
 
 What then to thee, whose folded limbs shall rest 
 In the dark bosom of the sabled chest. 
 
 What will it then import to thee if fame. 
 
 With flatt’ring accents, dwells upon thy name, 
 
 Or spurns thy dust, or if, thy mould ring form 
 Safe from life’s dang’rous calm, or dreadful storm. 
 Sleeps in the concave of a well-turn’d tomb 
 By marble Cupids mourn’d amid the glopm 
 Of some old Abbey, venerably rude, 
 
 v t 
 
 In Gothic pride : or in some solitude 
 Beneath the spreading hawthorn’s flow’ry shade, 
 Crown’d with fresh grass and waving fern is laid: 
 Trod, in some public path, by frequent feet 
 Of passing swains, or deck’d by vi’lets sweet: 
 Nameless, unheeded, till a future day 
 
 { ' 
 
 Shall animate to bliss the lifeless clay. 
 
 Or whether gaily past thy festive hours. 
 
 Bath’d in rich oils, and crown’d with blooming flow’rs 
 Or pinch’d with want, and pin’d with wasting care, 
 
 AH joys, all griefs, alike forgotten there. 
 
ESSAY XXI. 
 
 227 
 
 The part well acted, gracious heav’n assign'd. 
 
 If of the king, the warrior or the hind. 
 
 It matters not: or whether deck'd the scene 
 With pomp, and show, or humble, poor and mean. 
 The coloring of life's picture fades away, 
 
 W hen to these shades succeeds a clearer day. 
 
 The colouring partial Fortune blindly gave, 
 
 Debas'd the imperial figure to a slave. 
 
 In glitt ring robes, bade shapeless monsters glow. 
 And in a crown conceal'd the servile brow. 
 
 Perhaps false lights on well-drawn figures thrown. 
 Scarce cautious Virtue would her image own : 
 
 But when the gloss of titles, wealth and pow'r. 
 
 Of Youth's short charm, and Beauty’s fading flow'r. 
 Before Truth’s dazzling sun shall fade away. 
 
 And the bare out-lines dare the piercing ray. 
 
 Then if the pencil of thy life has trac'd 
 A noble form, with full proportion grac’d, 
 
 A model of that image, heav’n imprest 
 In the first thoughts of thy untainted breast, 
 
 Whate’er the painting Fortune’s hand bestow'd. 
 Whether in crimson folds thy garments flow’d. 
 
 Or rags ungraceful, o’er thy limbs were thrown. 
 
 Thy ev’ry virtue overlook’d, unknown ; 
 
 An eye all-judging, an all-pow’rful hand 
 
 'I he bounteous pallet shall at length command. 
 
 Reject the vicious shape that shrinks a wav, 
 
 Stript ol those robes, that drest it once so gay. 
 
 Excuse the imperfect form, if well design’d. 
 
 Where the w eak stroke betray’d the enlighten’d mind; 
 
 Q 2 
 
ESSAY XXI . 
 
 228 
 
 Grant ev’ry ornament and ev’ry aid 
 On ev’ry failing cast the proper shade, 
 And bid each smiling virtue stand display'd 
 Improving ev’ry part, with skill divine, 
 
 Till the fair piece in full perfection shine. 
 
ESSAY XXII. 
 
 229 
 
 ESSAY XXII. 
 
 On the Employments of Life. 
 
 Why is it that almost all employments 
 are so unsatisfactory, and that when one 
 hath past a day of common life, in the 
 best wav one can, it seems, upon reflec¬ 
 tion, to be so mere a blank ? And what is 
 the conclusion to be drawn from so mor¬ 
 tifying an observation ? Certainly not any 
 conclusion in favour of idleness : for em¬ 
 ployment, as such, is a very valuable 
 thing. Let us have done ever so little, 
 yet if we have done our best, we have the 
 merit of having been employed, and this 
 moral merit is the only thing of import¬ 
 ance in human life. 
 
 To complain of the insignificancy of 
 our employments, is but another name for 
 
230 
 
 ESSAY XXIT, 
 
 repining at that Providence, which has ap<* 
 pointed, to each of us, our station : let 
 us but fill that well, to the utmost of 
 oui powGj, and whatever it be, we shall 
 
 nnd it to have duties and advantages 
 enough. 
 
 i>ut whence, tnen, is this constant dis- 
 satisfaction of the human mind ; this rest¬ 
 lessness, this perpetual aim at something 
 higher and better, than, in the present 
 state, it ever can attain ? Whence, but 
 from its celestial birth, its immortal na¬ 
 ture, framed for the noblest pursuits and 
 attainments, and in due time, to be re¬ 
 stored to all this dignity of being, if it 
 does but behave properly in its present hu¬ 
 miliation. 
 
 Pg that as it will, there is something 
 painful in this strong sense of worthless¬ 
 ness and meanness, that must make peo¬ 
 ple of leisure and reflection pass many an 
 uneasy hour. Perhaps there is nothing 
 better fitted to wean us from life : but in 
 doing that, it by no means ought to 
 
ESS A Y XXII. 
 
 £31 
 
 hinder us from industry and contentment. 
 Every station, every profession, every 
 trade has its proper set of employments, 
 of which it is an indispensable duty for 
 every person to inform themselves with 
 care, and to execute with patience, perse¬ 
 verance and diligence. This rule of duty 
 holds, from the emperor to the artisan: 
 for though the employments are different, 
 the duty, that enforces them, is the same, 
 in all. Man is born to labour: it is the 
 condition of his being: and the greatest 
 cannot exempt themselves from it, without 
 a, crime. 
 
 If we consider well, we shall find, that 
 all employments, in this transient scene, 
 come pretty much to the same nothing- 
 ness.—The labours of those who were busy 
 and bustling on this globe, five or six 
 hundred years ago—what now remains of 
 them, but the merit, to the persons them¬ 
 selves, of having been well employed ! 
 How many valuable books, the employ- 
 ment, and the worthy one, of whole lives, 
 
232 
 
 ESSAY XXII. 
 
 have perished long ago, with the very 
 name of their authors! The strongest 
 monuments of human art and industry, 
 obelisks, temples, pyramids are mouldered 
 into dust, and the brittle monuments of 
 female diligence in pye-crust, are not more 
 totally lost to the world. To found an 
 empire was enough to gain a sort of 
 immortality ; yet tne empires themselves 
 have proved mortal 
 
 There are certainly some employments 
 of a noble, and a happy kind, but, in no 
 degree, answerable to our ideas: for the 
 best we can do, is most poor, whether we 
 would improve ourselves, or do good to 
 our fellow-creatures, in comparison of the 
 capacity of our mind, in its original state; 
 which resembles some vast Roman amphi¬ 
 theatre, that once contained myriads of 
 
 # ' -Empires die ; where now 
 
 Ihe Roman ? Greek ? They stalk an empty name I 
 Yet few regard them in this useful light; 
 
 Tho half our learning is their epitaph. 
 
 1 ou/ig s Night Thoughts, ix. 
 
 Published about 174£ 3 
 
ESSAY XXII. 
 
 £33 
 
 happy people within its ample round: de¬ 
 faced and ruined it can now scarcely af¬ 
 ford shelter from the sudden storm, to a 
 few silly shepherds 
 
 #• 
 
 * -As in those domes where Cassars once bore sway* 
 and tott’ring in decay. 
 
 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead. 
 
 The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed. 
 
 And, wond 1 ’ring man could want the larger pile. 
 
 Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 
 
 Goldsmith's “ Traveller”printed 1765. 
 
 A singular coincidence of idea; for Miss Talbot 
 died in 1769, and her health had been too bad, for se¬ 
 veral vears before, to allow her to compose. 
 
ESSAY XXII r. 
 
 234 
 
 ESSAY XXIII. 
 
 4 w , ' 
 
 On Resignation to the Will of Pr ovidence. 
 
 It is too common, for persons, who are 
 perfectly convinced of the duty of patience 
 and cheerful resignation, under great 
 and severe trials, in which the hand of 
 Providence is plainly seen, to let them¬ 
 selves grow fretful and plaintive under 
 little vexations, and slight disappointments: 
 as if their submission in one case, gave 
 them a right to rebel in another. As if 
 there was something meritorious in the 
 greater sufferings, that gave them a claim 
 to full indulgence in every trifling wish of 
 their heart: and accordingly they will set 
 their hearts most violently upon little re¬ 
 liefs and amusements, and complain and 
 pity themselves grievously, if they are at 
 any time denied. 
 
ESSAY XXII I, 
 
 235 
 
 All this is building on a false foundation. 
 The same gracious Providence, that sends 
 real afflictions only for our good, will, we 
 may be absolutely sure, afford us such sup¬ 
 ports and reliefs under them, as are need¬ 
 ful and fit: but it will not accommodate 
 itself to our idle humour. 
 
 To be happy, we must depend for our 
 happiness on Him alone, who is able to 
 give it. We must not lean on human 
 props of any kind : though when granted 
 us, we may thankfully accept and make 
 use of them ; but always with caution, not 
 to lay so much weight upon them, as that 
 the reed broken under our hand, may go 
 into it, and pierce it 
 
 On the loss of a friend, we must not 
 say, this and that person, this and that 
 amusement shall be my relief and support. 
 But—to Providence I must submit— 
 Providence will support me in what way it 
 sees proper.—The means on which I must 
 depend, under that, are a careful and 
 eheerful performance of, and an acqui- 
 
 * See Isaiah xxxvi. Q, 
 
ESSAY XXIII. 
 
 236 
 
 escence in whatever is my duty. I must 
 accommodate myself to all its appoint¬ 
 ments : and be they health or languor, a 
 dull, or an active and gay life; a society 
 agreeable to my fancy, or one that is not, 
 or none at all; if I do but endeavour to 
 keep up this right disposition, and behave 
 accordingly, nothing ought to make me 
 melancholy, or unhappy, nothing can, 
 nothing shall. Forward beyond this life, 
 in this case, I not only may, but ought to 
 look, with joy and hope, with cheerfulness 
 and alacrity of spirit. .Forward in this 
 life, it is not only painful , but faulty to 
 look either with anxiety, or with self-flat¬ 
 tering schemes. Yet on this present scene, 
 from day to day, and forward, so far as is 
 necessary to the duty of prudence, I may 
 look with a smile of content and gratitude : 
 for every day has something, has innume¬ 
 rable things, good and chearful in it, if I 
 know but how to make the best of it. 
 
 In a change of situation, think not like 
 a child, of the toys you leave, and the 
 toys you shall find, to make you amends 
 
essay XXIII. 
 
 £37 
 
 for them. All play-things are brittle. 
 Think not, like a grazing animal, that you 
 have changed one pasture for another : and 
 shall graze on this, or that herb here, with 
 delight: “ The herb withereth, the flower 
 “ fadeth” every where. But think, like a 
 reasonable creature.—This change was ap¬ 
 pointed for me : acquiescence is my duty : 
 duty must be my support. Yet 1 knew, 
 such is the condescendence of infinite 
 goodness, that I shall have many a slight¬ 
 er relief, and agreeable ness thrown in : 
 but these are by the by : not to be rec¬ 
 koned on before-hand, nor to be grieved 
 for, if they fail or intermit. 
 
238 
 
 ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 • ’ 
 
 On the Happiness derived from Society. 
 
 VHAI are my ideas of happiness? 
 Negative ones present themselves first. A 
 freedom from guilt—from self-dislike— 
 from fear—from vexation—from languor 
 —from pain—from sorrow. 
 
 The joy of early youth and early morn¬ 
 ing, that is, vigour and capacity for con¬ 
 tinual improvement, and a long space be¬ 
 fore one to exert them in, with a variety 
 of new and noble objects.—But, alas, how 
 am X fitted for this, who have acquired 
 
 such strong habits of loitering indolence_ 
 
 lost all power ol application. 
 
 Therefore application, a habit of it ought 
 to be re-acquired, though the objects of it 
 here, are looked upon with the indifference 
 they so highly deserve. 
 
 I lie appiobation and protection and 
 guidance of the good, wise, amiable, and 
 great—how much have J undeservedly 
 
ESSAY XXIV.’ 
 
 239 
 
 experienced of that, even here! But 
 mixed with a painfulness, and degree of 
 suspicion, from feeling that I am nothing, 
 and have no claim to it: and that the 
 best of them are but a degree above no¬ 
 thing : are fallible, and may be deceived, 
 in me, or mislead me : are mortal, and 
 must forsake me, and leave me.—But look 
 higher, and there is a power, that can 
 make us what it will, and goodness that 
 wills our happiness, and wisdom, that can 
 fully fit us for it: and majesty and 
 amiableness—no expression can reach the 
 ideas, that fill the soul, in this contempla¬ 
 tion and hope. Total solitude in the en¬ 
 joyment of thoughts like these, seems, to 
 me, high happiness.—But the corruptible 
 body would soon press down the mind : 
 the exhausted spirits would sink into 
 wretchedness, and there would be a selt- 
 reproach for the neglect of social duties. 
 There will be duration enough for all, 
 hereafter, and strength for every various 
 exertion. There are some poor pleasures 
 here, which are only such, because the 
 8 
 
240 
 
 ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 mortal frame requires them, as it does 
 food, and sleep. These are what one calls 
 relaxations, amusements, trifles, that un¬ 
 bend the mind, and vary its ideas agree¬ 
 ably. I he sight ot gay flowers or sunny 
 landscapes ; the song of birds ; the sport- 
 ings of innocent imagination, in some 
 trifling book; the gaieties of young ani¬ 
 mals I am very thankful for these, in 
 their season, but past the moment when 
 they are necessary, the landscape soon 
 fades, if seen by one’s self alone : and the 
 book gives it quite another kind of delight, 
 it read in a society, that are equally 
 pleased. The amusement of animals, is 
 from seeing them happy, and all this tends 
 to promote right dispositions, as the con¬ 
 templation of beautiful objects, and sweet 
 
 sounds, raises the mind to grateful ado¬ 
 ration. 
 
 The mortal pleasure I can the least know 
 
 How much delight the pious as well as elegant 
 mind of Miss Talbot received from these innocent 
 trifles is particularly observable in her Letters to Mrs. 
 Carter from Cuddesden. 
 
 See the “ Series of Letters ” Vol, I 
 
ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 24 i 
 
 how to lay out of rny ideas, is the sweet 
 forgetfulness of quiet and refreshing sleep : 
 a great blessing here , but only here where 
 
 there are cares, and fears and follies to be 
 
 • 
 
 forgot. But if not indulged beyond need¬ 
 ful refreshment, it ought, surely, while we 
 are here, to be accepted with humble 
 thankfulness. 
 
 The joys of society are of all others, 
 most mixed with pain. Yet where all are 
 perfect, and where all are happy, how 
 sublime must they be * ! Alas my great, 
 my continual failure is in social duties ! 
 Why! Because I am almost continually 
 in society. In solitude, one has nothing 
 to do, but to cherish good and pleasing 
 dispositions. In society, at every un¬ 
 guarded moment, bad and painful ones 
 break out, and fill one with shame, re¬ 
 morse, and vexation. Selfishness shews 
 its ugly head: little contradictions excite 
 vehemence of temper, to put out its claws : 
 
 * And how noble is even the slight insight which the 
 inspired writer has given us into it! 
 
 See Heb. xii. 22, 23, 24. 
 
242 
 
 ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 talkativeness prates away the inestimable 
 hours, without use or pleasure. Even 
 good humour, and easiness of temper must 
 be restrained and mortified, else they lead 
 to criminal negligence, and destructive ex¬ 
 travagance. The justest affections must 
 be regulated, else they tie down the heart 
 too much. On the contrary, justice and 
 gratitude demand often, that our kindest 
 affections should be excited and exprest, 
 where natural temper and inclination do 
 not prompt them. We ought with the 
 strictest eye of justice to distinguish right 
 and wrong in characters, and yet with the 
 tenderest charity to overlook, and com¬ 
 passionate ten thousand lesser faults, and 
 disa&reeablenesses. 
 
 o 
 
 In short, the life of society is the life of 
 constant, unremitting mortification, and 
 self-denial. It is this, that makes the 
 only useful hardship of the cloister, not 
 the fastings, hair-cloths, watchings, and 
 disciplines. But it is really still harder in 
 nncloistered society. To keep the mind in 
 right frame, amid ten thousand interrup- 
 
ESSAY XXIV* 
 
 243 
 
 tions: to be regular, and diligent, without 
 the possibility of any settled plan: to 
 spread cheerfulness whemone is not pleased: 
 to support it in one's self, when others are 
 dejected—and a sad look, or a sad word, 
 from those I love, sinks mv heart: as a 
 good word, and a smile raises it instan¬ 
 taneously. 
 
 But far, far better than the cloistered 
 
 rules of man's foolish and arbitrary inven- 
 
 *' 
 
 tion, the life of society, with ail its self- 
 denials, is the appointment of the Al¬ 
 mighty. Every individual, of human so¬ 
 ciety, is ennobled, and endeared by its 
 relation to him. For the meanest of these, 
 Ch rist died. Our love to each other, to 
 every one of each other, is the proof re¬ 
 quired of our being his disciples. 
 
 Selfishness therefore must be continually 
 overcome, except where some real harm, 
 or great pain may be avoided by very 
 slight inconvenience: and then it should 
 not be cunningly contrived, but openly 
 requested : and if granted, accepted as a 
 favour, or the refusal cheerfully acqui¬ 
 esced in. K 2 
 
ESSAY XXIV. 
 
 244. 
 
 But, in other respects, how can we do 
 good? Follow as God's providence leads, 
 each in his station, within his bounds, and 
 within his capacity. Above all keep up 
 cheerfulness and good humour. An air 
 of dissatisfaction is doubly faulty. It be¬ 
 lies your eternal hopes, and disheartens all 
 around you.—But conversation is so emp¬ 
 ty, so useless.—Keep it peaceable and 
 innocent, at least. Restrain talkativeness 
 in yourself, that you may think a little, how 
 to introduce somewhat useful : but do not 
 strive too much. Mere good humour is 
 very useful: it tunes the mind. Do, in 
 every thing, the best you can: and trust 
 in better merits, that it shall be accepted. 
 Look forward to the conversation of angels, 
 and perfected spirits : of those whom you 
 have loved, and who have loved you amidst 
 a ] 1 your mutual imperfections here. There 
 v. i he nothing but joy, and eternal im¬ 
 provement. All joined in executing the 
 divine will, and dwelling on its praises. 
 No more fear ol sorrow, or parting : no 
 more doubts and jealousies of yourself: no 
 
ESSAY XXIVo 245 
 
 anxieties for them: all fixed and secure. 
 Of past sorrows and frailties will remain 
 only the everlasting gratitude of those 
 who have been relieved, and forgiven. 
 Each to other, in their due degrees: all 
 supremely, to their God, and Saviour ! 
 
ESSAY ‘XXV. 
 
 ESSAY XXV, 
 
 On Trust in Providence. 
 
 HP 
 
 A HIS is a day * I have cause to bless. 
 Let no gloomy thought come near it. 
 But can I keep out of my mind, the 
 thought of such a friend, as I so lately had ; 
 with a whole train of ideas attending that 
 thought ? No ; undoubtedly : but let me 
 think of that friend, and regulate those 
 ideas, as I ought. Let me, with humble, 
 joyful gratitude, consider, in how many 
 excellent beings I have the interest of an 
 affectionate and beloved friend. Glories 
 of the world ! I look down upon you : my 
 happiness, my boast are of a higher kind. 
 
 These friends are, at present, far separa¬ 
 ted from one another, but all happy : and, 
 in a blessed hereafter, I am permitted 
 
 * Probably her birth-day. 
 
ESSAY XXV. 
 
 24 7 
 
 humbly but joyfully to hope, that we shall 
 all be eternally re-united. What mutual 
 gratulations, what tender recollections 
 must attend that re-union ! And oh, what 
 unspeakable gratitude and adoration to 
 him, through whose blessed redemption, 
 that bliss shall be attained, and “ this 
 mortal put on immortality!” The frail 
 human heart can hardly bear the transport 
 of the thought! This idea is too vast, and 
 too bright.—Yet, it is not a fairy vision, 
 but a stedfast, eternal truth. 
 
 Far away, then, all melancholy appre¬ 
 hensions of death, of pain, of parting, 
 mere shadows every one ! For what is 
 pain ? An hour of trial, the proof of our 
 faith, patience and fortitude.—What is 
 death ? The entrance upon our reward, 
 the end of our dangers and perplexities, 
 the point to which we have been tending 
 from our birth.—What is parting ? More 
 bitter in itself than death, because it leaves 
 us destitute of our dearest supports, in a 
 state wherein we seem to need them most. 
 This then, as the severest pain, is the 
 
248 
 
 ESSAY XXV. 
 
 noblest tnal. And iifg not sure thcit 
 we are in the hands of a merciful God, 
 "hose every attribute is engaged to lay 
 no more upon us, than our own faith 
 - and own sincere endeavours concurring, 
 he will enable us to bear, to triumph 
 over? 
 
 We are born into this world poor help¬ 
 less creatures: but parents, friends, pro¬ 
 tectors are provided to conduct us up to 
 maturity. An all-gracious Providence 
 works by what variety of instruments it 
 sees fit. but fit instruments it never wants, 
 and never can want. The seeds of good 
 and evil grow up with us: at least, the 
 enemy sows his tares so early that they 
 soon overtake the grain. To root out the 
 one, and to cherish the other, is the busi¬ 
 ness of life. What is it, to us, by what 
 means, or by what change of hands, the 
 Master of the harvest vouchsafes to do 
 this ? since our great concern is only, that 
 ,t lie effectually done, and then, we are 
 well assured, that lie f‘ will gather the 
 “ wheat in o his garner.” 
 
ESSAY XXV. 
 
 24 9 
 
 He, who has given the former rain in 
 its season, will not deny the latter rain, 
 also, to the diligent and pious husbandman. 
 Where a merciful Providence has remark¬ 
 ably blest the earlier part of life, the well- 
 disposed heart need not fear, that the later 
 years of it shall be left destitute. Every 
 fit support and guidance shall be provided; 
 nay every comfort and delight, that con¬ 
 tradicts not some still kinder intention, or 
 more important aim. 
 
 Sufferings belong to human nature. 
 Of these, some persons have a larger, some 
 a lighter share, and this indiscriminately, 
 in some measure, to bad and good. This 
 appointment is for wise reasons, some of 
 which even our poor shallow understand¬ 
 ings can trace. But the good are assured 
 that they shall never want any necessary 
 support, under their sufferings : and to 
 know' that they are liable to them, is one 
 appointed trial of their faith, of their sub- 
 mission. A true Christian knows, that 
 all these things shall finally work together 
 
250 
 
 ESSAY XXV. 
 
 for his good. Why then should he dread 
 any of them ? 
 
 But when these sufferings are actually 
 present, how must they be supported ?— 
 eheeriully. To those who know, that all 
 is, on the "whole, well, every passing day 
 brings its amusement and relief: and let 
 these be thankfully accepted. Those who 
 are removed out of this world are happy: 
 they are removed in God’s good time. 
 Those, who are continued in it, must re¬ 
 joice in every comfort, that attends their 
 continuance : must be thankful for every 
 added year. For, is not life a blessing ? 
 May not this added time be improved to 
 most excellent purposes ? Let this then be 
 our endeavour. 
 
 While continued in human society, let 
 us preserve a sociable, a friendly spirit. 
 Let our joyful affectionate remembrance 
 attend those, who are removed already 
 into a higher class of beings. But let our 
 active love be exerted towards all our fel¬ 
 low travellers: and let it be our aim. so 
 
 9 
 
ESSAY XXY. 
 
 a.5i 
 
 far as we are enabled, to lead many along 
 with us towards those happy mansions. 
 This, at present, it seems, is the only work 
 we are fit for ; and is it not a blessed one ? 
 
 “ Be glad O ye righteous, and rejoice 
 “ in the Lord, for a good and pleasant 
 thing it is to be thankful F s 
 
ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 
 ESSAY XXVI, 
 
 Oil the Necessity of Innocent Amusement „ 
 
 Amusement is useful and lauda¬ 
 ble, not when it draws the mind from 
 religious subjects (in this view the world 
 uses it and is destroyed by it) but, when 
 it takes the thoughts from such sorrows as 
 are merely temporal, and imaginary, and 
 so refits them for that better employment, 
 which, without this harmless medium, they 
 could not so soon or so well have resumed. 
 The idle mind flies improvement as its ene¬ 
 my, and seeks amusement as its end. The 
 Christian heart has but one home, one joy, 
 one pursuit. But from this home it is 
 too often detained: from this joy it is too 
 otten shut out: in this pursuit it is, too 
 often, hindered, by the frailty of human 
 nature, the necessary attentions and en~ 
 
ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 $53 
 
 gagements of life, the attachments of af¬ 
 finity, and friendship. 
 
 On this side eternity, cares and sorrows 
 will be felt, in some degree, by the best: 
 but the Christian, who knows that it is 
 his absolute duty to rejoice, and give 
 thanks, in every thing, indulges not those 
 gloomy hours, nor wilfully harbours one 
 melancholy thought. Yet striving with such 
 thoughts, is only to be worse entangled in 
 them. At such times the good and hum¬ 
 ble mind, accepts thankfully the assistance 
 of the veriest trifle, the most common 
 and uninteresting object, or employment, 
 that can dissipate the present chain of 
 vain and tiresome thought: and this chain 
 once broken, it flies with recruited vigour 
 to its true home, “ as a bird out of the 
 “ snare. 
 
 By common and uninteresting objects, I 
 mean only to exclude all indulgences of 
 fancy and imagination, and such amuse¬ 
 ments as seem interesting, because they in¬ 
 deed sooth the disposition, which we sup¬ 
 pose ourselves flying from, as, for example. 
 
254 
 
 ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 melancholy music, and poetically solemn 
 scenes. But, in a higher view, the least 
 flo wer of the field, is a more interest¬ 
 ing object than the proudest palace. For 
 what object can be small or uninteresting, 
 that is the work and gift of the Almighty! 
 This flower, or insect, or shell, would 
 Aspasia say, is given to me, at this instant 
 by ever present, ever watchful goodness, 
 to call off' my thoughts from their present 
 vain anxiety, or sinful regret, to the thank¬ 
 ful contemplation of a gracious Creator, 
 and Redeemer.—This employment, this 
 company, that calls my present attention 
 from subjects, it could wish to pursue, 
 though it pursues them to its hurt: this 
 dull and unedifying company, this dry 
 and trifling employment, is, in the order 
 of Providence, a kind remedy, to unbend 
 my mind, and thereby restore its strength. 
 As such I will thankfully accept it, and 
 cheerfully turn myself to it: for if I am 
 absent in company, I had better be alone; 
 my soul is equally wasting its strength, in 
 earnest thought, and melancholy recollec- 
 
ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 255 
 
 tion, and my appearance discredits the 
 cause of religion. 
 
 These are tne reasons, that make it a 
 duty to open the mind to every innocent 
 pleasure: to the admiration of every rural 
 object, to harmless pleasantry and mirth, 
 to such a general acquaintance with arts 
 and sciences, trades and manufactures, 
 books and men, as shall enable us to attend 
 to, and to be amused, in some degree, 
 with every scene, and with every conver¬ 
 sation. There is just the same pride in 
 resolving, that our minds shall be always 
 employed on the stretch, as in imagining 
 that our reason is a competent judge of all 
 subjects: human frailty and imperfection, 
 alike forbids both. The Israelites gathered 
 their manna, from day to day: so should 
 we our temporal pleasures, and comforts, 
 and trust him to provide for to-morrow, 
 who supplied us yesterday. When 
 through eagerness, and fondness of mind, 
 we hoard up, by anxious schemes and 
 wishes, a portion for ourselves, it breeds 
 
256 
 
 ESSAY XXVI. 
 
 but corruption. Only in the ark can it 
 be laid up safe *. 
 
 * This poetic and beautiful illustration may not per¬ 
 haps be well understood by those who are not very con¬ 
 versant with Bible history. 
 
 See Exod. xvi. 20 and 33* 
 
LETTERS 
 
 TO A 
 
 FRIEND 
 
 A FUTURE STATE, 
 
 IN THE 
 
 CHARACTER OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL, 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 «%: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
1ETTER I, 
 
 0~A) 
 
 LETTER I* 
 
 'HP 
 
 1 HE curiosity you expressed in a con¬ 
 versation, which we heard with pleasure, 
 we may within those limits you acknow¬ 
 ledged just, be permitted to gratify. New 
 discoveries must not be expected—Could 
 you explain to a child the delights afforded 
 by science ? Or to one born blind the ex¬ 
 quisite sensations produced by light and 
 beauty ? But so far as may be collected 
 from what hath been revealed, we are 
 ready and delighted to assist and guide 
 your search. Startle not at the darkness 
 which is before you, and the irremediable 
 gulph that must be passed. From that 
 bourn, one traveller hath returned, and 
 returning, irradiated the gloomy shades 
 with beams of celestial light. In that hu¬ 
 man form, though cloathed with splendour 
 
 * These Letters were never published before® 
 
 s 2 
 
2(50 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 inexpressible, he shall again return 
 Each guardian angel shall then attend 
 the charge, whom, through all the scenes 
 of mortal life, he had endeavoured to pro¬ 
 tectand who having by humble faith 
 and sincere obedience seemed the supreme 
 protection, was in the closing hour com¬ 
 mitted to his peculiar care. How ineffec¬ 
 tual at that dark season are the tenderest 
 soothings of mortal friends ! Yet even 
 those soothings, though blended by sym¬ 
 pathy for the distress which mingles with 
 them, are dear to the sickening heart. 
 But there is one who can in the most try¬ 
 ing moment speak it into instantaneous and 
 eternal joy. By him commissioned, how 
 joyfully do we receive the wearied com¬ 
 batant—But weariness is vanished ; pain 
 
 # See Acts i. 1and Matt. xxv. 31. 
 
 t This is a doctrine which, though not expressly 
 taught in Scripture, yet receives some countenance from 
 passages in it. In heaven their angels do always be¬ 
 hold the face of my Father which is in heaven. Matt, 
 xviii. 10. Are they not all ministring spirits , sent forth 
 to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation ? 
 Heb. , 14 * 
 
LETTER I. 
 
 2 6l 
 
 and sorrow are for ever gone; and all bis 
 sympathy now is with rejoicing, and con¬ 
 gratulating angels. Among the many 
 mansions in the house of our heavenly Fa¬ 
 ther, one most delightful be assured there 
 is, as completely prepared lor the abode 
 and happiness of the separated spirits of 
 tne just, as this earth of yours is for the 
 mingled society of mortal men. However 
 far the distance of this Paradise, the peni¬ 
 tent thief found scarcely any interval be¬ 
 tween that and Calvary. Whatever its 
 employments, for spiritual beings are ever 
 active, imagine not that they can alter the 
 
 state of its final account. That at the 
 
 • ^ • 
 
 hour of death is irrevocably closed. As 
 the tree falleth * so shall it lie. If stunted 
 here no other spring shall ever add to its 
 growth ; if it was hitherto unfruitful, no 
 futme autumn shall enrich its idle branches. 
 But still, there may be employments 
 numberless, more delightful than you can 
 conceive New faculties may be expand- 
 
 * Eccles. xi. 3 
 
LETTER I. 
 
 ing—but enough for this once. Think fre¬ 
 quently ot these solemn, these exalting sub- 
 jects ; but think not too intensely. Let 
 not the speculations of eternity encroach 
 on the duties of time. Ja this only now 
 you can exercise the human virtues —£0 
 relieve the distressed ; sympathize with 
 the afflicted ; rejoice with the innocently 
 cheerful; cement the ties of friendship y 
 promote tne inseparable cause of religion 
 and virtue; enjoy and improve the com¬ 
 forts of society ; and patiently suffer the 
 infirmities and sorrows of mortality. One 
 morning in the week you shall find a Letter 
 on the table from 
 
 l our Guardian though your 
 
 Fellow-Servant* 
 
 « 
 
 i 
 
1ETTEE II. 
 
 263 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 1 HE week is come round, and you ex- 
 pect to find another Letter; but affected 
 as you are, my poor mortal charge, with 
 every variety of the wintry season, are 
 you fit to attend to these sublimer sub¬ 
 jects ? Attempt not contemplations beyond 
 your little strength. Be satisfied that the 
 time will come when we shall be permitted 
 freely and delightfully to discourse with 
 you, because then you will be able to bear 
 and to comprehend our discourse. Know 
 you not that “ eye hath not seen nor 
 ear heard” those things which Almighty 
 goodness hath prepared ; and how then 
 should we convey to you any ideas of 
 them ? But so much you may know, and 
 therefore should know, as may fill you with 
 cheerful hope, and excite you to ardent 
 pursuit of the inestimable prize. And 
 
264 
 
 letter II. 
 
 yet amid the toils and miseries of mortal 
 life, it might seem that merely negative 
 descriptions might content you. To rest 
 fiom care and sorrow—to indulge without 
 fault a long sweet unmolested repose, in 
 the assurance of wai ing to a joyous ever¬ 
 lasting morning! Might not this, my 
 indolent charge, well satisfy your wishes 
 foi the present? No. You would fain 
 Know ir this sleep is at least varied liv 
 deligh tiul dreams, as you suspect that 
 your mind even in sleep is never totally 
 idle. But I must not let you farther into 
 the theory even of dreams than your own 
 observations may lead you. What hint 
 was it you caught so long ago in Mr. 
 Locke of sleeping meditations ? Pursue it 
 if you can. Observe you not sometimes 
 that you wake out of quite a different sort 
 of world from that to which your days are 
 accustomed ? And yet at the time all its 
 scenery has appeared familiar to you, and 
 not unpleasing *. On your efforts to 
 
 * It is an idea prevalent in the East, that the soul 
 put., the body, and is actually present m the scenes re- 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 265 
 
 grasp them by recollection the thin ideas 
 shrink away, and in a few moments are 
 quite vanished. Strive not to retain them 
 —the talents committed to your trust 
 now, are your waking active hours. Per¬ 
 haps but few remain. Improve them to 
 the utmost: then shall you give up your 
 account with joy. But where, you ask, 
 are now those companions of your former 
 years, whose time of trial is over, whose 
 trust is discharged, who no longer mingle 
 in this active scene, for whom the sun 
 rises and sets no more ? Where ? Why 
 equally in the divine presence as yourself 
 -—recollect you not the time, in former 
 days of fancy, when you fondly delighted 
 to contemplate the moon because a 
 
 presented in the dream. Some Christians also seem to 
 entertain a similar opinion. The late learned Mr. 
 Porson was collecting materials towards forming a 
 theory of this kind ; and made anxious enquiries oi his 
 friends whether they had ever distinctly dreamt of any 
 known animal w hen dead ; obviously supposing that the 
 soul, in its nocturnal excursions, could have no com¬ 
 munication with those deceased creatures which have 
 no souls. 
 
£66 
 
 EETTEH lit 
 
 favourite distant friend might possibly at 
 the same time be gazing on the same bright 
 object ? This fancy seemed to cancel 
 distance, and bring you near together. 
 -1 hink then that not the waning moon, 
 but the source of glory shines on them 
 with the same gracious beams, that in 
 mercy extend even to you. But oh with 
 how much brighter lustre ! Yet should 
 ey, foi reasons infinitely wise and kind, 
 be kept for a while in unconscious se- 
 cui it\, consider that to them, who are now 
 become heirs of eternity, a thousand years 
 will pass over as one day—while to vou one 
 day ought to seem as important as a thou¬ 
 sand jeais, since millions of ages may de¬ 
 pend upon it. Oh learn to improve it well. 
 To awaken you to diligence with the con¬ 
 tinual repetition of this important lesson, I 
 amuse your curiosity, and converse with 
 you in this unusual manner, on the subject 
 that has most excited it. Meditate often 
 on futurity; but not so as vainly to trifle 
 away present time. This is certain, that 
 the fi lends you loved, exist now as really 
 
 2 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 £b7 
 
 as when you conversed with them, and 
 much more happily* A more infallible 
 word than mine hath assured you, that 
 they are blessed: that they rest from their 
 labours : and that their works follow them . 
 Follow them now', for ought you know, 
 with a pleasing though humble conscious¬ 
 ness of faithful though imperfect endea¬ 
 vours : and will follow them on that great 
 day, for which all other days are made, 
 with a crow n of everlasting praise and joy. 
 
263 
 
 letter, rrr. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Your 
 
 meditations have been busy 
 again about unseen futurities; your eye is 
 impatiently cast every morning on vour 
 table, and you eagerly expect another Let¬ 
 ter from your invisible attendant; though 
 you have yet learnt nothing new from 
 either of the former. There is somewhat 
 in your curiosity that ought for your good 
 to be checked, and yet somewhat laudable 
 in it that deserves to be indulged. Your 
 thoughts cannot be more nobly employed, 
 nor fixed on a more absolutely certainty 
 than that future state which now engages 
 them. There is also a grateful affectfon 
 to many dear friends whom you once 
 justly numbered among your greatest 
 earthly blessings, that makes you fondly 
 inquisitive into their actual situation and 
 employment. that their situation is 
 9 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 269 
 
 happy and certain ; that they are in peace; 
 that the souls of the righteous are in the 
 hand of God , and there shall no torment 
 touch them ; that our common Lord will 
 raise them up at the last day, body and 
 
 M. v 
 
 soul ; and call them to a participation of 
 his ineffable joy; of all this you are in¬ 
 fallibly assured. And can you not be 
 contented to live by such a faith ? Must 
 the fond eye of imagination needs be 
 soothed with a fancied sight of pleasing 
 scenes, and a Christian elysium ? Why, 
 be it so ; the lively powers of sweet imagi¬ 
 nation were granted to the children of men 
 with a gracious intent to counterbalance 
 the low cares and frequent sufferings of 
 their mortal state. It is their own fault 
 when imagination is taught to excite every 
 hurtful passion, and add fresh stings to 
 every pain. So far as youris can travel 
 along with tolerably rational conjecture, 
 and under the guidance of submissive re¬ 
 signation, I am content for the present 
 half hour (as you mortals parcel out that 
 pittance of duration which you call time) 
 
S70 
 
 LETTER III* 
 
 to attend her airy steps. Perhaps I may 
 even help her over the first bar. Since 
 as the tree falleth so it must lie , you are 
 inclined to think there can be no increase 
 in goodness during that whole length of 
 time that stretches from the hour of death 
 to the last period of human things : and 
 during your Christian race you have been 
 so justly taught to consider standing still 
 as in effect going back, that you cannot 
 form an idea how thousands of years 
 should innocently and happily pass over 
 creatures unimproved in their course. 
 Continual improvement is the law of your 
 mortal state of trial—he who loiters in a 
 race must lose, but he who has happily 
 reached the goal may rest. Perhaps be¬ 
 yond the period of these stars and planets, 
 new amazing scenes of delightful activity, 
 and extatic progression to inconceiveable 
 improvement, with still brighter crowns in 
 view, may be for ever opening on the spi¬ 
 rits of the blessed. Allow them a few ages 
 of recruit before they are to enter on 
 riie boundless barrier. Of this for the 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 271 
 
 present no more. Is your first difficulty 
 removed ? As the tree falleth so it must 
 lie . True: there can after your present 
 state of trial is ended, be no change from 
 bad to good. But who hath told you that 
 there may be no change from good to 
 better ? each spirit still keeping its own 
 proportion, but each in that proportion 
 advancing still to new degrees of know¬ 
 ledge, of charity, of devotion, and raptu¬ 
 rous gratitude ? Increase in knowledge 
 cannot be made by such a spirit as hath 
 by the all-gracious Redeemer been ac¬ 
 cepted in the hour of death, without 
 bringing proportionable improvements in 
 every divine affection. But these are no 
 longer, as in this world, rewardcible , since 
 they are no longer a toil, a struggle, a 
 victory ; but mere necessity of nature, an 
 earnest and a blessed part of the infinite 
 reward which He hath obtained for all that 
 will. Oh think frequently of this , my 
 frail charge ; think that you may attain— 
 that you may forfeit, your share in this 
 inestimable blessedness. Whoever will 
 
LETTER TIT. 
 
 eyy& 
 
 M* / M 
 
 may take the waters of life and drink 
 freely. And will you bestow your thoughts 
 and care on broken cisterns and muddy 
 streams. Think how the friends whom 
 you have so dearly loved and lamented, 
 may by this time be improved, and that if 
 you press on here, you too shall hereafter 
 attain to your proportionable improve¬ 
 ment. Endeavour even to overtake the 
 foremost excellence. To awaken you out 
 of heartless despondency—to rouse you 
 from dangerous indolence, is an important 
 part of my commission—the shielding you 
 from bodily peril, or relieving you in 
 painful moments, is nothing in compa¬ 
 rison. What availed the temporary pre¬ 
 servation of the unprofitable tree, if after 
 all the pains bestowed, it was at last cut 
 down as a cumber er of the ground * ? That 
 last must soon come, but if the tree bear 
 good fruit, well —it will not then be cut 
 down, but transplanted into the groves of 
 Paradise. 
 
 * See Luke xiii. 6, 
 
f 
 
 DIALOGUES, 
 

 
 ' 
 
 - 
 
 - 
 
 ✓ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 - 
 
DIALOGUE I. 
 
 DIALOGUE L 
 
 Description of a Moral but not Gloomy 
 
 Retirement* 
 
 iVIY dear friend Imagination, what place 
 will you allot for my Winter’s habitation, 
 when I have a mind to retire from the 
 hurry of the town, and review the actions of 
 every passing day ? 
 
 A little hermitage, on the eastern side 
 of the highest mountain, in the kingdom 
 of Katascopia 
 
 Order a set of ideas to be put to your 
 rapid chariot, and transport me thither as 
 soon as you please; for I am already 
 charmed with the proposal. 
 
 A winding path leads you by an imper- 
 
 * Contemplation. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 DIALOGUE I. 
 
 ceptible ascent, through groves of lam* 
 rels, bays, pines, oaks, cedars, myrtles, and 
 all kinds of beautiful ever-greens, with 
 which the sides of the mountains are eter¬ 
 nally covered, to an apartment cut out in 
 the substance of the rock, and consisting 
 of two rooms. You enter into the first, 
 through an arch hewn out, without much 
 art; and whose only ornaments are the 
 ivy, with which it is almost entirely over¬ 
 grown, and the chrystalline isicles, which 
 winter hangs on the inequalities of its 
 surface. The only light that it receives, 
 is through this arch: and the plainness 
 of the furniture is answerable to that of 
 the building:. The floor is covered with a 
 kind of moss, that is always dry: and a 
 couch of the same goes round the room. 
 On the right side, at the further end, is 
 a little stone-table, with the Hermit’s 
 usual furniture, a book, a skull, an hour¬ 
 glass, and a lamp. Near the mouth of 
 the cave is a telescope: and on the left 
 side, a small door opens into a little square 
 apartment, formed to indulge less melan- 
 
DIALOGUE I. 
 
 277 
 
 choly meditations. Opposite to the en¬ 
 trance, are shelves filled with books, of a 
 serious and moral nature, that take up one 
 side of the room. A bed of plain white 
 dimity, with two chairs of the same, is 
 opposite to the chimney, where a cheerful 
 wood fire is continually blazing. Near 
 the fire is placed a little table, and a low 
 seat, more for convenience, than show; 
 and the walls are covered with a white 
 paper, over which, a vine seems to spread 
 its leafy shade. 
 
 You have described this retirement to 
 my wish. A mere hermitage would be too 
 gloomy for a constant dwelling. And yet 
 there are many hours in which the so¬ 
 lemnity of the outward cell, with the moon 
 shining into it, and faintly gleaming on 
 its melancholy furniture * would suit my 
 turn of thought, better than the brightest 
 sun, glittering on the gayest scenes. 
 
 I have not yet mentioned to you the 
 most agreeable circumstance of the out¬ 
 ward cell, its delightful and extensive 
 view. 
 
DIALOGUE T. 
 
 £7S 
 
 Is not that obstructed by the groves of 
 ever-greens, through which you ascend to 
 this seat of calm wisdom ? 
 
 It is placed high enough for the specta¬ 
 tor to look over their venerable tops, and 
 3ee the current of life, a wide extended 
 ocean, gliding swiftly along, at the foot of 
 the mountain. Beyond it, but half con- 
 sealed in woods, lie the happy islands, and 
 the blc-ak and doleful regions, where all 
 that infinite number of barks, that cover 
 tins immense ocean, sooner or later dis¬ 
 lodge their weary passengers. The obser¬ 
 vations you will make, from this eminence, 
 on the course of the sea, the various rocks 
 and whirlpools, that make its passage 
 dangerous; the conduct of the pilots, and 
 the behaviour of the passengers, will give 
 you important instructions, for the guid¬ 
 ance of your own bark. You may even 
 see your own: and by a timely observance, 
 avoid every danger that threatens it, and 
 improve every favourable gale, to the best 
 advantage. 
 
DIALOGUE II, 
 
 '279 
 
 DIALOGUE IL 
 
 Enquiry how far Practice has kept pace 
 
 with Intention . 
 
 What have you done, this Summer - a 
 
 Rode* and laughed, and fretted. 
 
 What did you intend to do ? 
 
 To learn geography, mathematics, de¬ 
 cimal fractions and good humour: to work 
 a screen, draw copies of two or three fine 
 prints, and read abundance of history : to 
 improve my memory* and restrain my 
 fancy: to lay out my time to the best ad¬ 
 vantage: to be happy myself, and make 
 every body else so. To read Voltaire’s 
 Newton, Whistor/s Euclid, and Tillotson s 
 Sermons. 
 
 Have you read nothing ? 
 
 Yes: some of the Sermons; Mrs. Rowe s 
 Works: the Tale of a Tub; a book of Dr. 
 
280 
 
 DIALOGUE 11. 
 
 Watts s; L/Histoire du Ciel; Milton, and 
 abundance of plays and idle books. 
 
 Do you remember nothing of your geo¬ 
 graphy ? 
 
 Not so much as what belongs to Eng¬ 
 land. 
 
 Mathematics- 
 
 Turn my head. 
 
 And what is your fine head good for ? 
 
 .To wear a pair of Brussels lappet's, or 
 spin out extravagant imaginations and 
 fancies. 
 
 How does your arithmetic go on ? 
 
 I have bought one of the best books on 
 the subject. 
 
 And studied it ? 
 
 O no : I have not read a page in it. 
 
 Tibs is the way too, in which you study 
 natural history ? 
 
 \ es : I have bought Reaumur's works, 
 and set them on my shelves. 
 
 eii: but are you good humoured ? 
 
 O yes: mightily so, when 1 am pleased 
 and entertained. 
 
 But a trifle puts you out of humour? 
 
DIALOGUE IT. 
 
 28 i 
 
 Yes, perhaps it does: but then, I am 
 ten times more out of humour with my¬ 
 self than with other people. 
 
 So that, upon the whole, you are satis¬ 
 fied with your temper ? 
 
 Very tolerably, as the world goes. 
 
 And do not you think yourself at all 
 vain ? 
 
 I do not think, what is commonly called 
 vanity, so terrible a thing, as it is gene¬ 
 rally reckoned. 
 
 What do you mean 
 
 I mean, that if it were possible, people 
 ought to be as well acquainted with their 
 own characters, at least, as with those of 
 other persons; and therefore ought to 
 know their good qualities, as well as their 
 faults. 
 
 This, in itself, is not vanity : but it is the 
 ready path to it. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 If you were standing on a high hill, from 
 whence you had two very different views 
 one adorned with all that can make a land¬ 
 scape beautiful; the other leading your 
 
 by this ? 
 
% DIALOGUE II, 
 
 eye through barren moors, dreary caverns, 
 and frightful precipices: which do you 
 think you should spend most time in look¬ 
 ing at ? 
 
 The answer is a very clear one : If I had 
 no interest in either of the views, I should 
 admire the fine landscape, and perhaps 
 take a copy of it* 
 
 Well, but suppose them both in your 
 own estate ? You seem to think that would 
 make some difference, in your way of pro* 
 seeding. 
 
 ^ es to he sure, a very great one. In 
 that case I should spend the greatest part 
 of my time in considering, by what me¬ 
 thods I could level the precipices, render 
 the barren heaths fruitful, and make that 
 part of my estate as useful and delightful 
 as the other : but still it would be necessary 
 to observe the other prospect, for this 
 very purpose of imitating it. 
 
 If y° u had not added this last reason 
 for looking at the gay side of the view, you 
 had proved, what was far from your inten¬ 
 tion, that it is our faults, and not our per- 
 
 1 
 
DIALOGUE II. 283 
 
 lections, which ought to claim our atten¬ 
 tion. 
 
 There are twenty reasons for this, be¬ 
 sides that which I mentioned. To con¬ 
 tinue your allegory: with what spirit do 
 you think, it would be possible for a man 
 to set about so difficult a work, as those 
 improvements must be, if he did not know, 
 that he had an estate sufficient to support 
 the expence, and an agreeable place to re¬ 
 tire to, when he was w T earied with his less 
 pleasing employment ? 
 
 This is but one of the twenty. 
 
 But it is strong enough to be equal to 
 half a score of less weight* However, you 
 shall have another— 
 
 There is no need of it. I am sensible 
 that a man ought to know the true value 
 of wliat he possesses, both that he may en¬ 
 joy it, with due gratitude to the giver, and 
 that he may take sufficient care, to pre¬ 
 serve it at least, and perhaps to improve it 
 still further. But when this is granted 
 you will allow me, that it is very disagree- 
 
284 
 
 DIALOGUE IT. 
 
 sble for a rich man, to be always boasting 
 of the greatness of his estate, and the 
 magnificence of his palaces. 
 
 Most certainly. Nor is it less disgust¬ 
 ful to hear a man, who is well known to all 
 
 r 
 
 the world to have a very considerable for¬ 
 tune, always complaining of his poverty, 
 and, under a feigned humility, concealing, 
 the most hateful pride. 
 
 So that, upon the whole, all extremes 
 ought to be avoided, even though, some¬ 
 times, they may seem to border upon a 
 virtue. 
 
 This is the rightest conclusion in the 
 world : but the misfortune is, that it is no 
 new discovery of ours, but has been the al¬ 
 lowed, and w ise precept of all ages *. 
 
 That does not make it at all the less va¬ 
 luable to us. Do not you think, we should 
 be much happier in being able to follow 
 the maxim, than in being able to give it? 
 
 I should wish to be capable of both. 
 
 . 4 . # ; . 
 
 Virtus cst medium vitiorum et utrmqiie reduclum. 
 
 IIoii. Efist. i. IS. 
 
DIALOGUE II. 
 
 285 
 
 Pray, my dear, how old are you ? 
 
 Eighteen last May * J 
 
 You have lived eighteen years in the 
 world, you say: pray may I enquire what 
 you have done in all that time ? 
 
 My life has not, as yet, been one of 
 much action. I have been chiefly em¬ 
 ployed in laying in provision of knowledge 
 and sentiments, for future years. 
 
 Well: shall I examine your magazine ? 
 you will have occasion for it all, and ought 
 to have it chosen, with the utmost care. 
 
 Which will you look into first, my heart 
 or my memory ? Here are the keys ot both* 
 
 Your memory is next at hand. It is a 
 pretty cabinet, and not one of the smallest 
 size \ but I have seen a japan cabinet kept 
 in much better order, though it was filled 
 only with shells. 
 
 I wish you would help me to set the 
 drawers, a little in order. What do you 
 meet with in the first? 
 
 * If, as it seems Miss Talbot was only eighteen when 
 she wrote this dialogue, she must have posessea a sur¬ 
 
 prising knowledge of the human heart, and an uncom¬ 
 mon justness of reasoning for that early time ot life. 
 
2 86 
 
 DIALOGUE II. 
 
 Fragments of all sorts and kinds. Truly 
 I think it is like a museum: there are 
 some valuable things in it, but they are 
 almost hid amongst mere trash.—I need 
 look no further. I perceive already, that 
 your memory is so idly filled, that your 
 wish of giving wise maxims, is a very wild 
 one. So I will conclude, my dear, with 
 advising you, to be very well contented, 
 d you can but follow those of other peo^ 
 
mALOGUE III. 
 
 m 
 
 DIALOGUE III. 
 
 r * 
 
 Danger of too much Prosperity without the 
 Assistance of real Friends . 
 
 Come to my assistance, my friend, my 
 adviser. I feel myself oppressed and low- 
 spirited, to the greatest degree; all my 
 thoughts have a disagreeable turn; my 
 employments seem burthensome, and my 
 amusements insipid. A moment's serious 
 conversation with you, seems the only 
 thing that is likely to give me relief. 
 
 I should little have thought, that your 
 situation in life required relief, or wanted 
 any assistance, to make you sensible of 
 its agreeableness. 
 
 I know, that I have every reason, except 
 that which arises from merit, to think my- 
 self the happiest creature in the world: and 
 nobody can be more fully and more grate- 
 
28S 
 
 BIALOGUE III, 
 
 fully sensible oi it than I am : nor is it my 
 reason that complains. 
 
 It is not then your situation in life, that 
 sinks your spirits. > 
 
 It is the very situation, that answers 
 Cowley's wish and mine: nor would I 
 change with the greatest princess. 
 
 Nor is it the want of friends to make 
 that situation agreeable. 
 
 In this respect, you know, that no mor 1 - 
 tal was ever so remarkably happy as I am. 
 Nobody had ever, I believe, the advantage 
 of such amiable examples of affectionate 
 care, guided by such excellent sense and 
 goodness. I feel too much upon this ar¬ 
 ticle to express it at all well: and my 
 thoughts flow in so fast, that I cannot find 
 words for them. But I was going to add, 
 that nobody ever wanted this advantage 
 so much as I do, whose too easy temper 
 might, perhaps insensibly, follow a bad ex*- 
 ample, if fortune had thrown it in my way. 
 
 * See his Poem so called, p. 79- of Tonson’s edition 
 nf I?£1. 
 
DIALOGUE III. 
 
 289 
 
 But however that be, of this I am sure, 
 that never was a mind so helpless, so dis¬ 
 tressed as mine would be, it it had been 
 left in this wide world, without guides, 
 who possess all my love and confidence. 
 
 Is it bad health, then, that prevents your 
 enjoying the happiness, that seems to at¬ 
 tend on all your steps ? 
 
 Nothing less: I never knew' a painful 
 illness. My sleeps are sw r eet, and uninter¬ 
 rupted, and those slight disorders, to which 
 I am sometimes liable, only serve to make 
 me sensible of the value of the great share 
 of health and ease, which I for the most 
 part enjoy : and to show T me the most en¬ 
 gaging instances of goodness, in those 
 about me. I speak this so seriously that I 
 believe I scarce ever had a fever or cough 
 in my life, that did not occasion me more 
 pleasure than uneasiness: and the hours 
 of retirement they have afforded me, are 
 none of the least obligations which i have 
 to them 
 
 * To a well regulated mind suffering will appear to 
 be at least as beneficial a gift of God as happiness is. 
 So sung our moral Poet : 
 
 U 
 
290 
 
 DIALOGUE III* 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity. 
 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous. 
 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
 
 As you Like it , 
 
 / 
 
DIALOGUE IV, 
 
 2 91 
 
 DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of 
 
 Vanity . 
 
 W HAT is vanity ? 
 
 Ask your own heart. 
 
 And is it very blameable ? 
 
 It destroys ail the merit of ever y thing 
 that is good : and all the grace of every 
 thing that is amiable. 
 
 But may not one love to be com¬ 
 mended ? 
 
 According as the commendation is, 
 Methinks, now, it would be more vanity 
 to be so self-sufficient, as not to wish the 
 suffrages of good and wise people, to 
 make one satisfied, that ones conduct is 
 right. 
 
 But what can you say for the pleasure 
 you feel upon being commended for trifles 3 
 or approved by idle people ? 
 
 u 2 
 
29-2 
 
 DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 Why ? it is but common good nature 
 to wish to please every body, without 
 exception, so far as it may innocently be 
 done. 
 
 Yet favour, you know, is deceitful.™ 
 And so far for trifles, and in things most 
 important, remember the strict and solemn 
 charge, that we do not our good actions 
 before men, to be seen of them. 
 
 Yet we are as strictly charged to let 
 our light shine before them, and to set 
 them a good example for the honour of 
 religion. 
 
 Most true. The golden medium must 
 Le found, nice as it is to hit; our highest 
 interest, our all depends upon it. If 
 praise be our aim, praise, the poor praise of 
 wretched men shall be our barren reward. 
 Yet if timourously we hide our one talent 
 m a napkin, even that shall be taken away 
 from us. 
 
 Iiow dreadful the thoughts of missing 
 that only approbation, which it should be 
 like business or our life to deserve! I 
 natural desire or the friendship and good- 
 
DIALOGUE IV, 
 
 293 
 
 will of our fellow-creatures can stand in 
 competition with that fear. 
 
 Happy the cloystered life, where the 
 world is quite shut out; and piety and 
 virtue are exercised in solitude and 
 silence without any visible eye to observe 
 them ! 
 
 That sure is an extreme, the extreme of 
 the buried talent. Let me tell you what I 
 think must be the only rule to go by. 
 
 Oh ! tell it: no sound can be so wel¬ 
 come. 
 
 The rule of duty. Attend solely to 
 that, and let all self-reflections alone. 
 
 How ! never examine my conduct ? 
 Never call my follies to account? 
 
 Yes : but have you never read (with re¬ 
 gard to virtues) of “ forgetting the things 
 44 that are behind, and ever pressing for- 
 “ ward?” 
 
 Yell: yet in an hour of sickness, ad¬ 
 versity, distress, may no glad hope from 
 the remembrance of having always acted 
 from a sincere right intention, however 
 
DIALOGUE IV, 
 
 294 
 
 imperfectly pursued, cast its reviving ray 
 athwart the gloom ? 
 
 The comforts of a good conscience are 
 no vanity. There is in them an important 
 reality. But cordials, in the day of health, 
 are poisons. 
 
 Then be particular : what is this rule of 
 duty?. 
 
 Vv hatever the exigence of the present 
 circumstance most immediately and clearly 
 demands. Pursue always one strait path, 
 without ever stepping out of the way, 
 either to attract observation, or to avoid 
 it. 
 
 W hat is the rule in cases of charity ? 
 
 Chuse to do good in the most private 
 manner, whenever that is a matter of 
 choice. But as this is, in many cases, quite 
 impossible, do as quietly as you can, all 
 the good that is incumbent on you: that 
 is, all the good you are capable of, in your 
 station, and without interfering, where you 
 absolutely ought not to interfere. If you 
 meet with commendation for it, be if pos¬ 
 sible so much the more humble : as know- 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 295 
 
 ing those seeds of vanity to be in you, that 
 may, upon the slightest praise, have such 
 a sad effect, as to render the best you have 
 done, less than nothing* 
 
 Alas, it is terrifying to consider, how 
 many persons have fallen, from not in¬ 
 considerable advancement in goodness, 
 through mere presumption, and self-opi¬ 
 nion ! And yet can one help wishing to 
 please ? 
 
 No certainly : there would be something 
 savage in a contrary disposition. But 
 then, look to it, that this desire be free 
 from vanity. It may be quite so. 
 
 Can it be without some self-complacence 
 in its gratification ? 
 
 It cannot be without some sense of plea¬ 
 sure : but from what ? Self,\ in every one 
 of us human creatures, is the wretchedest, 
 the poorest of beings. The pleasure re¬ 
 sults from a grateful reflection on the ful¬ 
 ness and bounty of that gracious being, 
 whose gift alone is every thing, that can 
 give us delight, with every capacity of 
 tasting it. 
 
 \ 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 . In this view then, we may innocently 
 desire, that his gifts of some gootl qualities 
 to us, should be the instruments of convey¬ 
 ing his gift also of some benefit or pleasure 
 to our fellow-creatures; and that in re¬ 
 turn, they should, in a lower degree, be 
 pleased with us. 
 
 I think so indeed. 
 
 But what say you to the duty of setting 
 a good example, and contributing, so far as 
 private persons can, to keep virtue and re¬ 
 ligion in countenance ? 
 o 
 
 It is surely a very important one. But 
 it requires a daily, hourly guard over the 
 heart, to see that no secret vanity poisons 
 the good intention. 
 
 And what is to be said of affability, 
 good-humour, easy behaviour, and en¬ 
 deavouring to make ourselves agreeable? 
 
 Let but your whole behaviour flow uni¬ 
 formly from one fixed principle of duty, 
 and you may always be secure. Be there¬ 
 fore equally affable to all kinds of people : 
 study to please even those who are far from 
 pleasing you: make yourself agreeable to 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 29? 
 
 those, whose praise you are sure you do 
 not seek. Study to oblige the heavy, the 
 low, the tedious; and in whatever com¬ 
 pany you are, never aim at what is called 
 shining. Do all this, and you may very 
 allowably strive to please in agreeable com¬ 
 pany too: and maybe satisfied you act 
 from sociable good humour, and not from 
 vanitv. 
 
 But tell me: is it possible to see ones 
 self in the right, and another in the wrong, 
 without feeling a little superiority ? 
 
 Yes: if you will consider the matter a 
 little coolly over, you will see it to be very 
 possible to adhere to your own better judg¬ 
 ment, without the least triumph, and in¬ 
 deed with the truest humility. 
 
 Instruct me, I beseech you. 
 
 Consider first, this very inclination to be 
 over-pleased, is a very dangerous weakness: 
 one that you are ashamed to own, since 
 any expressions of self-esteem are contrary 
 to all rules of true politeness; and true 
 politeness has its foundation in the nature 
 of thin ys. Therefore, whenever you feel 
 
 o ' 
 
293 
 
 DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 any sentiment, that you should be asham* 
 ed to express, be assured that they ought 
 equally to be ashamed of indulging it in 
 silence. The first emotions of the mind 
 are, indeed, in some measure, involuntary 2 
 the giving encouragement to them is all, 
 for which we shall be accountable, and the 
 thought may very commendably pass 
 through the mind, that becomes faulty 
 if it dwells there Self-applause of any 
 thing ever so praise-worthy is like Orpheus 
 conducting Eurydice. It must needs ac¬ 
 company it: but if the pleasure of looking 
 back and admiring be indulged, the fair 
 frail object vanishes into nothing. 
 
 So : while you take breath after that 
 simile, let me ask a few more questions. 
 
 I have not done with the last yet. You 
 \vill say, how can we be even the more 
 humble for seeing other people’s faults? 
 
 Not improbably. 
 
 AVhy: are we not partakers of the self- 
 
 * Evil into the mind of God cr man 
 
 May come and go, so unapprov’d, and leave 
 No spot or blame behind. 
 
 Far. Lost } Book v. 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 299 
 
 same erring nature ? Are not we as liable 
 to err as they ? 
 
 No: surely there is a difference between 
 good and bad, knowing and ignorant, pru¬ 
 dent and rash. 
 
 Is there? Well: what do you imagine 
 then of our first parents, formed in the 
 highest perfection of uncorrupted nature, 
 conversant daily with celestial visitors, and 
 by them instructed ? 
 
 I see your inference, and it is strictly 
 just.—They fell.—What then are we ? Yet 
 we in this blessed period of the world, in 
 this its last two thousand years, have 
 higher advantages, and surer supports and 
 stronger assistances. 
 
 Most true. But are these to make us 
 vain, or to make us humble ? 
 
 Humble, I own it. We have nothing 
 that we can call our own: nothing that 
 pride and self-conceit may not forfeit: 
 and the greater our advantages, the 
 more terrifying is the possibility of losing 
 them. 
 
 Reflect, in every history you read, what 
 impression it leaves on you of the gross of 
 
300 
 
 DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 mankind. Then think, all these passions? 
 all these weaknesses are originally, more 
 or less in every one of us. If you were 
 still 1 iable to the infection of the small-pox, 
 and were hourly exposed to it in a town, 
 where it raged among almost all the inha¬ 
 bitants, with what kind of sentiments 
 should you see them labouring under all its 
 dreadful circumstances, and what kind of 
 triumph and self-approbation should you 
 feel, from your own high health, and 
 smooth complexion ? 
 
 I should only, with fear and trembling, 
 double my caution to preserve them, if 
 Dossible. 
 
 i 
 
 And were you safe got through the ill¬ 
 ness, how strong would be your sympathy 
 with those yet suffering ? 
 
 Yet might I not, and ought I not to 
 prescribe to them such methods of cure, 
 or even of present relief and ease, as I had 
 experienced to be most successful ? 
 
 Yes: but would the praise be yours, or 
 your physician’s ? 
 
 All characters upon record are not thus 
 
DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 SOI 
 
 terrifying. Vv e partake the same nature 
 with saints and heroes. 
 
 Can that raise any vanity ? A noble 
 and an honest pride it may : a glorious, a 
 laudable ambition to imitate their virtues. 
 .But to see others of cur own nature 
 mounted up so high, our eye can scarcely 
 follow them, is surely to us, poor, dull, and 
 weak creatures, of short sight and feeble 
 pinion, mortifying enough. 
 
 \ou teach me the best lesson, that can 
 
 be learned from history, a deep, a practi¬ 
 cal, and unfeigned humility. Society with 
 all its various scenes will teach the same i 
 and all those things, which if vanity en- 
 
 gross us, minister so abundantly to self- 
 . %/ 
 
 conceit, contempt, disdain, and every evil 
 disposition of the heart, will, if humility 
 Le oui duett!ess, heighten in us every 
 right affection. Our hearts will overflow 
 with gratitude to our supreme Benefactor, 
 
 nud pout themselves out in the most 
 earnest desires or his continual assistance 
 and protection. They will melt with 
 the kindest commiseration to our er« 
 
 o 
 
302 
 
 DIALOGUE IV. 
 
 ring fellow-creatures: and they will, 
 without forming one ambitious scheme, 
 be most happily and meekly content 
 with whatever situation Providence allots 
 us. 
 
 The disposition of humility being thus 
 valuable, let me add one consideration 
 more, which may help to confirm it, and 
 may teach us to avoid that great danger 
 it incurs, from our knowing ourselves at 
 any time in the right. The more strong 
 we are in our opinion, the more lively our 
 dislike is of the opposite error, fault or folly, 
 the more humbled we should be at the 
 thought, (which in general is a certain fact, 
 though we are blind perhaps as to the 
 particulars) that however right we are in 
 this instance, in some others, too probably 
 in very many others, we are quite as much 
 in the wrong, as those we now despise and 
 blame. Error is just as ugly in us, as in 
 them : If our sense of it be a stronger, 
 uglier still and more unpardonable. And 
 yet how many have fallen themselves into 
 
DIALOGUE IT. 
 
 303 
 
 the very faults, they most violently con¬ 
 demned : 
 
 How true is all this! Let me add to it 
 a thought, that just now rises to my mind, 
 or rather a whole group. 
 
 It is true, the subject is inexhaustible : 
 but our time you know was limited, and 
 the clock is just striking. 
 
304 
 
 DIALOGUE \\ 
 
 DIALOGUE V. 
 
 On the Nature of human Happiness . 
 
 JLISAURA was complaining one day to 
 Paul ina, that happiness was no where to 
 be found. How do you contrive, said she, 
 to be so cheerful and easy, so constantly 
 contented in your appearance ? When, I 
 am convinced, that at the bottom, you 
 must have some lurking dissatisfaction, 
 some concealed uneasiness, that secret¬ 
 ly diffuses its venom over your enjoy¬ 
 ments ? 
 
 It is true, said Paulina, my history is 
 pretty extraordinary, and my life, has been 
 crost by a thousand accidents, that reason 
 and religion apart, would make my hap¬ 
 piness appear doubtful enough. But pri¬ 
 thee, Lisaura, how do you come to suspect 
 
t>lALO<Su£ V. 
 
 3(15 
 
 i t, who, I am persuaded, know little of my 
 real story, and are young enough to judge 
 of the sincerity of other people's appear¬ 
 ance, by your own. 
 
 Why, it is from that very cattse you 
 name, replied Lisaura. In all the bloom 
 of health and youth, in all the ease of 
 situation imaginable, I still perceive a dis¬ 
 content, that preys upon my heart. Some¬ 
 times, I am anxious for the long; futurity 
 even of common life, that lies before me : 
 that lies, like a wild unknown and barren 
 plain, wrapt up in thick fogs of uncertain¬ 
 ty. Sometimes, I lose myself in melan¬ 
 choly reflections on the past. My cares, 
 and attentions, which then so busily en- 
 gaged me, seem now such a heap of im- 
 pertinencies, and follies, that I sicken at 
 them, and at myself. And then, what a 
 strong presumption do they give one, even 
 against those of the present hour ! That 
 present hour, how vain is it, how uneasy^ 
 what a very trifle will entirely sour it ! 
 With all this, any body that considered 
 my situation in life, would pronounce me 
 
 x 
 
306 
 
 DIALOGUE V. 
 
 happy. How then can I be secure of the 
 happiness of any other person ? 
 
 Shall I tell you, answered Paulina, why 
 you are not sure of your own ? 
 
 Oh most willingly, cried Lisaura. 
 
 Well then, resumed Paulina—but come 
 my dear, tell me a little of the assembly 
 you were at, last week. 
 
 The transition is a little hasty, said Li¬ 
 saura, smiling. 
 
 No matter for that, you will lose no¬ 
 thing by it, in the end : perhaps I may 
 give you a more studied discourse in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 Well then, what can I tell you, but that 
 I was fatigued to the greatest degree ; and 
 after long expectation, and five hours vain 
 pursuit of amusement, came home, at last, 
 utterly dissatisfied. 
 
 Amusement! That is a very general 
 word: in what shape did you think, that 
 it was to appear to you ? 
 
 Lisaura coloured, and Paulina went on. 
 
 Your mistake, dear Lisaura, in life, is 
 the very same, that it was in this assem- 
 
DIALOGUE V. 
 
 307 
 
 bly, and will lead you into the same dis¬ 
 satisfied satiety. You, not you only, but 
 most young people, form to yourself 
 a general and vague idea of happiness, 
 which, because it is uncertain in its being, 
 is as variable as your temper: so that 
 whenever you meet with any thing that 
 does not exactly suit the present humour, 
 you imagine you have missed of happiness: 
 and so indeed you have; but quite in a 
 different way. The perfect idea of hap¬ 
 piness, belongs to another world : as such 
 it is always to be kept in view, and therein 
 consists the point of human happiness, 
 which no vicissitudes of human affairs can 
 alter. 
 
 But human happiness has separate from 
 this, a very real existence, and has distin¬ 
 guishing characteristics of its own. One 
 of these is imperfection: and a necessary 
 one it is to be known. Our business, in 
 this world, was not to sit down, and be 
 satisfied, but to rub on through many dif¬ 
 ficulties, and through many duties, with 
 just accommodations enough to support us 
 
 x 2 
 
308 
 
 DIALOGUE V. 
 
 among them, in a cheerful frame of mind > 
 such a cheerful and easy frame of mind, 
 as is at all times disposed to relish the 
 beauties of nature, and the comforts of so¬ 
 ciety, though not enough attached to them, 
 to make the parting difficult. 
 
 To form any other notion of happiness 
 than this, is a folly that will punish itself. 
 Duty excepted, all the concerns of human 
 life are of slight importance : and when 
 once we have possessed our minds of that 
 belief, all those mysterious phantoms, that 
 gave us such real anxiety, will immediate¬ 
 ly disappear* The opinion of the world, 
 figure, obscurity, poverty, wealth, con¬ 
 tempt, fear, pain, affliction, will appear 
 to be momentary concerns, and therefore 
 little worth long hours of serious thought. 
 Yet all these things are worth so much, 
 that just as far as reason directs us, it is 
 matter of duty to pursue, or avoid them. 
 But when choice has nothing to do, con¬ 
 tent is every thing. Content did I say ? 
 I should have added, gratitude ; for much, 
 indeed, the state even of this world de- 
 
DIALOGUE V. 
 
 309 
 
 serves, For that, however, I will refer you 
 to Dr. Barrow. He lies upon my table, 
 above stairs : and has something in his stile 
 so sweet, so strong and animated, that I 
 cannot recommend you a better compa¬ 
 nion. 
 
 I have often been charmed with him at 
 home, replied Lisaura, and, as fond as you 
 see me of idle amusement, I am not insen¬ 
 sible to the excellencies ot so grave an au¬ 
 thor. I have been pleased to hear very 
 good judges call him the English De¬ 
 mosthenes : and I have felt a secret delight 
 in hearing applied to this noble orator, 
 who (in spite of those peculiar expressions, 
 which the copiousness of his diction seems 
 to call in, from all parts) has so often 
 warmed me with sentiments unknown be¬ 
 fore, what Longinus says of the other, 
 that one might as well face the dazzling 
 lightening, as stand against the force of 
 
 his eloquence.-—Bless me, how do I 
 
 run on! You were teaching me to be 
 happy, pursue the lesson. I have done. 
 
 J’ll tel! you then, my dear Lisaura : at 
 
310 
 
 DIALOGUE V. 
 
 ✓ 
 
 tend to me. Convinced by reason and 
 religion, that the evils of life are mere 
 phantoms, prepare yourself with resigna¬ 
 tion, to submit to them, with constancy 
 to support them. To lay in such a stock 
 of strength, you must call in the assistance 
 of many a leisure hour, of many a serious 
 thought, of many an earnest resolution. 
 By these means, all will grow clear in your 
 own mind: reflection will become your 
 best friend, and most agreeable companion, 
 and whatever destiny attends you, you 
 will aco^iiesce in it with pleasure. 
 
 But your misfortune is that of a splene¬ 
 tic constitution : a day’s slight disorder, 
 a heavier temperament of the air imme¬ 
 diately affects you so, as to alter, to your 
 fancy, the whole frame of nature. Fix 
 it well in your mind, that these gloomy 
 imaginations are deceitful. The bountiful 
 Creator was not mistaken, when pleased 
 Vvith his completed work, he declared that 
 “ all was good.” The scheme of Provi¬ 
 dence and nature is infinitely so ; and its 
 contemplation is an inexhaustible source of 
 
 5 
 
DIALOGUE V. 
 
 311 
 
 delight. Life has its gloomy scenes, but 
 to the good, they only prove an awful ex¬ 
 ercise of duty supported, all the while, by 
 the assurance of reward. Lite has its 
 cheerful moments too, which to the good* 
 no sorrow can embitter. Thus w T hilst 
 the pleasures of religion, of benevolence, 
 of friendship, of content, of gratitude, ot 
 every innocent gaiety, ot tree society, ol 
 lively mirth, of health, and all those infinite 
 objects of delight, which smiling nature 
 offers us; whilst these are real and sub¬ 
 stantial enjoyments, that ill, which we 
 might fear, from the deprivation of some 
 of them, and even of life itself, is proved 
 to be a mere imaginary terror. This, we 
 have numberless opportunities of knowing. 
 But, blinded by passion, or weakened by 
 constitution, we perpetually run into the 
 common mistake. We form, to ourselves, 
 such a false idea of human happiness, that 
 when we might behold, and be favoured 
 by the goddess herself, we fly from her in 
 a fright because she is not adorned just 
 with those trappings, in which our fancy 
 
1 dialogue v, 
 
 !md drest her out. Restless we still shift 
 fiom place to place, to find what we do not 
 know, when we see it: and restless we shall 
 eiei be, it tor a fit of the spleen, or an 
 unanswered wish, we imagine, that a just 
 degiee of happiness is not within every 
 body’s reach. My dear Lisaura, if you 
 have any sense of gratitude to that Provi¬ 
 dence, which formed you for happiness, 
 avoid this gloomy error. Let refined rea¬ 
 son fix your judgment, and then, let com- 
 raoi? sense direct your practice 6 
 
 \ 
 
OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 313 
 
 OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 ■» 
 
 Talking over idle vexations, only 
 
 make them worse. 
 
 Every day should be single, uncon¬ 
 nected with the rest, and so bear only the 
 weight of its own vexations *. 
 
 Never make a group of them, nor look 
 backwards or forwards on a series of dis¬ 
 agreeable days; but be always content to 
 make the best of the present. 
 
 Every day try to do what you can, and 
 try in earnest, and with spirit. Scorn to be 
 discouraged; and if one scheme fails, form 
 another, as fast as a spider does webs. But 
 never be anxious or uneasy: and if the day 
 be very unpropitious, and nothing will do, 
 even be contented, and easy, and cheer¬ 
 ful, as having done the best you could. 
 For, perpetually trying and aiming to do 
 
 * Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. 
 
 Matt, vi. 34. 
 
Si4 OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 proper things, keeps up the spirit of action 
 which is the important point, and preserves 
 you from the danger of falling into 
 heartless indolence, to the full as well as 
 it you really did them : and as for the par¬ 
 ticular things themselves, it is not a pin 
 matter. But always carry an easy smiling 
 look, and take nothing to heart. 
 
 There is scarcely any thing which a 
 sincere endeavour, directed, by the hearty 
 conviction of real duty, will not in time 
 accomplish : since an endeavour so direct¬ 
 ed will be accompanied by persevering 
 humble prayer: and to persevering prayer, 
 joined with sincere endeavours, success is 
 infallibly promised. 
 
 Considering life in its great and impor¬ 
 tant view as the probation for a passage 
 to eternity—and this is the just and true 
 way of considering it—>of what signifi¬ 
 cation is it, whether it be passed in town 
 or country: in hurry or in retirement: 
 in pomp or gaiety, or in quiet obscurity ? 
 Of none: any further than as these dif¬ 
 ferent situations hurt or improve the mind: 
 
OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 315 
 
 and in either of them a right mind may 
 preserve, or even improve itself. 
 
 What is then of consequence ? Why, 
 that wherever, or however life is past, it 
 should be reasonably and happily: now 
 to this nothing is necessary but a true prac¬ 
 tical sense of religion, an easy good hu¬ 
 mour, cheerful indifference to trifles ol all 
 kinds, whether agreeable or vexatious : and 
 keeping one’s selt above them all, suitably 
 to the true dignity of an immortal nature. 
 
 Now in a quiet private life one certain¬ 
 ly may be reasonable, religious, friendly, 
 good-humoured, and consequently happy. 
 
 In great life one may be thus good too, 
 and very useful besides, and consequently 
 very happy also. But this way of life is 
 more dangerous, and has too strong a ten¬ 
 dency to dissipate the mind, and deprave 
 the heart. 
 
 Upon the whole, every state of life is 
 equal. Providence orders all: and there¬ 
 fore in every one, those who cheerfully, 
 and resignedly accommodate themselves to 
 its orders, may, and must be happy. Why 
 
OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 316 
 
 then this vain care and anxiety, about 
 what it does not belong to us to look for¬ 
 ward to ? The good and evil, and the right 
 improvement of the present day, is what 
 it is our business to attend to. If we 
 make the best of that, we are sure all will, 
 and must go well. If we put ourselves by 
 vain distrust and useless, foresight, out of 
 a right temper to-day, every to-morrow 
 will be the worse for it. 
 
 We had need often perpetually to be re¬ 
 collecting what are our duties, and our 
 dangers, that we may fulfil the one, and 
 avoid the other : but never with anxious 
 or uneasy forecast. We must consider 
 the difficulties of the state of life we are 
 likely to be in, not because every other 
 state of life has not as many, for all are 
 pretty equal, but because those peculiarly 
 belong to us. 
 
 Dwelling much in our thoughts on other 
 people's unreasonableness, is a sort of re¬ 
 venge, that like all other revenge, hurts 
 ourselves more than them* However, to 
 talk over things sometimes a little rea- 
 
 9 
 
OCCASIONAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 317 
 
 son ably, and see how the truth stands, is a 
 very allowable indulgence : but it roust not 
 be allowed too often. 
 
 Trying to convince people in cases where 
 they are prejudiced, though ever so un¬ 
 reasonably, be it by temper, humour or 
 custom, is a vain and an idle attempt. One 
 should be satisfied if one can, quietly and 
 unperceived, over-rule those prejudices, 
 where it is necessary in practice; and not 
 aim at the poor triumph of showing them, 
 that they are in the wrong, which hurts, or 
 puts them out of humour. 
 
 It is mere cheating one's self to take 
 things easily and patiently at the time, 
 and then repine and complain in looking 
 back upon them. This is to enjoy all the 
 pride and self-applause of patience, and 
 all the indulgence of impatience 
 

PASTORAL I. 
 
 321 
 
 PASTORAL I. 
 
 Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of 
 
 a Shepherd's Life . 
 
 The sun was hid bj wintry clouds: 
 the wind blew sharp and cold : the flocks 
 were browzing on the heath, when Colin 
 and Thyrsis, two young Shepherds, who 
 kept them, sat down upon a bank beneath 
 the shelter of a holly bush, and fell into 
 much discourse. Methinks, said Thyrsis, 
 it is but a sad life, that we poor w r retches 
 lead, exposed at all times to the severities 
 of the weather: in Summer parched with 
 heat, and pinched , by frosts in Winter. 
 While other young people are diverting 
 themselves in the villages, we roam about 
 solitary here, on the wild common, and 
 have nothing to attend to, but our strag¬ 
 gling sheep. 
 
 Y 
 
PASTORAL jf, 
 
 ^ ** 
 
 And yet, answered Colin, as hard as oar 
 life is, yoa see how old A lemon loves it - y 
 who has fed his own flocks for fifty years, 
 and maintains that he is happier than a 
 king. 
 
 I am, replied Thy r sis, but newly come 
 into this country, and have little know¬ 
 ledge of the neighbouring Shepherds: but 
 1 should be glad to see one, who could con- 
 vmce me I was happy. 
 
 See then, said Colin, where Alemon 
 comes hither most opportunely. And 
 thereupon calling to the good old man* 
 father, cried he, here is a young Shepherd* 
 
 who wants vour instructions how to live 
 
 *>/ 
 
 contented. 
 
 Son, said the old man, sitting down by 
 them, I accept of that name, and of the 
 office you have given me; for I wish well 
 to all young people: and as I am happy 
 myself, I would fain have others so. 
 
 A hard task you will have father, inter¬ 
 rupted Thyrsis, to make people happy, 
 w ho have no one enjoyment of diversion in 
 life ; but must slave out Our day in the 
 
r 
 
 PASTORAL r, 30 $ 
 
 service of their masters, who divert them¬ 
 selves the while, and live at ease. 
 
 Good Thyrsis, said Colin, listen but 
 to Alcmon, and you will be convinced, as 
 I have been. 
 
 Nay rather, said Alcmon, let him make 
 his complaint to me : do yon answer him 
 from your own experience, and which ever 
 of you best defends his own cause, shall 
 come and sup with me at night; There 
 we will enjoy ourselves in honest mirth by 
 a warm fire, and forget all the toils of the 
 day. Thyrsis agreed to the proposal and 
 began. 
 
 Thyrsis . Alas how gloomy are the skies! 
 How hollow is the whistling of the wind 
 in December! Are these the scenes to 
 entertain a youthful fancy ? The trees are 
 strip!* of all their leaves : the very grass is 
 of a russet brown. The birds sit silent 
 and shivering on the branches. All things 
 have an air ot poverty and desolation. 
 Alas how tasteless is the shepherd's life ! 
 His meals are short, and his sleep soon 
 interrupted. He rises many hours before 
 
 ST 2 
 
324 
 
 PASTORAL T. 
 
 the cheerful day begins to dawn; and 
 does not return home, till the cold night 
 is far advanced. 
 
 Colin . But then how delightful is the 
 early spring ! How reviving the advances 
 of summer ! The sky grows clear, or is 
 only overspread with thin, white, curdling 
 clouds. Soft showers descend upon the 
 withered grass, and every meadow seems 
 to laugh. The gay flowers spring up in 
 every field, and adorn it with beautiful 
 colours. The lambkins frisk around us, 
 and divert us with their innocent gaieties. 
 The shepherds life is as innocent as theirs. 
 If his meals are plain, they are hearty: if 
 his sleep is short, it is both sound and 
 sweet. He rises refreshed in the morn¬ 
 ing, and sees the day come on by gradual 
 advances, till the whole east is streaked 
 with purple clouds. When night succeeds, 
 he beholds the immense vault of heaven: 
 he admires the lustre of the stars, and in 
 vain tries to reckon their number. While 
 they glitter over his head, he has no 
 cause to fear any ill influences from them, 
 
PASTORAL I. 
 
 325 
 
 since his whole life is harmless and indus¬ 
 trious, and renders him the care of Pro¬ 
 vidence. 
 
 Thy rsis. O with what envy do we see 
 the young hunters hastening by us in pur¬ 
 suit of their youthful prey ! While we are 
 confined, as it were, to one spot, they mea¬ 
 sure with swift steps the whole fair country 
 round; and the speed of the horses seems 
 equal to that of the winds. The hills echo 
 to the enlivening sound of their horns, and 
 the cheerful cry of their dogs. The timo¬ 
 rous hares scud away before them: they 
 feel not the coldness of the air: and when 
 they return home, they have all things in 
 plenty. We have the same dispositions, 
 for mirth and entertainment with them 
 —Why, why should there be this dif¬ 
 ference between one man's station, and 
 another’s P 
 
 Colin . Why rather, O Thy rsis, O mis¬ 
 judging Thyrsis, do you envy them a 
 pleasure, they so dearly buy ? Not long 
 ago, I was tending my flock, upon the 
 brow of the hill. These hunters passed 
 
326 
 
 PASTORAL I. 
 
 by me in great mirth, and high gaiety. 
 Amongst them was a very handsome 
 youth, the only son of a fond mother. He 
 guided an unmanageable horse, and guided 
 it without discretion. Just upon the edge 
 of a precipice, the unruly creature took 
 fright.—I saw the youth brought back, 
 lifeless, pale and disfigured. The great 
 possessions to which he was born, were no 
 longer of any avail to him : while I, poor 
 humble shepherd, salute the rising sun, 
 and enjoy life and health. 
 
 Thy nis. Those accidents, timorous Co¬ 
 lin, do not happen every day. But at least 
 I may envy those idlers, whom I see, in 
 perfect safety, diverting themselves upon 
 the common. They have no severe master 
 to give an account to, for their time: they 
 are well clothed and better fed. 
 
 Aleman. O Thyrsis, they have a master, 
 to whom they are accountable, superior to 
 those sort of masters you mean. A master 
 that looks upon us with as favourable an 
 eye, as he does upon them, A master, 
 
 to whom the greatest king upon his throne, 
 
 i 
 
PASTORAL i. 
 
 is but an upper servant, and has a heavier 
 
 task, because he is able to do more than 
 you and I. Those idlers, whom you en¬ 
 vy, are perhaps not so happy, as you fancy 
 them to be. 
 
 Colin . I saw Clorinda cross some mea¬ 
 
 dows, the other day, with an air that ex¬ 
 pressed little happiness. There were a 
 large company of them together: all 
 people of prosperous fortunes, all idle, and 
 at ease. The young nymph went a good 
 way before all her companions: her gar¬ 
 ments glittered in the sun, with silk and 
 gold. She seemed to shun conversation: 
 her eyes were fixed upon the ground: her 
 look was pale and melancholy, and, every 
 now and then, she would sigh, as it her 
 
 heart was breaking. 
 
 Thyrsis . Clorinda’s melancholy is easily 
 understood. Urania and she were once 
 inseparable companions: that favourite 
 friend of her's isjately dead: I heard Da- 
 metas tell the unhappy story. But Clo- 
 rinda has a thousand consolations. It one 
 of us loses Jiis friend or brother, he loses 
 
328 
 
 PASTORAL I. 
 
 his all. We have nothing else that for¬ 
 tune can deprive us of. 
 
 Alcr&on. Thyrsis, I like your ingenuity: 
 you show some skill in defending a bad 
 cause Colin and you shall both come 
 home with me. When it is no longer a 
 matter of dispute, I hope you will come 
 over to the happier opinion. Believe me, 
 shepherd, we, of low condition, are free 
 from a multitude of unknown evils, than 
 afflict the rich and great, and are more 
 terrible to them than storms and tem¬ 
 pests are to us; more grievous than la¬ 
 bour, and honest and industrious po¬ 
 verty, 
 
 * Perhaps it may even be thought more skill than 
 his opponent. The defence in this dialogue seems un¬ 
 usually feeble, and the writer’s arguments much less 
 conclusive than they generally are. It is to be hoped 
 
 that much more might have been said on that side of 
 
 the question. 
 
PASTORAL II, 
 
 PASTORAL II. 
 
 On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty , 
 
 Phillis and Damaris were two 
 
 country lasses, the pride of the village 
 where they lived : both handsome to per¬ 
 fection, but exceedingly different. The 
 unaffected Damaris had no attention but 
 to assist the infirmities of an aged parent, 
 whom severe illness confined to his cottage, 
 while she tended his flock, by the wood- 
 side. Her hands were generally employed 
 in some useful work: and while she knit, 
 or spun to procure her old father a more 
 tolerable subsistence, the cheerfulness of 
 her songs exprest a contented heart. Her 
 dress, though very poor, was always neat 
 and clean: she studied no ornament in it, 
 and if the neighbours commended her 
 person, she lent them very little attention. 
 
 8 
 
330 
 
 PASTORAL II. 
 
 Phillis had been bred up under a care¬ 
 less mother. She was exceedingly pretty, 
 and knew it mighty well. On holidays 
 nobody so spruce as she. Her hat was 
 wreathed with flowers or ribbands: every 
 fountain was consulted for her dress, land 
 every meadow ransacked to adorn it. 
 From morning till night she was dancing, 
 and sporting on the green: all the $hep-> 
 herds courted and admired her, and she 
 believed every word they said. Yet she 
 felt many a discontent. Sometimes her 
 garland would be less becoming than she 
 wished it: sometimes she would fancy that 
 a favourite shepherd slighted her: or that 
 a new r er face was more admired than her's. 
 Every day was spent in the pursuit of , 
 gaiety: and every day brought with it 
 some disquiet She was one morning 
 sitting very pensive under a poplar, tying 
 up a nosegay, when she heard Damaris, 
 who was concealed from her, only by the 
 shade of some bushes, singing, with a 
 merry heart, a song in praise of industry. j 
 Phillis could not help interrupting her in 
 
PASTORAL II. 
 
 331 
 
 the midst of it: and when she went 
 towards her, found her busy in plying the 
 distaff, which was fixed in her side: when' 
 thus the gay maid began. 
 
 Phillis. How is it possible, Damaris, 
 that you should be always so merry in 
 leading a life of such drudgery? What 
 charms can you find in it? How much 
 better would it become your years to be 
 dancing at the may-pole, where some rich 
 farmer's son might probably fall in love 
 with you ? 
 
 Damaris . Ah Phillis, I prefer this way 
 of life, because I see you very unhappy in 
 your's. For my own part I have never a 
 moment's uneasiness. I am sensible, I 
 am doing what I ought. I see myself 
 the comfort of a good old father, who sup¬ 
 ported my helpless infancy, and now wants 
 this return of duty iq his decrepid age. 
 When I have pinned the fold at night, I 
 feturn home, and cheer him with my sight. 
 
 I dress his little supper, and partake it 
 with m° re pleasure, than you have at a 
 feast. He in the mean time tells me 
 
PASTORAL IT. 
 
 stories of his younger days, and instructs 
 me by his experience. Sometimes he 
 teaches me a song like that I was singing 
 just now; and on holidays, I read to him 
 out of some good book. This, Phillis, is 
 my life. I have no great expectations, 
 but every cheerful hope, that can make 
 the heart light and easy. 
 
 Phillis . Well Damaris: I shall not dis¬ 
 pute your taste. My father is well enough, 
 by his own labour, to provide for his 
 family : and my mother never set us the 
 example of working. "Tis true we are 
 poor: but who knows what good fortune 
 may throw in our way ? Youth is the time 
 for mirth, and pleasure: and I do not care 
 how hardly I fare, provided I can get a 
 silken lining to my hat, and be the Lady 
 ' of the May next year. 
 
 Damaris. O Phillis, this is very pretty 
 for the present: but in what will it end ? 
 Do you think that smoothness of face will 
 always last? Yon decrepid old woman, 
 that limps upon her crutches, was once, 
 they say, as handsome as you. Her youth 
 
PASTORAL II. 
 
 333 
 
 * * 
 
 passed without engaging any body in a 
 real affection to her: yet her good name 
 was lost, among the follies she engaged in* 
 Poverty and age came on together: she 
 has long been a burden to the village, and 
 herself. If any neighbour's cow is ill, all 
 suspicions of witchcraft fall upon her. She 
 can do nothing to maintain herself: and 
 every body grudges her what she has. 
 
 Phillis. Ill-natured Damaris, to compare 
 me with a hag, that all the country abhors* 
 I wish you would come to the pastimes: 
 they would put you in a better humour. 
 Besides you would there hear what the 
 shepherds say to this Phillis, whom you 
 are pleased to despise so. 
 
 Damaris . I do not despise you Phillis: 
 but I wish you well, and would fain see 
 you as happy as myself. That fine green 
 stuff, your gown is made of, would become 
 you much better if it was of your own 
 spinning.—But I talk like an old man's 
 daughter, and am little heeded. Go 
 pretty butterfly, and rejoice in the Summer 
 of thy days: let me, like the homely but 
 
334 
 
 PASTORAL It. 
 
 industrious ant, lay up some provision for 
 the Winter 
 
 * The writer may be judged from this interesting 
 dialogue to have understood the comforts arising from 
 the performance of duty in her own sex, better than 
 she did those of the other. 
 
J?ASTORAI, III. 
 
 
 PASTORAL III, 
 
 The Happiness of religious Hope. 
 
 IMAGINE, honest friends, that instead 
 of a little book, lam a good humoured 
 neighbour, come to spend an hour with 
 you in cheerful chat. Do not look upon 
 hig as onG that is come to read you grave 
 lectuies ot religion and good behaviour# 
 but give me the welcome of an agreeable 
 
 o 
 
 companion. Is it in a summer’s holiday* 
 you take me up ? Come, let us go out into 
 the fields, sit down under some shady tree, 
 and while the sun shines, and the birds 
 sing round us, let us talk over all we have 
 to say. Or is it a winters evening? 
 Draw your seats about the chimney ; 
 throw on another faggot, make a cheerful 
 blaze, and let us be comfortable. What 
 is it, to us here, it the wind blows and the 
 
336 
 
 PASTORAL rrr. 
 
 rain beats abroad ? Since we cannot Work* 
 let us divert ourselves, but let us divert 
 ourselves in a harmless reasonable way* 
 that we may turn this idle time to as good 
 account as the busiest. 
 
 Come: what shall we talk of? Of hap- 
 piness ? there cannot be a pleasanter sub¬ 
 ject. Where is it to be had, this hap¬ 
 piness, and how shall we come by it. ? 
 
 Where is it to be had ? Why, every 
 where, so we can but command our 
 thoughts, and do our duty : serve God 
 cheerfully, and make the best of our 
 lot. 
 
 It may be, good neighbour, you are 
 old, lame, sickly, have a large family, and 
 little to maintain them. Alas, poor neigh¬ 
 bour ! yet still it is ten to one you may 
 be happier than many a nobleman, and 
 many a prince. I suppose you honest 
 and religious. Why then the better half 
 is secure: your mind is easy. You have 
 no load upon your conscience, and no 
 need to be afraid even of death. But 
 cannot your condition be, any way. 
 
PASTORAL nr 
 
 337 
 
 friended ? Content is a s;ood thins;: vet 
 
 O O tj 
 
 Success in honest endeavours is a better. 
 There is no need of setting sadly down, 
 and acquiescing in a miserable lot, till, 
 upon mature consideration* we find it to 
 be really the will of Providence that we 
 should : and then, let me tell you, dear 
 friend, God’s will is kinder to us than our 
 own wishes. When we submit patiently 
 to sorrows and hardships, not out of lazi¬ 
 ness, nor out of despair, nor not of thought¬ 
 less helplessness, we then trust our souls to 
 him, in well doing;. We act a commend* 
 able part, which our great master will ap* 
 prove : and we may have a cheerful con¬ 
 fidence in his mercy, that all things shall 
 Work together for our good. Come: 
 pluck up your spirits my friend, and let 
 us see whether the part that falls to you 
 is to mend your condition or to bear it. 
 
 First you are old.—Well, that is a fault 
 that time will not mend indeed—but eter¬ 
 nity will mend it, honest friend. The pe¬ 
 riod will come when ycur youth shall fie 
 renewed : when you shall be young, and 
 
 7 
 
PASTORAL IIT. 
 
 lusty as an eagle, and these grey hairs and 
 wrinkles shall he succeeded by immortal 
 bloom. In the mean time, so much of 
 your life is well over: you are got so far 
 on your journey, through this vale of tears. 
 You can reflect with pleasure on a great 
 many good actions, and pious dispositions: 
 and it peculiarly becomes old age to medi¬ 
 tate much upon those subjects, which are 
 .of all others the most noble and delight¬ 
 ful. Heaven is the object that should be 
 always in their view. What a prospect is 
 that ! What, think, you, should be the joy 
 of a sea-faring man, when, after a long, 
 stormy voyage, he is come within sight of 
 the port? Suppose a young man had an 
 estate left to him, which he had never 
 seen. Suppose he had been travelling a 
 thousand miles to come to it: that lie had 
 met with perpetual bad weather, by the 
 way, and dirty roads : that he was faint, 
 and well nigh wearied out: and that just 
 when he comes to the brow of a dry, 
 sandy hill, bleak and unpleasant in itself, 
 but from whence the prospect first opened 
 
PASTORAL III. 
 
 339 
 
 Upon him, of that fair place, he is going 
 to enjoy. Suppose he sees the tufted 
 Moods crowned with the brightest verdure : 
 suppose he sees, among them, glittering 
 spires, and domes, and gilded columns ; 
 and knows that all these shall be his own. 
 With what pleasure will he survey the 
 gentle winding rivulets gliding through 
 fertile meadows: the borders gay with 
 flowers of every kind : the parks and 
 forests filled with all sorts of excellent 
 fruits: the castles, and pleasure-houses, 
 which he knows to be rich with magnificent 
 furniture : and what is above all, where 
 he knows that his best and most beloved 
 friends, and a delightful society, whom he 
 longs to be amongst, are waiting wdth kind 
 impatience to receive him: think you, that 
 he will have leisure to attend to the little 
 inconveniences of the present moment ? 
 Will not his thoughts fly forward, faster 
 than his legs can carry him, to this blessed 
 inheritance P Yet how poor are such riches, 
 and pleasures, compared with the certain 
 
 z 2 
 
340 
 
 PASTORAL III. 
 
 expectations of the poorest old man, that is 
 pious and virtuous f. 
 
 # Surely that critick must be very fastidious, who*- 
 after reading this excellent and useful monologue, 
 should make no other observation upon it, but that the 
 reasoning in it will apply equally well to every other 
 situation of life, as to that in which the scene is laid. 
 
311 
 
 A FAIRY TALE, 
 
 A FAIRY TALE 
 
 Education. 
 
 number of boys were diverting them¬ 
 selves one fine day in a meadow, when 
 a wrinkled old woman came up to them, 
 and stopt their play. Her looks were un- 
 pleasing, and her interruption unseason¬ 
 able. One of the biggest, who had 
 been taught by his tutor to respect her, 
 addrest her very civilly : but of the little 
 urchins some ran away frighted, and hid 
 themselves: and others very insolently 
 laughed at her, and called her old witch. 
 Little George, the youngest of them all, a 
 very pretty, good humoured lad, held by 
 the hand of the eldest, (who, he thought, 
 as he had always been his friend, would 
 protect him) and listened : but a little 
 afraid too, and not much liking either hei 
 
342 a FAIRY TALE. 
 
 looks, or the being hindered of his play : 
 however, he was too well bred to say any 
 thing rude. She smiled, and taking his 
 other hand, do not be afraid of me, my 
 dear child, said she, for though those idle 
 boys yonder call me Crossness, and Severity, 
 my true name is Instruction . I love every 
 one of you: and you, my little dear, in 
 particular; and my whole business is to 
 do you good. Come with me to my 
 castle, and I will make you as happy as 
 (he day is long. 
 
 Little George did not know how to 
 trust her, but as he saw his friend Henry 
 disposed to follow the old lady, he even 
 ventured along with them. 
 
 The castle was an old melancholy look¬ 
 ing building, and the path to it very much 
 entangled with briars and thistles: but 
 the old woman encouraged them in a 
 cheerful tone to come along : and taking 
 out a large key, which had several strange 
 words engraved upon it, she put it into 
 the door, which immediately flew open, 
 and they entered a spacious hall mag* 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 34 3 
 
 nificently furnished. Through this they 
 passed into several apartments, each tiner 
 and pleasanter than the other: but to 
 every one they ascended by steep steps, 
 and on every step, strange and unknown 
 
 words were engraved. 
 
 Perhaps you would be glad to know 
 some more particulars of these apartments? 
 and indeed I should have told you, that 
 as soon as they entered the great hall, 
 she made them sit down to a pretty colla¬ 
 tion of plumb-cakes, biscuits and sweet¬ 
 meats, which were brought in baskets 
 covered with flowers, by tour smiling, rosy 
 cheeked girls, called Innocence , Health , 
 Mirth , and Good-Humour. W hen they 
 were sufficiently refreshed, the old lady 
 returned to them, in a finer dress, and 
 with a much more pleasing look. She 
 had now a wand in her hand, of ivory, 
 tipped with gold, and with this she pointed 
 out to them the ornaments of the room. 
 It was supported by strong, but handsome 
 pillars of adamant: and between the pil¬ 
 lars, hung festoons of fruit and flowers. 
 
 9 
 
344 
 
 A FAIRY TALE,. 
 
 At the upper end, were niches, with very 
 beautiful statues in them. The principal 
 one was Truth . It appeared to be of one 
 entire diamond, and represented the most 
 beautiful woman, that ever eves beheld. 
 He r air was full ot dignity and sweetness: 
 in one hand she held a scepter, in the 
 other a book, and she had an imperial 
 crown on her head. The old fairy gently 
 touched this figure with her wand, and 
 immediately it stepped down from the 
 pedestal, and began to speak. No music 
 was ever so pleasing as the voice of Truth. 
 She addrest herself to our little hero, and 
 examined him in his Catechism. As he 
 had formerly been a little idle, he could 
 not say it so well, as, at that minute, he 
 wished to do.—Little wretch, said the old 
 fairy frowning, why do you answer so 
 stupidly? Have you never been taught? 
 Here was loop-hole through which a 
 boy of a cowardly spirit, might have crept 
 out, by pretending, that his tutor had 
 been in fault, and not himself. But little 
 George scorned to tell a lye : nor could 
 
A FAIRT TALE. 
 
 345 
 
 he be so base as to excuse himself, by 
 accusing an innocent person. Therefore, 
 though trembling for fear of the old fairy, 
 and her wand, he answered, indeed, ma¬ 
 dam, I have been often bid to learn it, 
 but I loved my diversions so well, that I 
 
 never could apply to it.-Here the old 
 
 fairy, smiling, kissed him, and said, my 
 dear child, I forgive your past idleness, in 
 favour of your noble honesty. A fault 
 honestly owned is half amended, and this 
 nymph shall reward you. 
 
 Immediately Truth gave him a little 
 Catechism bound in silver enamelled, a 
 pocket Bible with ruby clasps, and a small 
 looking-glass in a gold case. In these 
 books, my dear, said she, you shall find 
 constant directions from me, which, if you 
 follow, will make you good, and great, and 
 happy. It you never offend against me, 
 I will be ready to assist you in all diffi¬ 
 culties. ]f ever you should be tempted to 
 offend me, look m this glass. If you see 
 yourself in it your own natural figure, go 
 on contentedly, and be sure you are under 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 346 
 
 my protectection. But if you see yourself 
 in the form of a slave, and a monster, 
 greasy, ragged, loaded with chains : a 
 double tongue hanging out of your mouth, 
 and a pair of ass's ears on your head, 
 tremble to think, that you are got into 
 the power of the wicked enchanter False¬ 
 hood. Retract the lye you have told : 
 stand still wherever you are: call out 
 aloud for my assistance : and do not stir 
 from the spot you are in, till I come to 
 help you. So saying, the bright form re¬ 
 ascended her pedestal: and tour others, 
 who stood on each hand, being touched 
 by the fairy wand, moved towards him. 
 
 The first was a young woman clothed 
 in a long white robe, perfectly neat and 
 plain. She had fine flaxen hair, and blue 
 eyes, which were fixed on the ground. A 
 white veil shaded her face : and her co¬ 
 lour went and came every minute. She 
 advanced with a slow pace, and spoke in 
 a voice very low r , but as sweet as the 
 nightingale's. 
 
 My name, said she, is Modesty . I have 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 347 
 
 no merit, but perhaps as you are so young, 
 it may be in my power to be of some 
 little use to you. Before you get to the 
 top of this castle, you will see many strange 
 things, and be bid to do many things, 
 of which you do not understand the rea¬ 
 son. But remember, that you are very 
 young, and know nothing: and that every 
 body here is wiser than you. Therefore 
 observe attentively all that you see; and 
 do readily all that you are bid. As you 
 have recommended yourself to Truth , we 
 her handmaids are ready to give you all 
 the assistance we can ; and you will need 
 it all. 
 
 Above all things fear Disgrace . It is a 
 filthy puddle in the neighbourhood of this 
 castle, whose stains are not easily wiped 
 off. Those, who run heedlessly, or wilfully 
 into it, after repeated warnings, grow in 
 time so loathsome, that no body can 
 endure them. 
 
 There is an enchantress, you will meet 
 with, called Flattery , who will offer you a 
 very pleasant cup. If you drink much of 
 
34 S 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 it your head will turn : and while you 
 fancy yourself a most accomplished person, 
 she will touch you with her wicked wand, 
 and immediately you will be metamorphosed 
 into a butterfly, a squib, or a paper-kite. 
 But as, perhaps, you must taste her cup, 
 take this nosegay of violets: and as you 
 find your head a little giddy smell to it, 
 and you will be so refreshed, that she will 
 have no power to hurt you. This little nose¬ 
 gay will defend you also against the magi* 
 cian Pride , who in a thousand shapes will 
 try to introduce himself to you,, and per¬ 
 suade you to go with him to a high rock, 
 from whence, he will either throw you 
 down some frightful precipices, into the 
 pool of Disgrace , or else change you into 
 a lion, or a tyger, or a bear, or into such 
 a huge dropsical figure, that every body 
 shall hate to look upon you : and that you 
 shall not be able to pass through the gates 
 that lead to Happiness . When you sus¬ 
 pect his coming smell to your voilets, and 
 you will immediately see through his dis¬ 
 guise, and at the same time, they shall 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 349 
 
 make you so little, he shall not see you : 
 and when you are in a crowd, smell to 
 them again, and you shall pass through it 
 without difficulty. I wish I had a better 
 gift to bestow ; but accept of my all. 
 
 Little George thanked her kindly, and 
 stuck the nosegay in his bosom. 
 
 On the pedestal of the next figure, was 
 inscribed Natural Affection . Her counte¬ 
 nance was sweet and engaging : her gar¬ 
 ment embroidered with storks, doves, and 
 various pretty animals. She had brace¬ 
 lets on her arms, and fine rings on every 
 Unger: every one was the gift of some 
 beloved friend or relation. My dear 
 George, said she, I love you for the sake 
 of your parents. I have a thousand pretty 
 gifts to bestow, and this particularly will 
 be ot use to you. She then gave him a 
 small enamelled box, with pictures on 
 every side. When, said she, you arc in 
 doubt how to behave, look upon the 
 pictures. They are those of your parents, 
 relations, and friends: being gifted by a 
 fairy, you will see every figure in motion: 
 
350 
 
 A FAIRY TALE® 
 
 and as your papa and mamma, your bro¬ 
 thers and sisters seem affected by your be¬ 
 haviour, you will judge whether you are 
 acting right or wrong. I am sure it is 
 your desire always to give them pleasure, 
 and not pain, to be an honour to them, 
 and not a reproach. 
 
 The next image that spoke was entirely 
 made of sugar, but a sugar as firm, and 
 almost as clear as chrystal. Her name 
 was Good Temper. In her bosom, she had 
 a nosegay of roses without thorns. She 
 took our little friend by the hand, and 
 seeing it scratched from a scuffle he had 
 with his companions, she healed it with a 
 touch; and gave him a small amethyst 
 phial filled with honey and oil of a pe¬ 
 culiar kind. Touch your lips with this 
 julep, said she, every morning. Though 
 the phial is small, it is inexhaustible, and you 
 will never more be liable to harm, from 
 any idle quarrel; as you will never say any 
 thing peevish, or provoking, all your com¬ 
 panions wall love you : and your servants 
 will think it a blessing to live with you. 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Sol 
 
 One figure more remained, and the 
 fairy had no sooner touched it, but down 
 from her pedestal jumped sprightly Dili¬ 
 gence. She was drest like a huntress. Ac¬ 
 tivity and mmhleness appeared in every 
 limb. She sprung to George, clapped her 
 hands on his shoulders, and immediately 
 there appeared a couple of little wings. 
 These wings, said she, will be of great use 
 to you in ascending the steep steps you 
 will have to go up, by and by. But all 
 wings need frequent pluming: and these 
 will lose all their virtue, if you do not 
 keep them in order every day, by using 
 the talisman, I am going next to give vou. 
 This talisman was a golden spur. This, 
 said she, whenever your wings are droop¬ 
 ing, (as they will very often, when the old 
 witch Laziness approaches, who would 
 metamorphose you into a dormouse) you 
 must run gently into your side, and they 
 will be ready immediately to carry you 
 out of her reach. I am sure, you have 
 too much true courage to fear a little 
 trifling pain, when it will be the means of 
 
353 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 gaining you every improvement. Good 
 night, good night, my love, I see you are' 
 sleepy, but as soon as you wake in the 
 morning, be sure to make use ol your 
 spur. 
 
 The good old fairy then led Henry and 
 George into a little neat room, where they 
 went to bed and slept to day-break, dream¬ 
 ing of all the agreeable things they had 
 seen and heard. George did not wake,’ 
 till Henry was already up and drest: but 
 he waked disturbed, and began to tell his 
 friend his dreams. I thought, said he, 
 that looking out of the window, I saw all 
 my companions at play, and flew out to 
 them directly, to show them those fine 
 things, that the statues had given me. 
 I nstead of admiring me, they fell upon me: 
 ©ne seized one fine tiling, and another, 
 another; till poor I had nothing left but 
 my wings. What vexed me too, in the 
 scuffle my violets were scattered, the books 
 torn, the pictures spoilt, the glass broke* 
 and the julep spilt. So that they were 
 the better, though 1 was so much 
 8 
 
 never 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 353 
 
 the worse. Well, I took to my wings how r ~ 
 ever, and thought I might as easily fly in, 
 as out, and then the good Fairy would give 
 me more pretty things. But no such 
 matter: the windows were shut, the doors 
 were barred and bolted. Owls and bats 
 flew about my head : geese hissed at me, 
 asses brayed at me, monkies chattered in 
 my ears, and I fell down nobody knows 
 whither. 
 
 Be thankful, said Henry, that it was 
 only a dream ; here are all your pretty 
 things safe; and so saying he gently 
 touched his side, like a true friend, with 
 the spur, and up jumped little George all 
 alive and merry. He read in his books : 
 He with pleasure saw his own honest face 
 in the Glass of Truth : He observed with 
 delight, the pictures of his friends and re¬ 
 lations all smiling upon him. While ; he 
 was thus employed, in stept a sober-looking 
 man, leaning on a staff. My young friends, 
 said he, I am sent to conduct you through 
 the noble apartments of this Castle. A 
 fine conductor indeed, said little George, 
 
 a a 
 
354 A FAIRY TALK. 
 
 who had unfortunately forgot both h» 
 violets, and his phial, your crutch, honest 
 man, will keep up rarely with my wings. 
 Your wings, youngster, replied Application 
 (for that was his name) will be of little 
 service, unless I lend you a staff to rest 
 upon, which wherever you set it down, 
 will make your footing sure. This speech 
 was unheeded by little George, w'ho a.- 
 ready upon the wing, fluttered away. 
 Henry soon overtook him, having quite 
 as good pinions, though he did not boast 
 of them, but stayed first to bring with him 
 the staff, the phial, and the nosegay, 
 against his friend should need them. Lit¬ 
 tle George was now trying to mount up a 
 steep stair-case, which he saw multitudes 
 Of his own age ascending. Very eagerly 
 he stretched his wings, whose painted 
 plumage glittered in the sun-beams, and 
 very otten just reached the top. but he 
 was greatly' surprised to find that he al- 
 way's slid back again, as it he had stood 
 upon a slope of ice, so that hundreds and 
 hundreds had got through the folding 
 
A FAIRY TALE* 
 
 doors above, while he was still but at the 
 bottom. He cried for vexation: gave 
 hard names to the boys that got before 
 him, and was laughed at by them in return. 
 The box of pictures gave him no comfort, 
 for there he saw his father frowning and 
 his mother looking unhappy. At • this 
 minute, friendly Henry came to his relief, 
 and giving him the violets, the phial, and 
 the staff, make use of these, said he, and 
 you will easily get up with them, who are 
 now before you. Observe, that they have 
 every one of them, just such a staff, and 
 that, notwithstanding their wings, they 
 can rise but one step at a time. George, 
 who had now touched his lips with the 
 phial, thanked him very kindly, and they 
 mounted several steps, hand in hand. On 
 some were inscribed. Propria qnce Maribus: 
 on others As in Prcesenti , and various 
 other magic verses, which, they just rested 
 long enough on every step to read, and as 
 they ascended, the steps grew easier and 
 easier. George however was a little out of 
 breath, and more than once wished him- 
 
 a a 2 
 
S56 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 self out of the Castle. Yet he was de¬ 
 lighted to find himself almost overtaking 
 the foremost, who had, some of them 
 loitered by the way. 
 
 And now he entered into an apartment, 
 more magnificent than any he had ever 
 seem Thousands of rooms opened, one 
 
 i 
 
 beyond another, furnished with all the ele¬ 
 gance of taste. From every one of these 
 were delightful prospects : but then for a 
 long while, he had not leisure to attend to 
 the strange varieties of rich and uncommon 
 furniture, exciting his curiosity every mi¬ 
 nute. One long gallery was hung with 
 paintings, so exquisitely fine, that every 
 figure seemed alive : and some of them ac¬ 
 tually spoke, and amused him with a thou¬ 
 sand agreeable stories. Here he saw all 
 the metamorphoses of the Heathen Gods, 
 
 the adventures of iErieas, and a number 
 
 « 
 
 of other things that I have not time to de¬ 
 scribe. A young damsel attended him 
 drest in a gown made of feathers, more 
 gay than the rainbow. She had wings 
 upon her head : she gave him the most 
 
A FA Illy TALE. 
 
 257 
 
 delicious sweet-meats, and he drank out 
 of a sparkling cup, the pleasantest liquor 
 imaginable. This light dish did not quite 
 satisfy a hungry stomach : so that George 
 was not very sorry when, past through the 
 gallery of Fiction , his fair conductress Poe- 
 try consigned him over to the care of a 
 good hospitable old man, in the next apart¬ 
 ment, whose table v ? as already covered 
 with wholesome and substantial food. 
 This apartment, called the Saloon of 
 History , was by no means so gay as the 
 former: but deserved examination better. 
 The walls were covered with marble, 
 adorned with . the finest basso relievos, 
 statues and bustos, of every celebrated hero 
 and legislator, struck the observing eye 
 with veneration. The master of the feast 
 was extremely good-natured, and commu¬ 
 nicative : and ready to answer every ques¬ 
 tion, that George's curiosity prompted him 
 to ask. He commended him for his love 
 of Truth, and toasted her health, as his ow r n 
 patroness. But, as the old gentleman was, 
 sometimes, a little prolix in his stories, our 
 
358 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 young traveller amused himself, every now 
 and then with looking over his treasures. 
 Surveying the box of pictures, he could not 
 help wishing for a nearer sight of the 
 friends they represented. A window, that 
 stood open just by him, and overlooked a 
 delightful play-field, reminded him of his 
 wings. But the recollection of his fright¬ 
 ful d ream, prevented him from attempting 
 an escape. 
 
 At this minute, the Fairy Instruction ap¬ 
 peared, with a smiling look. I know your 
 thoughts, my dear, said she, and am will¬ 
 ing to allow you every reasonable indul¬ 
 gence. I have, in my service, a number 
 of little winged beings, whose business it 
 is to convey my young friends, from time 
 to time, to their beloved homes. In or¬ 
 der to your returning safely, accept this 
 key. You must be sure to rub it every 
 morning, that it may not grow rusty, else 
 the characters, thatareengraved upon it, will 
 disappear, if your key is kept bright, you 
 need only read the inscription aloud, and, 
 without difficulty you will return to this 
 
A FAIRY TALE* 
 
 359 
 
 very apartment, and be intituled to an 
 honourable reception. But if the key 
 should grow rusty, beware of a disgraceful 
 fall. Let your dream warn you to take 
 care of your precious gifts, and to make a 
 due use of them. 
 
 She had scarcely done speaking, before 
 there was a general voice of joy heard 
 through the whole apartment, “ the ho- 
 “ lidays are come, the holidays are come 
 and immediately a number of little cheru- 
 bims appeared in the air, crowned with 
 garlands, and away with them flew little 
 George : but unluckily in his haste, left, 
 both the staff, and the spur behind him. 
 Indeed at this minute they were need¬ 
 less. 
 
 H is friends were all ready to receive him 
 with affectionate joy. They commended his 
 improvements, and listened with delight, 
 to his account of the surprising things he 
 had seen : and rejoiced in the marks of fa¬ 
 vour he had received from excellent and 
 powerful Fairies. He played about all day 
 with his companions, and every thing was 
 
360 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 thought of, that could best divert him. In 
 the midst of these amusements, the poor 
 hey was in a few days forgot: nor did he 
 recollect it, till one day he saw Henry sit¬ 
 ting under a tree, and very diligently 
 brightening up his own. Stupid boy, said 
 giddy George, what do you sit moping 
 there for ? Come and play. So I will pre¬ 
 sently, said Henry : but I must not neglect 
 the means of returning honourably to the 
 good I airy. Hang the old Fairy, cried 
 George : besides, my key will keep bright 
 enough, I warrant it, without all this ado. 
 However, looking at the key, he found it 
 brown with rust: and sadly his arm ached 
 with the vain endeavour of rubbing it 
 bright; for as he could not succeed in five 
 minutes, down he flung it in despair. 
 
 What do you cry for, my pretty mas¬ 
 ter ? said a man in a fine coat, who was 
 passing by. George told him his distress. 
 Be comforted said the man, I will give 
 you a gold key set with emeralds, that shall 
 be better by half, and fitter for a young 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 361 
 
 gentleman of your rank, than that old 
 woman's rusty iron. 
 
 Just then, George, who did not want 
 cleverness, began to suspect something: 
 and smelling to his violets, the fine man 
 appeared in his true shape, which was, in¬ 
 deed, no other than that of the magician 
 
 o 
 
 Pride. He was immoderately tall and 
 bloated : his eyes were fierce and malig¬ 
 nant : his cheeks were painted, a peacock 
 sat upon his head, a bear and a leopard 
 followed him. In one hand he held an 
 empty bladder, and in the other a fatal 
 wand. IIis under vest was stained and 
 ragged; but over it he had apompous herald’s 
 coat, with a long train supported by an 
 ugly dwarf, and a limping idiot, whom 
 he turned back continually to insult and 
 abuse. Well was it for little George, that 
 his violets had rendered him invisible. 
 He saw the magician go on to one of his 
 companions, who being destitute of such a 
 defence, immediately became his prey. 
 Take this nosegay, my child, said the 
 wicked wretch, and presented him with a 
 
362 A FAIRY TALE* 
 
 ✓ 
 
 bunch of nettles, finely gilded, but very 
 stinging. The poor boy had no sooner 
 touched them than his countenance ex- 
 prest pain : he quarrelled with every body 
 round him: yet the simpleton kept con¬ 
 tinually smelling to his nosegay, and the 
 more he was nettled, the more quarrel¬ 
 some he grew. His size too increased in 
 proportion : he became swelled and boated. 
 He grew tall, too tall at once, but it was 
 only by being raised on an enormous pair 
 of stilts, on which he could not walk a step, 
 without danger of tumbling down. 
 
 George could not help laughing at his 
 ridiculous figure, but would, out of good 
 nature, have offered him his own bunch to 
 smell to, if those unfortunate stilts had not 
 raised him quite out of his reach. He 
 therefore was making the best of his way 
 back, having first secured his key, when a 
 laughing giddy hoyden called out to him, 
 that she had found a bird's nest. Away 
 with her he ran upon this new pursuit: and 
 from bird's nest to bird's nest, and from 
 butterfly to butterfly they scampered 
 
A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 363 
 
 over the flowery fields, till night drew on. 
 She then persuaded him to go with her to 
 her mothers house, which was but just by, 
 and rest himself. 
 
 He found there a lady lolling in an 
 easy chair, who scarce raised her head to 
 bid him welcome. A table however stood 
 by her, ready spread with every kind of 
 dainty, where Idleness , for so was his play¬ 
 fellow called, invited him to sit down : and 
 after supper, he was conducted into a 
 chamber, set round with shelves of play¬ 
 things, where, in a soft down bed, he slept 
 till very late the next day. At last, though 
 unwillingly, he got up : but for no better 
 purpose than to look over those worthless 
 toys, which he half despised all the while. 
 What, thought he, is this tinsel, and glass 
 and wood, to compare with the rich trea¬ 
 sures of the old Fairy's Castle ? Neither 
 the old woman here, nor the simpleton her 
 daughter, will answer me a question I 
 ask, nor divert me with such stories, as 
 the very pictures and statues there were 
 full of. Thus thinking, he continued 
 
364 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 nevertheless to divert himself with the 
 play-things, and was growing fast back 
 into the love of rattles, and bells, when a 
 sudden panic seized him on seeing in the 
 corners of every shelf, filagree cages full 
 of dormice. Miserable boy that I am, 
 cried he, this must certainly be the den of 
 La ziness ! How shall I escape ? He tried 
 to stretch his wings: but alas, they drooped, 
 and now, for the first time, he found, and 
 lamented the want of his spur. He ran 
 to the windows: every prospect from 
 thence was desolate and barren, resemb¬ 
 ling exactly what he had read in his 
 ruby-clasped book, of the field of the 
 sluggard. 
 
 In vain did he look for the holidays to 
 transport him. from this wretched place. 
 The last of them was already on the wing, 
 and almost out of sight; for it is peculiar 
 to these little beings to approach slowly, 
 but to fly away with amazing swiftness. 
 However, he met with assistance, where he 
 least expected it. A dismal cloud hung 
 almost over his head, which he feared 
 
A FAIRY TALK. 365 
 
 would every minute burst in thunder; 
 when out of it flew a black eagle, who 
 seized little George in her talons, and in a 
 moment he found himself at the gates of 
 the Castle of Instruction. 
 
 Ferhaps you may not think his case 
 now, much better than it was before. A 
 little dormouse could have lain snusr and 
 
 O 
 
 warm, in cotton: whereas poor George 
 was forced to stand in the cold, among’ 
 thorns and briars, vainly endeavouring to 
 read the inscription on his key, which was 
 now, alas, grown rustier than ever. In 
 the mean time he saw most of his com' 
 panions, his friend Henry one of the fore¬ 
 most, fly over his head, while their polished 
 keys glittered like diamonds: and all of 
 them received into the apartments they 
 came out of, with joyful acclamations. 
 The boy upon stilts, indeed, did not make 
 so good a figure. lie reached up to the 
 window, but his false key would not open 
 it: and making a false step, down he tum¬ 
 bled into the dirty pool. 
 
 At this minute, the old Fairy looked 
 
366 
 
 A t'AlllY TAL£. 
 
 out, and calling to George, why do not 
 you, my child, said she, make use of your 
 wings and your key ? I am impatient to 
 have you amongst us again, that you may 
 receive finer gifts, and see greater wonders, 
 than any you have ever met with yet. 
 
 Here a woman came to him, clothed in 
 hare-skins, and shivering with an ague* 
 She touched him with a cold finger, that 
 chilled his blood: and stammered out 
 these terrifying words, DcTont ggo inti 
 to the C castle , P punishment is r ready 
 for r y you, r run away . 
 
 Scorn Punishment, and despise it, said 
 Foolhardiness , a little pert monkey in a 
 scarlet coat, and mounted upon a goose. 
 
 Fear Disgrace, said Shame , and with a 
 rose-bush, which she carried, brushed the 
 monkey into the dirty pool, where he lay 
 screaming and chattering, while his goose 
 hissed at him. 
 
 Poor George knew not what to do. It 
 once came into his head to make a plau¬ 
 sible excuse, and say his key was very 
 bright, but the lock w r as out of order. 
 
 2 
 
A FAIRY TALE* 
 
 367 
 
 Bat bethinking himself to apply to his 
 glass, he no sooner saw the ass's ears, than, 
 in honest distress, he called out, O Truth , 
 Truth , come to my assistance. I have 
 been very idle, and I am very sorry- 
 Truth , Truth , come to my assistance. 
 
 He fainted away with terror, as he 
 spoke, but, when he recovered, found 
 himself within the Castle, the bright figure 
 of Truth smiling upon him : and Forgive¬ 
 ness, another very amiable form, distin¬ 
 guished by a slate, and a sponge, with 
 which she wiped out all faults, caressing 
 him. Indeed she had need, for he felt 
 himself a little stiff, and sore, with some 
 rough methods, that had been used to 
 bring him to himself. These two nymphs 
 consigned him to the care of Amendment , 
 who promised never to forsake him, till he 
 got to the top of the Castle : and, under 
 her guidance, he went on very chearfully. 
 
 Indeed he was a little vexed at the first 
 steps he came to, on finding himself struck 
 pretty hard by an angry looking man ; but 
 when he found, that it was only in order to 
 
36 $ 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 return him his staff, and his spur, he thank¬ 
 ed him for his friendly blow, and from that 
 time proceeded with double alacrity. He 
 soon overtook his companions again, and 
 you may imagine, how joyful was the 
 meeting, between him and Henry, who 
 loved him too well, not to go on very me¬ 
 lancholy, while George had staid behind. 
 How I rejoiced, said he, to see you under 
 the conduct of the lady Amendment: now 
 nothing can ever part us more. 
 
 The Poetical Gallery, the Saloon of His¬ 
 tory, afforded them new delight. In every 
 room, through which they past, were ta¬ 
 bles covered with gems, medals, little 
 images, seals, intaglios, and all kinds of 
 curiosities, of which, they were assured, 
 that the more they took, the more welcome 
 they should be. 
 
 But here George was a little per¬ 
 plexed again. His pockets were filled 
 over and over : still, as he came to new 
 treasures, he was forced to throw aside the 
 old ones, to make room : yet was told, 
 that it would not be taken well, if he did 
 
A FA HI Y TALE. 
 
 569 
 
 not keep them all. At last be came for¬ 
 tunately into a room of polished steel, 
 where, on a throne of jasper, sat a lady, 
 with a crown upon her head, of the brightest 
 jewels. Upon her robe was woven, in the 
 liveliest colours and perfectly distinct, 
 though in miniature, every thing that the 
 world contains. She had steel tablets in 
 her hand, on which she was always engrav¬ 
 ing something excellent: and on the rich 
 diadem, that encircled her forehead, was 
 embroidered the word Memory . 
 
 You could not, said she to George, 
 have applied to a properer person than to 
 me, to help you out of your present diffi¬ 
 culty. She then gave him a cabinet, so 
 small, and so light, that he could carry it 
 without the least inconvenience : and, at 
 the same time, so rich and elegant, that no 
 snuff-box, set with diamonds, was ever 
 more ornamented. It had millions of 
 little drawers, all classed and numbered : 
 and in these, he found all the fine things 
 he had been so incumbered with, ranged 
 in their proper order. 
 
A FAIRY TALK, 
 
 370 
 
 The only thing I insist on, said she, is 
 that yon will keep your drawers exactly 
 clean, and never litter them with trash. 
 If yon stuff them, with what does not de¬ 
 serve a place, they will no longer be capa¬ 
 ble of containing real treasures: but the 
 bottom of the cabinet will become direc tly 
 like a sieve: and if Malice or Resentment 
 ever persuade you, to put in any thing out 
 of their shops, you will soon find every 
 drawer infested with snakes and adders. 
 But above all things value the gifts of 
 Truth , Gratitude , and Friendship , which 
 will fill them with constant perfume, that 
 shall make you agreeable to every body. 
 
 Thus furnished, George proceeded joy¬ 
 fully, and ascended from one apartment 
 to another, till he became possest of all the 
 treasures of the Castle. Sometimes Ima¬ 
 gination led him into delightful gardens, 
 gay with perpetual spring. Sometimes 
 from entrances dug into the solid rock, (on 
 the side of the apartments opposite to the 
 windows) he wandered through the mines 
 of Science , and brought from, thence, riches 
 
„ 1 ■* ; 
 
 A FAIRY tale; 371 
 
 fch&t had not yet been discovered. The 
 holidays always found him cheerfully glad 
 to go with them; but not impatient for 
 their approach, and equally glad to return, 
 when they flew back. Whenever he re- 
 turned, he was received with honour, and 
 crowmed with wreaths of bays and laureL 
 He became a favourite with the Virtues, 
 and the Graces, and at last was led by 
 them to the top of the Castle: where Re¬ 
 putation and Prudence waited to receive 
 him, and conduct him through a fair plain, 
 that w 7 as stretched out along the top of the 
 mountain, and terminated by the glittering 
 temple of Felicity 
 
 * This Fairy Tale, or perhaps more properly. Alle¬ 
 gory, which was the delight as well as the instruction 
 of the Editor’s youth, would not disgrace even the 
 modern highly improved assistances to education. 
 
 35 b 2 
 

 
 
 
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 ■ ■ " ' ■ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
IMITATIONS 
 
 or 
 
 O S S I A N. 
 
* 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 •i- 
 
 
 
 
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3/0 
 
 IMITATION I, 
 
 IMITATION I. 
 
 VV H i dost thou not visit my hall, 
 Daughter of the gentle Smile ? thou art in 
 thy hall of joy, the feast of shells is spread : 
 the bards are assembled around. Sad 
 I sit alone, and listen to the beating rain. 
 The gale sounds hollow in the east, but no 
 music comes on the blast, to my solitary 
 ear. The red coals glow sullenly in my 
 grate, but they should blaze cheerfully for 
 thee. Why dost thou not visit my hall, 
 Daughter of the gentle Smile ? 
 
 Thv fame shall be heard in the sons:, for 
 the bards assemble at thy call. When I 
 go to the narrow house, silence shall rest 
 upon my memory. For lonely I sit all 
 the day, and listen to the dashing rain. 
 The keen wind whistles at my gate, and 
 drives away the timid guest. Dark boats 
 pass by on the swift stream, but no pas- 
 
IMITATION 1 . 
 
 376 
 
 senger lands at my ball. Thou too, O 
 sweet Daughter of the Smile, didst sail by 
 over the blue wave, when the voice* of 
 joy was in the hail oi kings. But Therina 
 past the day silent and solitary. When a 
 thousand oaks flamed beyond the stream, 
 she saw the distant blaze, like the red 
 streaks of the setting sun. She heard the 
 murmur of the distant shouts; and at last 
 through the dark air, she saw the approach¬ 
 ing torch, that lighted back her friends, 
 from the feast of empty shells. She ran 
 to meet them through the lonely hall: 
 and the wind lifted her cloak. 
 
 ^ ill no voice reply to my song ? I too 
 have a harp, which the winds sweep with 
 its wings. 
 
 O 
 
 * The Coronation in i 760. Miss Talbot then was in 
 tiie ‘‘Jui }eai ot hei age when she wrote tins Imitation. 
 Only specimens of the Poems of Ossian had then been 
 
 published. Fingal was not printed till 1762, and 
 'femora net till the following year. 
 
imitation ir. 
 
 377 
 
 IMITATION II. 
 
 TIIE RINA AND CARTHONA, 
 
 Therina. 
 
 ... - , 4 * • .* r 
 
 DAUGHTER of the song, why is thy 
 look so pensive ? Why dost thou regard 
 me with an eye of compassion ? 
 
 Carthona . Thy melancholy strain 
 pierced my heart. I view thee already 
 as in the narrow house, where all is silence 
 and darkness. I look upon thee as a dia¬ 
 mond buried deep in the rock, when it 
 ought to be flaming on an imperial dia¬ 
 dem. 
 
 Therina, Partial is thine eye, kind 
 Daughter of Harmony, and idly fictitious 
 was my plaintive strain. My expectations 
 look beyond the narrow house, and the 
 view terminates in splendour. Yet I am 
 not a diamond, O Carthona, but a feeble 
 
37 $ 
 
 IMITATION If. 
 
 glow-worm of the earth, whose sickly lustre 
 would go out in open day, and is beheld 
 to advantage, only from being judiciously 
 placed amidst obscurity. 
 
 Carthona. Lowly daughter of Indo¬ 
 lence, thou dost not well to acquiesce in 
 the meanest, and most useless form of 
 being, who mightest warble on a bough 
 with the songstresses of the grove, or shine 
 on gay wings, with the flatterers of the 
 air. 
 
 Therina , I was once a butterfly, O 
 
 4 / 
 
 Carthona, and my existence was most des¬ 
 picable. The glowjrworm in its low estate, 
 is pleasing to the eye, that approaches it 
 near: is useful sometimes, to direct the 
 steps of the benighted traveller. 
 
 Carthona. Laughter of Indolence ! 
 Thy discourse is idle and ungrateful. 
 
 Therina. Hear then, O Carthona ! the 
 reverse of my plaintive strains, and may it 
 sound sweet in thine ears. Thou art 
 pleased with the tale of Malvina, who at¬ 
 tended the blind age of Ossian, emphati¬ 
 cally blind ! Her form rises elegant to thy 
 4 
 
IMITATION II, 
 
 379 
 
 mind, and the voice of her praise sounds 
 melodious to thy fancy. A et what is the 
 
 \J y 
 
 fame of Malvina? And what was the 
 merit of Ossian ? The threads of my life, 
 O Carthona, though homely, are woven 
 amid others of inestimable tincture. The 
 ties of indissoluble friendship have mingled 
 them among threads of purest gold, the 
 inchest purple, and the brighest silver. 
 Such are the durable textures, which hea¬ 
 ven has framed in the loom of civilized 
 society: While the scattered threads of 
 Pingafs days are like autumnal cobwebs, 
 tost by winds from thorn to thorn : whence 
 some few of peculiar whiteness are collect¬ 
 ed by the musing bard, when solitary he 
 roams amid the pathless wild» 
 
380 
 
 IMITATION III. 
 
 Imitation nr. 
 
 riH ^ _ 
 
 A RU R Ossian, I delight in songs: har^ 
 rnonj sooths my soul. It sooths it O 
 Ossian, but it laises it far above these gras¬ 
 sy clods, and rocky hills. It exalts it above 
 the vain phantoms of clouds, the wander¬ 
 ing meteors of the nmht. 
 
 Listen in thy turn, thou sad son of 
 -fungal, to the lonely dweller ot the rock. 
 Let thy harp rest for a while, and thy 
 thoughts cease to retrace the war and 
 bloodshed, ot the days that are past. 
 Sightless ait thou O Ossian, and sad is 
 thy failing age. Thine ear is to the hol¬ 
 low blast, and thy expectation is closed in 
 the narrow house. Thy memory is of the 
 deeds ot thy fathers, and thy fathers, where 
 are they ? What O Ossian, are those deeds 
 
 of other times? they are horror, and blood, 
 and desolation. 
 
IMITATION III. 
 
 381 
 
 Harp of Ossian be still. Why dost 
 thou sound in the blast, and wake my 
 sleeping fancy ? Deep and long has been 
 its repose. Solid are the walls that sur¬ 
 round me ,v '. The idle laugh enters not 
 here: why then should the idler tear ? 
 \ et Ossian I would weep for thee: I 
 would weep for thee, Malvina.—But my 
 days are as the flight of an arrow. Shall 
 the arrow turn aside from its mark ? 
 
 Bright was thy genius, Ossian ! But 
 darkness was in thy heart: It shrank from 
 the light of heaven. The lonely dweller 
 of the rock sang, in vain, to thy deafened 
 ear. The Grecian was not blind like thee. 
 On him the true sun never dawned : yet 
 he sung, though erroneous, of all-ruling 
 Providence, and faintly looked up to the 
 paient of gods and men. Thy vivid 
 Utncy O Ossian, what beheld it but a 
 cloudy Fingal ? Vain in the pride of an- 
 
 She was then residing in Lambeth Palace; and 
 whoever has seen that noble work of other times will 
 pillow that the epithet is not misapplied. 
 
382 IMITATION III. 
 
 cestry, thou remainest by choice an orptiati$ 
 in an orphan world. Did never the 
 dweller of the rock point out to thy 
 friendless age, a kindred higher than the 
 heaven ? A brotherhood wide as the 
 world P A staff to thy failing steps ? A 
 light to thy sightless soul ? And didst 
 thou reject them, Ossian ? What then 
 is genius, but a meteor brightness ? The 
 humble, the mild, the simple, the unelo- 
 quent, with peaceful steps followed their 
 welcome pastor, into fair meads of ever¬ 
 lasting verdure.-While thou sittest 
 
 gloomy on the storm-beaten hill, and re¬ 
 peating to the angry blast, the boast of hu¬ 
 man pride: the tales of devastation of war, 
 the deeds of other times. Far other 
 
 times are these-Ah would they were l 
 
 For still destruction spreads: still human 
 pride rises with the tygers of the desart, 
 and makes its horrid boast * ! 
 
 * Consequently this was written before the Peace 
 of 1763. This last imitation is by much the finest; 
 It shows a mind accustomed to think, and to think 
 
IMITATION III. 
 
 383 
 
 upon the best and truest principles; undazzled by the 
 glare and splendor of language, though deeply sensible 
 to its charms. Supposing the Poems of Ossian to be 
 genuine, these Reflections are peculiarly just and af¬ 
 fecting- 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 ALLEGORIES. 
 
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 V c 
 
 
AIXEGORY I. 
 
 ALLEGORY I. 
 
 Life compared to a Hay. 
 
 If I was not quite sick of the number of 
 stupid dreams, which have been writ in 
 imitation of those excellent ones published 
 in the Spectators, Tatlers, and some later 
 periodical papers, I should be exceedingly 
 tempted to fall into some allegorical slum¬ 
 bers. After this declaration, I know not 
 why I may not actually do it; since I see 
 people in a hundred other instances, seem 
 to imagine that censuring any thing vio¬ 
 lently, is amply sufficient to excuse their 
 being guilty of it. 
 
 Suppose me then composed in my 
 easy chair, after having long meditated on 
 that old and threadbare comparison of hu¬ 
 man Life to a Play. To this, my imagina¬ 
 tion furnishes abundance of scenery ; and 
 the train of my thoughts go on just as well, 
 
 c c % 
 
388 
 
 ALLEGORY I. 
 
 after my eyes are closed, as it did be¬ 
 fore. 
 
 As I have yet but a very inconsiderable 
 part in the performance, X have leisure 
 enough to stand between the scenes, and 
 to amuse myself with various speculations. 
 Fortunately for me, X am placed near a 
 person, who can give me sufficient informa¬ 
 tion of the whole matter; since indeed 
 this venerable person is no other, than the 
 original! v intended directress of the theatre. 
 Wisdom by name : but being of a temper 
 above entering into all the little disputes 
 of the actors, she has suffered her place to 
 be usurped by a multitude of pretenders, 
 who mix the vilest of farces, and the ab- 
 surdest of tragedies, with the noblest 
 drama in the world. 
 
 These destructive interlopers were busily 
 instructing all the actors, as they appeared 
 upon the stage, and indeed one might 
 easily see the effects of their teaching. 
 Scarce one in fifty repeated a single line 
 with a natural and unaffected air. Every 
 feature was distorted by grimace: many 
 
ALLEGORY I. 
 
 -389 
 
 a good sentiment outvie , by the emphasis 
 with which it was pronounced. 
 
 Would it not put one quite out of pa¬ 
 tience, said my neighbour, to see that fel- 
 low there, so entirely spoil one of the finest 
 passages in the play, by turning it into a 
 mere rant ? Is there any bearing that man, 
 who pretending to act the lover, puts on 
 all the airs of a madman ? YVhy Sir, do 
 you think that graceful figure, that sense, 
 and all those advantages you were drest 
 with, in order to do honour to my com- 
 pany, were given you, only that you might 
 walk about the stage, sighing and exclaim¬ 
 ing ? Pray let me cast an eye upon your 
 part.—Look ye, are here any of those so¬ 
 liloquies that you are every moment put¬ 
 ting in ?-—Why, here is not a single word 
 of misery, death, torment.—The lover 
 
 4 
 
 waking out of his reverie, pointed to a 
 prompter that stood at a little distance, 
 when JVisdom perceived it to be busy Ima¬ 
 gination. She only, with an air of com¬ 
 passion, drew the poor youth to her side 
 
59 0 
 
 ALLEGORY I, 
 
 of the stage, and begged he would keep 
 out of the hearing of so bad a director. 
 
 The next, we happened to attend to, 
 was a young woman, of a most amiable 
 figure, who stood pretty near us, but the 
 good-nature in her countenance was mixed 
 with a kind of haughty disdain, whenever 
 she turned towards Imagination , that did 
 not absolutely please me. I remarked 
 upon it to my friend, and we jointly ob¬ 
 served her stealing leisure from her part, 
 to look over the whole scheme of the 
 Drama. That actress, says she, has a 
 most charming genius, but she too has a 
 Travers in it. Because she has seen some 
 love scenes, in the play, ridiculously acted, 
 and heard them censured by those, whose 
 judgment she respects, and especially be¬ 
 cause she is very justly displeased with all 
 the bombast stuff, Imagination puts into 
 them, she will, against her senses believe* 
 there is scarce a single line about it, in the 
 whole Drama : and there you may see her 
 striking out for spurious, passages that 
 
ALLEGORY I* 
 
 391 
 
 have warmed the noblest hearts with gene¬ 
 rous sentiments, and gained a just applause 
 from Socrates and Plato themselves: two 
 of the finest actors I ever had. This is* 
 however, an error on the right side. 
 Happy for you* young actress* if you 
 never fall into a worsen She may indeed 
 miss saying an agreeable thing, but she 
 never will say an absurd one. 
 
 Look yonder, and you will see more 
 dangerous, and more ridiculous mistakes. 
 That group of young actors, just entering 
 on the stage, who cannot possibly have 
 beheld more than half a scene, pretend 
 already in a decisive way, to give their 
 judgment of the whole. They do not so 
 much as wait for their cue, (which years 
 and discretion ought to give them) but 
 thrust forward into the very middle of the 
 action* Some of them, displeased with 
 the decorations of their part of the theatre, 
 are busied in hurrying the tinsel ornaments, 
 from the other corners of it, where they 
 were much more becomingly placed. That 
 man yonder, who ought to be acting the 
 
 2 
 
ALLEGORY I. 
 
 392 
 
 part of a hero, is so taken up with adjust- 
 ing his dress, and that of his companions, 
 
 that he never once seems to think of the 
 
 \ 
 
 green-room, where all these robes must 
 soon be laid aside. 
 
 Look yonder, look yonder! This is a 
 pitiable sight indeed. Behold that wo¬ 
 man exquisitely handsome still, though 
 much past the bloom of youth, and formed 
 to shine in any part, but so unhappily at¬ 
 tached to that she has just left, that her 
 head is absolutely turned behind her : so 
 unwilling is she to lose sight of her beloved 
 gaieties. 
 
 In another place you may see persons, 
 who, sensible that the splendid dresses of 
 the threatre are only lent them, for a time, 
 disdain, with a sullen ill-judged pride, to 
 put them on at all, and so disgrace the 
 parts that were allotted them for their own 
 advantage. 
 
 Alas! what a different prompter has 
 that actor got! He was designed to re¬ 
 present a character of generosity, and, for 
 that purpose, furnished with a large trea- 
 
ALLEGORY I. 
 
 393 
 
 sure of counters, which it wa3 his business 
 to dispose of in the most graceful manner, 
 to those actors engaged in the same scene 
 with him. Instead of this, that old fellow, 
 Interest , who stands at his elbow, has 
 prompted him to put the whole bag into 
 his pocket, as if the counters themselves 
 were of real value: whereas the moment 
 he sets his foot off the stage, or is hurried 
 down, through some of those trap-doors, 
 that are every moment opening round him, 
 these tinsel pieces are no longer current. 
 To conceal, in some measure, the falseness 
 of this behaviour, he is forced to leave out 
 a hundred fine passages, intended to grace 
 his character, and to occasion unnumbered 
 chasms, and inconsistencies, which not only 
 make him hissed, but the very scheme of 
 the Drama murmured at. Yet still he 
 persists: and see! just now, when he 
 ought to be gracefully treading the stage 
 with a superior air; he is stooping down to 
 pick up some more counters that happen to 
 be fallen upon the dirty floor, made dirty 
 
ALLEGORY I. 
 
 39 4 
 
 on purpose for the disgrace of those who 
 chuse to grovel there. 
 
 You can scarce have an idea* added 
 my instructress, how infinitely the har* 
 mony of the whole piece is interrupted, by 
 the misuse which these wrong-headed 
 actors make of its mere decorations. The 
 part you have to act, child, is a very small 
 one. But remember, it is infinitely su¬ 
 perior to every such attachment Fix 
 j ; our attention upon its meaning; not its 
 ornaments. Let your manner be just, and 
 unaffected; your air cheerful and disen¬ 
 gaged. Never pretend to look beyond 
 the present page: and above all, trust the 
 great Author oi the Drama, with his own 
 glorious work: and never think to mend 
 what is above your understanding, by 
 minute criticisms, that are below it* 
 
.ALLEGORY I?. 
 
 ALLEGORY II. 
 
 The Danger of Indulgence of the 
 Imagination. 
 
 Methougiit as I was sitting at 
 
 work, a young woman came into the room* 
 clothed in a loose green garment. Her 
 long hair fell in ringlets upon her shoulders* 
 her head was crowned with roses and 
 myrtles. A prodigious sweetness appeared 
 in her countenance, and notwithstanding 
 the irregularity of her features, and a 
 certain wildness in her eyes, she seemed 
 to me the most agreeable person I had 
 ever beheld. 
 
 When she was entered, she presented 
 me with a little green brnach, upon which 
 was a small sort of nut enclosed in a hard 
 black shell, which she said was both whole¬ 
 some and delicious, and bid me follow her. 
 
396 
 
 ALLEGORY II. 
 
 and not be afraid, for she was going to 
 make me happy. 
 
 I did as she commanded me, and imme- 
 diately a chariot descended and took us 
 up. it was made of the richest materials, 
 and diawn by lour milk-white turtles. 
 Whilst we were hurried with a rapid mo¬ 
 tion, ovei \ast oceans, boundless plains, 
 and barren desarts, she told me, that 
 her name was Imagination ; that she was 
 carrying me to Parnassus, where she 
 herself lived. 
 
 I had scarce time to thank her before 
 we arrived at the top ol a very high moun- 
 lam, covered with very thick woods. Here 
 we alighted ; and my guide taking me by 
 the hand, we passed through several beau¬ 
 tiful groves of myrtle, bays, and laurel, 
 separated from one another by little green 
 alleys, enamelled with the finest flowers. 
 Nothing was to be heard hut the rustling 
 of leaves, the humming of bees, the warb- 
 ling of birds, and the purling of streams: 
 and in short, this spot seemed to be a 
 Paradise. 
 
ALLEGORY II. 
 
 397 
 
 After wandering some time in this de- 
 lightful place, we came to a long grass- 
 walk ; at the farther end of which, in a 
 howei of jassaminsand woodbines, strewed, 
 with flowers, sat a woman of a middle age, 
 but oi a pleasing countenance. Ider hair 
 was finely braided : and she wore a habit 
 of changeable silk. 
 
 Tv hen we approached her she was weav¬ 
 ing nets Oi the finest silk, which she imme¬ 
 diately threw down, and embraced me. I 
 was surpnzed at so much civility from a 
 stranger; which she perceiving, bid me 
 not wonder at the kindness she showed 
 for me, at first sight, since, besides my 
 being in the company of that lady, (point¬ 
 ing to Imagination) which was recom- 
 mentation enough, my own person w r ould 
 entitle me to the favour of all who saw 
 me : but, added she, you have had a lon^ 
 walk, and want rest; come and sit down 
 in my bower. 
 
 1 hough this offer would, at another 
 time, have been very acceptable to me, yet 
 30 great was my desire of seeing the 
 
39 8 
 
 ALLEGORY IT. 
 
 Muses, that I begged to be excused, and 
 to have permission to pursue my journey. 
 Being informed by Imagination where we 
 were going, she commended my laudable 
 curiosity, and said, she would accompany 
 us. As we went alon£, she told me her 
 name was Good-JVM, and that she was a 
 great friend to the Muses, and to the lady 
 who brought me hither, whom she had 
 brought up from a child : and had saved 
 her from being carried away by Severity 
 and Ill-Humour , her inveterate enemies. 
 
 When she had done speaking, we arrived 
 at the happy place I had so much wished 
 to see. It was a little circular opening, at 
 the upper end of which sat, on a throne 
 of the most fragrant flowers, a young man 
 in a flame-coloured garment, of a noble, 
 but haughty countenance. He was crown¬ 
 ed with laurel, and held a harp in his 
 hand. Round him sat nine beautiful 
 young women, who all played upon musical 
 instruments. These, Imagination told me, 
 were Apollo and the Muses . But above 
 all the rest, there were three that I most 
 
ALLEGORY IT. 
 
 399 
 
 admired, and who seemed fondest of 
 me. 
 
 One of these was clothed in a loose and 
 .careless manner; she was reposed on a 
 bank of flowers, and sung with a sweeter 
 voice than any of the others. The gar¬ 
 ment of the second was put on with the 
 greatest care and exactness, and richly 
 embroidered with the gayest colours, but 
 it did not seem to fit her. But it was the 
 third whom X most admired. She was 
 crowned with roses and a variety of other 
 flowers. She played upon all the instru¬ 
 ments, and never staid five minutes in a 
 place. 
 
 Just as I was going to sit down to a fine 
 repast, which they had prepared for me of 
 the fruits of the mountain, w f e saw two 
 grave-looking men advancing towards us. 
 Immediately Imagination shrieked out, 
 and Good-Hill said she had great reason, 
 for those were Severity and IU-Humour, 
 who had like to have run away with her 
 when but a child, as she had told me 
 before, \ ou too, added she, may be in 
 
400 
 
 ALLEGORY II. 
 
 danger, therefore come into the midst of 
 
 ns. 
 
 I did so : and by this time the two men 
 were come up. One of them was com¬ 
 pletely armed, and held a mirror in his 
 hand. The other wore a long robe, and 
 held, in one hand, a mariner’s compass, 
 and in the other, a lanthorn. They soon 
 pierced to the centre of our little troop: 
 and the first, with much ado, at length 
 forced me from the only two, who still 
 held out against them, and made me 
 hearken to the other, who bid me not be 
 afraid, and told me, though I might be 
 prejudiced against him and his companion, 
 by those I had lately been with, yet they 
 had a greater desire of my happiness, and 
 ivould do more towards it. But, said he, 
 if you have eat any of that fruit, which 
 you have in your hand, ol which the real 
 name is Obstinacy , all X can say will be 
 ineffectual. 
 
 I assured him, I had not tasted this 
 fatal fruit. He said he was very glad of 
 it, and bid me throw it down and follow 
 
 4 
 
ALLEGORY II. 
 
 40 i 
 
 Slim, which I did, till by a shorter way, 
 we came to the brow’ of the mountain. 
 When we were there, he told me, the 
 only way to deliver myself from the danger 
 I was then in, was to leap down into the 
 plain below. As the mountain seemed 
 very steep, and the plain very barren, I 
 could neither persuade myself to obey, nor 
 had I courage to disobey him. 
 
 I thus stood wavering for some time, till 
 the man in armour pushed me down, as 
 Mentor did Telemachus. When I was 
 recovered from the first shock of mv fall, 
 how great was my surprize to find this 
 paradise of the world, this delightful moun¬ 
 tain, was raised to that prodigious height, 
 by mere empty clouds. 
 
 After they had given me some time to 
 wonder, he, who held the lanthorn in his 
 hand, told me that the place before me 
 was the Mount of Folly . That Imagi¬ 
 nation w ; as Romance, Good-JJ ill was Flat¬ 
 ten/, Apollo was Bombast . That the two 
 false M uses who tried most to keep me 
 from comine: with them, were Self-Conceit 
 
 D d 
 
402 ALLEGORY II* 
 
 and Idleness: that the others were Incan - 
 stancy , False-Taste, Ignorance , and Affcc - 
 tat ion her daughter, Enthusiam of Poetry, 
 Credulity a great promoter of their despotic 
 dominion, and Fantasticalness, who took 
 as many hearts as any of the rest. 
 
 I thanked him for this information, and 
 told him, that it w r ould almost equal the 
 joy of my deliverance, to know the names 
 of my deliverers. He told me his own 
 was Good-Advice, and his companion's 
 Good-Sense his brother, and born at the 
 same time. He added, that if I liked 
 their company, they would, after having 
 shewn me the manv thousand wretches, 
 whom my false friends had betrayed, con¬ 
 duct me to the abode of Application and 
 Perseverance , the paren ts of all the virtues. 
 
 I told him that nothing could afford me 
 a more sensible pleasure. Then, said he, 
 prepare yourself for a scene of horror: and 
 immediately, with the help of his brother, 
 he lilted up the mountain, and discovered 
 to my sight a dark and hollow vale, where 
 under the shade of cypress and yew, lay 
 
ALLEGORY II. 
 
 403 
 
 in the utmost misery, multitudes of un¬ 
 happy mortals, mostly young women, run 
 away with by Romance . When I had left 
 this dreadful spot, and the mountain w r as 
 closed upon them, just as I was going to 
 be good and happy, some unhappy acci¬ 
 dent awakened me. 
 
 
 D d 2 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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POETRY. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
POETRY. 
 
 407 
 
 POETRY, 
 
 AWAKE my Laura, break the silken chain. 
 
 Awake my Friend, to hours unsoil’d by pain: 
 
 Awake to peaceful joys and thought refin’d, 
 
 \ outh’s cheerful morn, and Virtue’s vigorous mind : 
 Wake to all joys, fair friendship can bestow. 
 
 All that from health, and prosp’rous fortune flow. 
 
 Still dost thou sleep ? awake, imprudent fair. 
 
 Few hours has life, and few of those can spare *. 
 
 Forsake thy drowsy couch, and sprightly rise 
 While yet fresh morning streaks the ruddy skies : 
 While yet the birds their early niattins sing, 
 
 And all around us blooming as the spring. 
 
 Ere sultry Phoebus with his scorching ray 
 Has drank the dew-drops from their mansion gay, 
 Scorch’d ev’ry flow’r, embrown’d each drooping green, 
 Pall’d the pure air, and chas’d the pleasing scene. 
 
 Still dost thou sleep? O rise, imprudent fair. 
 
 Few hours has life, nor of those few can spare. 
 
 • For is there aught iu sleep can charm the wise ? 
 
 To lie iu dull oblivion, losing half 
 fhe fleeting moments of too short a life! 
 
 Thomson's Summer. 
 
408 
 
 FOETRr. 
 
 But this, perhaps, was but a summer song. 
 
 And winter nights are dark, and cold and long: 
 
 Vv eak reason that, for sleeping past the morn 
 ^ et urg’d by sloth, and by indulgence born. 
 
 Oh rather haste to rise, my slumb’ring friend. 
 
 While feeble suns their scanty influence lend; 
 
 While cheerful day-light yet adorns the skies. 
 
 Awake, my Friend! my Laura haste to rise. 
 
 For soon the uncertain short-liv’d day shall fail. 
 
 And soon shall night extend her sooty veil*: 
 
 Blank nature fades, black shades and phantoms drear 
 Flaunt the sick eye, and fill the court of fear. 
 
 O therefore sleep no more, imprudent fair. 
 
 Few hours has day, few days the circling year, 
 lew years has life, and few of these can spare. 
 
 I hink of the task those hours have yet in view, 
 Reason to arm, and passion to subdue; 
 
 While life’s fair calm, and flatt ring moments last. 
 
 To fence your mind against the stormy blast: 
 
 Early to hoard blest Wisdom’s peace-fraught store. 
 Ere yet your bark forsakes the friendly shore. 
 
 And the winds whistle, and the billows roar. 
 Imperfect beings! weakly arm’d to bear 
 Pleasure’s soft wiles, or sorrow’s open war: 
 Alternate shocks from diff’rent sides to feel. 
 
 Now to subdue the heart, and now to steel: 
 
 * ** The night cometk when no man can work.” John It, 4, 
 
 o 
 
POETRY. 
 
 409 
 
 Yet fi ain’d with high aspirings, strong desires. 
 
 How mad th’ attempt to quench celestial tires! 
 
 Still to perfection tends the restless mind. 
 
 And happiness its bright reward assign’d. 
 
 And shall dull sloth obscure the Heav’n beam’d ray ^ 
 That guides our passage to the realms of day, v 
 
 Cheers the faint heart, and points the dubious way! 5 
 Not weakly arm’d, it ever on our guard. 
 
 Nor to the worst unequal if prepar’d : 
 
 Not unsurmountable the task, if lov’d, 
 
 Nor short the time, if ev’ry hour improv’d. 
 
 O rouse thee then, nor shun the glorious strife 
 Extend, improve, enjoy thy hours of life; 
 
 Assert thy reason, animate thy heart. 
 
 And act thro’ life s short scene the useful part: 
 
 'I hen sleep in peace, by gentlest mem ry crown’d, 
 i ill time s vast year hast till’d its perfect round* 
 
410 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 ON READING THE LOVE ELEGIES, 1742 *. 
 
 Hither your wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring 
 The short-lived rose f, that blooms but to decay j 
 
 Love’s fragrant myrtles, that in Paphos spring. 
 
 And deathless Poetry’s immortal bay. 
 
 And oh thou gentlest shade accept the verse^ 
 
 Mean tho’ it be, and artlessly sincere. 
 
 That pensive thus attends thy silent hearse. 
 
 And steals, in secret shades, the pious tear. 
 
 What heart, by Heaven with gen’rous softness blest* 
 But in thy Lines its native language reads ? 
 
 Where hapless Love, in classic plainness drest. 
 Gracefully mourns, and elegantly bleeds. 
 
 In vain, alas, thy fancy fondly gay 
 
 Trac’d the fair scenes of dear domestic life. 
 
 The sportive Loves forsook their wanton play. 
 
 To paint for thee the Mistress, Friend and Wife, 
 
 * These Lines were written after reading Hammond's Elegies 
 M. S, a year before they were published. See big Life prefixed to 
 Foulis’ edition, fob 1787, in which these Lines are printed. Miss 
 Talbot was then only 22 years of age. Later na life bhe would pro- 
 bably have admired them less. 
 
 t ... nimium breves 
 
 Flores am«enae ferre jube ros». Hon. II. Ode 
 
POETRY, 
 
 411 
 
 One caught from Delia’s lips the winning smile. 
 One from her eyes his little soul inspir’d; 
 
 Then seiz’d thy pen, and smooth’d thy flowing style. 
 Then wept, and trembled, and with sobs admir’d. 
 
 O luckless Lover! form’d for better days. 
 
 For golden years, and ages long ago. 
 
 For Thee Persephone impatient stays 
 
 For Thee the willow and the cypress grow. 
 
 * Oh spare, Persephone, tills guiltless head. 
 
 Hammond, L! eg. IY. 
 
 I 
 
VOETRY. 
 
 WRIT ON NEW-YEAR’s-EVE, WHILE THE BELLS 
 WERE RINGING OUT THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 the smoothly circling year. 
 
 Beneath fair skies serene and clear. 
 Completes its gentle round ; 
 Sweet bells in tuneful sounds express 
 Gay thanks for rural happiness. 
 
 And months with plenty crown’d. 
 
 II. 
 
 While yet remains the courteous guest, 
 O be my greatful thoughts exprest 
 Unmixed with grief or fear. 
 Farewel ye seasons! roll away, 
 
 I wish not to prolong your stay. 
 
 Tho’ age brings up the rear. 
 
 III. 
 
 Cheerful I trust, for future good. 
 
 The hand which all the past bestow’d. 
 Nor heed life’s shifting scene. 
 Farewel kind year, which still hast blest 
 My days with peace, my nights with rest, 
 And leav’st my mine serene. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 413 
 
 IV. 
 
 Not yet—but now impends the stroke. 
 The far resounding midnight clock 
 Has summon’d thee away; 
 
 Go mingle with the countless past. 
 
 Till time himself has liv’d his last, 
 
 In soft oblivion stay. 
 
 V. 
 
 Sut then with smiling grace appear. 
 Thou blameless, grief-unsullied year, 
 
 O smile once more on me. 
 
 And witness that thy golden hours 
 Have all been priz d, as summer flow’rs 
 By some industrious bee, 
 
414 
 
 Poetry. 
 
 *.*. ;«a 
 
 TO CHEERFULNESS* 
 
 Fair Cheerfulness, nymph who all nymphs dost 
 
 excel, 
 
 <t i 
 
 Ah tell me sweet Cheerfulness , where dost thou dwell ? 
 I would search the world round, thee dear charmer to 
 find. 
 
 And with thy rosy chaplet my forehead to bind. 
 
 ir. 
 
 When with thee, shall I drink of the clear crysta) 
 spring. 
 
 While birds on the branches rejoicingly sing? 
 
 When, with thee, on the sun-shiny hills shall I play ? 
 When all nature around us, looks dowry and gay ? 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh why have I lost thee ? What heedless offence, 
 Delightful companion, has banish’d thee hence ? 
 
 This heart, still thy own, has admitted no guest 
 By whom thou, dearest charmer, should be dispossess 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thou ever w f ert known with Religion to dwell, 
 
 And gild with thy smiles her contemplative cell: 
 W 7 ith Innocence thou trippest light o’er the green, 
 
 W hile the blue sky above shines all clear and serene. 
 
POETRY* 
 
 415 
 
 V. 
 
 With 'Philosophy oft thy gay moments were past, 
 When Socrates heighten’d the pleasing repast, 
 
 With Industry ever thou lovest to go, 
 
 I ho’ she carry the milk-pail, or follow the plough 
 
 VI. 
 
 Far away from my bosom I banish’d thy foes. 
 
 Nor admitted one.thought that could hurt thy repose ; 
 Unresting Ambition , wild Pussions excess } 
 
 Anxiety vain, and romantic Distress . 
 
 VII. 
 
 Indeed giddy Mirth , and her frolicksome ciew 
 Rut little, if ever, thy Rosalind knew : 
 
 \et my solitude often by thee has been blest. 
 
 My days thou hast brighten’d, and sweeten’d my rest. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Why then art thou gone ? oh inconstant as fair. 
 
 Art thou only a tenant of Summer’s soft air l 
 Full well did I hope thy perpetual ray. 
 
 Should gild with mild lustre, life’s most gloomy day* 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sweet songstress dost thou with sad Philomel fly. 
 
 To seek in new climes a more temperate sky? 
 v\ hile the Red-breast all Winter continues to sing. 
 And gladdens its snows with the music of Spring. 
 
416 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 A# 
 
 Thou shouldst be, thro’ life my companion and guide* 
 Come sickness, come sorrow, whatever betide : 
 
 Gift of Iieav’n to shorten our wearisome way. 
 
 Thro* the valley of toil, to the regions of day. 
 
 XL 
 
 But methiuks, in my heart still, (1 hear thee reply) 
 
 I cherish one guest, who constrains thee to fly j 
 Grey Memory famous, like Nestor of old. 
 
 For honied discourses, and stories twice told*. 
 
 XIL 
 
 Old Memory often will dwell on a tale. 
 
 That makes the fresh rose in thy garland grow pale: 
 Yet what can he tell, that may justly displease 
 Thee, whose cloud-piercing eye all futurity sees ? 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He speaks but what gratitude dictates, and truth, 
 Recals the gay moments of friendship and youth: 
 lie tells of past pleasures securely our own. 
 
 And so much of our journey how happily gone. 
 
 * -_.j--._ upvfxVia. f/vSnXtyivuv. Hom. Od. xii. 
 
 Human nature has in all ages been the same; and this has been the 
 complaint of youth against age, and of cheerfulness against melancholy, 
 from the earliest time?, 
 
i s OETRl% 
 
 417 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thou knowest, fair charmer of lineage divine> 
 
 That soon the clear azure unclouded shall shine: 
 
 That life’s transient blessings the earnest but give 
 Of such as from time shall no limits receive. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh come then, dear source of good-humour and ease, 
 Who teachest at once to be pleas’d and to please; 
 
 And ever henceforth, with thy Rosalind dwell. 
 
 Sweet Cheerfulness , nymph, who all nymphs dost excel, 
 
 ✓ 
 
418 
 
 POETRY* 
 
 MORAL STANZAS. 
 
 W ELCOME the real state of things 
 Ideal world adieu. 
 
 Where clouds pil’d up by fancy’s hand 
 Hang lou’ring o’er each view* 
 
 II. 
 
 Here the gay sunshine of content 
 
 Shall gild each humble scene: 
 And life steal on with gentle pace, 
 Beneath a sky serene. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hesperian trees amidst my grove 
 I ask not to behold. 
 
 Since ev’n from Ovid’s song I know. 
 
 That dragons guard the gold. 
 
 IV. 
 
 . \ 
 
 Nor would I have the phoenix build 
 In my poor elms his nest. 
 
 For where shall odorous gums be found 
 To treat the beauteous guest f 
 
POETRY, 
 
 419 
 
 y. 
 
 Henceforth no pleasure I desire 
 In any wild extreme. 
 
 Such as should lull the captiv’d mind 
 In a bewitching dream. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Friendship I ask, without caprice. 
 
 When faults are over-seen: 
 
 Errors on both sides mix’d with truth 
 And kind good-will between. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Health, that may best its value prove. 
 By slight returns of pain: 
 
 Amusements to enliven life. 
 
 Crosses to prove it vain. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thus would I pass my hours away. 
 Extracting good from all: 
 
 Till time shall from my sliding feet 
 Push this uncertain ball. 
 
 
 E e 2 
 
4£Q 
 
 POETRY* 
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRIT IN THE COUNTRY TOWARDS THE END OF 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 SpRING, gay season, is no more. 
 Summer’s golden reign is o’er. 
 
 Soon to close the varied year. 
 
 Hoary Winter shall appear. 
 
 When the northern tempests blow. 
 When the hills are hid in snow, 
 
 W here shall drooping fancy find 
 Scenes to soothe a rural mind ? 
 
 When the busy world resort 
 To the gay, the festive court. 
 
 Say, within the lonely cell, 
 
 How shall sweet contentment dwell ? 
 Shall not then the tedious day 
 Sad and silent wear away ? 
 
 Shall not all the darksome night 
 
 o 
 
 Fondly dream of vain delight ? 
 
 Shining scenes shall vex the mind 
 To delusive sleep resign’d. 
 
 Chas’d by chirping birds away. 
 
 At the chilly dawn of day. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 421 
 
 Then to turn the studious page 
 Shall the morning hours engage : 
 When the lamps at evening burn. 
 Still the studious page to turn. 
 
 • \ 
 
 Or intent with hand and eye 
 The laborious loom to ply. 
 
 There a mimic spring to raise. 
 
 Vain persuit of trifling praise. 
 
 Hence will fancy often stray 
 To the circles of the aav, 
 
 —Shall she not ?—then prithee bind 
 In thy chains the veering mind. 
 
 As it lists the wind may blow. 
 
 Fancy shall her ruler know. 
 
 Idle being, shadowy queen, 
 
 Fmpress of a fairy scene. 
 
 Summer spring and autumn past. 
 Welcome winter comes at last. 
 Winter comes, with sober cheer, 
 
 W inding up the varied year. 
 
 When the verdant scenes are lost, 
 
 W hen the hills are white with frost, 
 Fancy’s idle reign is done, 
 
 Keason’s empire is begun. 
 
 Happy, gay ones, may you be 
 All your hours from sorrow free, 
 
 To the happy, to the gay. 
 Unreprov’d my thoughts shall stray. 
 
422 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 Pleasant is it to behold 
 Distant mountains tipp’d with gold. 
 Sunny landscapes round us spread. 
 While our path is in the shade. 
 
 Welcome Morpheus, with thy train, 
 Pleasing phantoms of the brain: 
 Welcome Sol’s returning ray. 
 Chirping birds and dawning day. 
 
 Welcome then the sacred lore. 
 
 Peaceful wisdom’s endless store; 
 
 Hours inestimable dear. 
 
 Welcome happiest of the year ! 
 
 Then the pencil, then the loom* 
 Welcome ev’ry mimic bloom. 
 Health, and industry, and peace, 
 
 —Muse enough, thy labour cease. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE SEVEN DAYS OF THE 
 
 WEEK. 
 
 On Sunday. 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 \ 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 Friday. 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 THE Omnipresence of God, 
 and the Practical Inferences 
 from it 
 
 The Improvement of Time, 
 and Self-Examination 
 The Duty of constant Employ¬ 
 ment - • 
 
 On the humble and religious 
 Enjoyment of the Blessings 
 of Life - 
 
 The Duty and Manner of being 
 Useful in Society 
 On the Happiness of the present 
 State, and the Self-Denial 
 required in it 
 
 The Importance o( Time in re¬ 
 lation to Eternity 
 
 Page 
 
 1 
 
 6 
 
 14 
 
 20 
 
 28 
 
 n 
 
 50 
 
 c 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xxxviii * 
 
 ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS* 
 
 Essay 
 
 I. On the Employment of Time in the dif- 
 ferent Situations in Society 
 ir. On true Politeness - 
 Eh On the Accommodation of the Temper 
 to Circumstances . 
 
 IV. On Delicacy of Feeling 
 
 V. Oij the Employment of Wealth 
 YI. On the Importance of Riches 
 
 VII. On Literary Composition - 
 
 VIII. On Prior’s Henry and Emma - 
 
 IX. On the Separation of Friends by Death 
 
 X. On Self-Love _ 
 
 XI. On the Principle of Self-Interest as ap¬ 
 plied to Education 
 
 XII. On the Distinction between Cunning and 
 Prudence - 
 
 XIII. On the Necessity of encouraging Hope 
 X1 v . On the nloral Uses of Geography > 
 
 XV. On Consistency of Character 
 
 XVI. On the Art of Pleasing in Society 
 
 XVII. On the Power and Necessity of Confi¬ 
 dence 
 
 XVIII. On true Friendship 
 XIX. On our Passage through Life; a Reverie 
 XX. On our Capacity for Pleasure 
 XXL On Reflexion as the Source of Cheerful¬ 
 ness 
 
 XXII. On the Employments of Life 
 
 XXIII. On Resignation to the Will of Providence 
 
 4 
 
 Page 
 
 59 
 
 70 
 
 S3 
 93 
 101 
 111 
 119 
 125 
 135 
 142 
 
 150 
 
 158 
 
 166* 
 
 172 
 
 180 
 
 18 / 
 
 * 
 
 194 
 200 
 20 6 
 216 
 
 224 
 22 9 
 234 
 
CONTENTS* 
 
 XX I* 
 
 Essay 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Page 
 
 On the Happiness derived from Society 238 
 On Trust in Providence - • 246 
 
 On the Necessity of Innocent Amuse¬ 
 ment - - > - - 252 
 
 . LETTERS TO A FRIEND ON A FUTURE STATE, 
 IN THE CHARACTER OF A GUARDIAN ANGEL. 
 
 Letter 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 259 
 
 263 
 
 26s 
 
 DIALOGUES. 
 
 Dialogue 
 
 I. Description of a moral but not gloomy Re¬ 
 
 tirement - 
 
 II. Enquiry how far Practice has kept pace 
 
 with Intention - 
 
 HI. Danger of too much Prosperity without the 
 Assistance of real Friends 
 
 IV. Of the Danger and insinuating Nature of 
 Vanity - 
 
 V. On the Nature of Human Happiness 
 
 275 
 
 279 
 
 287 
 
 291 
 
 304 
 
 Occasional Thoughts 
 
 PROSE PASTORALS. 
 
 Pastoral 
 
 I. Enquiry into the Happiness or Misery of a 
 
 Shepherd’s Life * - 321 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xl 
 
 Pastoral Page 
 
 II. On the Comforts of virtuous Poverty - 329 
 
 III. The Happiness of religious Hope - - 335 
 
 A FairyTale. —Education - 341 
 
 IMITATIONS OF OSSIAN. 
 
 Imitation 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. - • - 
 
 $75 
 
 377 
 
 380 
 
 ALLEGORIES. 
 
 Allegory 
 
 I. Life compared to a Play - . - 337 
 
 II. The Danger of indulging the Imagination - 395 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 To Laura - 
 
 • 
 
 40 7 
 
 On reading the Love Elegies, 1742 
 
 Written on New Year's Eve while the Bells 
 
 m 
 
 were 
 
 410 
 
 ringing out the Old Year 
 
 - 
 
 412 
 
 To Cheerfulness 
 
 o» 
 
 414 
 
 Moral Stanzas „ 
 
 Lines written in the Country towards the end of 
 
 418 
 
 Autumn 
 
 m 
 
 420 
 
 Elegy 
 
 m 
 
 423 
 
 Ode - * « 
 
 m 
 
 425 
 
POETBY. 
 
 425 
 
 ELEGY * 
 
 Of orm’d for boundless bliss! Immortal soul. 
 
 Why dost thou prompt the melancholy sigh 
 While evening shades disclose the glowing pole. 
 
 And silver moon-beams tremble o’er the sky. 
 
 These glowing stars shall fade, this moon shall fall. 
 This transitory sky shall melt away. 
 
 Whilst thou triumphantly surviving all 
 Shalt glad expatiate in eternal day. 
 
 Sickens the mind with longings vainly great. 
 
 To trace mysterious wisdom’s secret ways. 
 
 While chain’d and bound in this ignoble state. 
 
 Humbly it breaths sincere, imperfect praise ? 
 
 Or glows the beating heart with sacred fires. 
 
 And longs to mingle in the worlds of love ? 
 
 Or, foolish trembler, feeds its fond desires 
 
 Of earthly good ? or dreads life’s ills to prove ? 
 
 * In tills Elegy, of which the date is uncertain, the train of thought 
 seems very similar to that which Mrs. Carter addressed to Miss Sutton 
 m 1763. There is also seme kind of general resemblance in them both 
 (though on a subject much more sublime) to the opening of Shenstone's 
 axtb Elegy ; “ why droops this heart,” S:c. 
 
424 POETRY. 
 
 Back does it trace the flight of former years. 
 
 The friends lamented, and the pleasures past ? 
 Or wing'd with forecast vain, and impious fears. 
 Presumptuous to the cloud hid future haste; 
 
 Hence, far begone, ye fancy-folded pains. 
 
 Peace, trembling heart, be ev’ry sigh supprest ; 
 Wisdom supreme, eternal goodness reigns. 
 
 Thus far is sure: to Heav’n resign the rest # . 
 
 ’ ’ » f • . 1 . . fv - r ♦. * / 
 
 4 • • *Vt * V . 1 i • < 
 
 * Thus far was right; the rest belongs to Heaven. Pope, 
 
 Prol. te the 
 
POETRY. 
 
 425 
 
 O D E, 
 
 W HAT art thou. Memory of former days. 
 
 That dost so subtly touch the feeling heart ? 
 
 Thou know’st such pleasing sadness to impart^ 
 
 That dost such thrilling dear ideas raise ? 
 
 Each wonted path, each once familiar place. 
 
 Each object, that at first but common seem’d. 
 Beheld again some sacredness has gain’d. 
 
 With fancy’s hues inexplicably strain’d. 
 
 And by Remembrance venerable deem’d. 
 
 Nor idle workings these of fancy fond. 
 
 Some solemn truth the Heav’n-sent visions teach. 
 Stretching our thoughts these bounded scenes beyond, 
 And this their voice, and this the truth they teach. 
 Time past to man should be an awful theme. 
 
 No magic can the fugitive recall; 
 
 If idly lost in pleasure’s noon-day dream, 
 
 Or vainly wasted, passion’s wretched thrall. 
 
 Know, thou Profuse? that portion was thy all, 
 
 That narrow Pittance of some scanty years. 
 
 Was giv’n thee, O unthinking fool! to buv 
 The priceless Treasures of eternity. 
 
 Hence fond remembrance prompts unbidden tears, 
 And something sadly solemn mingles still. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 4:26 
 
 With ev Vy thought of time for ever gone^ 
 
 Distinct from past events of good or ill. 
 
 Or view of Life’s swift changes hastening on. 
 
 The sadness hence: but hence the sweetness too ; 
 For w'eli-spent time soft whispers to the mind 
 Hopes of a blest eternity behind. 
 
 That ev’ry happy moment shall renew. 
 
 Now pleasing Fancy lend thy endless clue. 
 
 And thro’ the maze of bliss our path-way guide 
 Where bloom unfading joys on ev’ry side. 
 
 And each gay winding offers to the view. 
 
 Here , boundless prospects opening to the sight. 
 
 In full celestial glory dazzling bright. 
 
 Increasing still, and ever to increase: 
 
 There , the soft scenes of innocence and peace. 
 
 Thro’ which, in early youth, or riper age, 
 
 A hand all gracious leads the virtuous few. 
 
 That graceful tread on Life s important stage. 
 
 But fairer now and brighter ev’ry hue : 
 
 For stormy clouds too often intervene. 
 
 And throw dark shadows o’er this mortal scene. 
 Blast the fair buds of hope, or snatch from sight 
 The dear companions of our social way. 
 
 Absorb’d at once in death’s impervious night. 
 
 Lost for awhile—but when eternal day 
 Shall gladsome dawn at once its glorious ray. 
 
 Shows the fair scene of happiness complete # : 
 Then Friends, Companions, Lovers joyful meet 
 Thence never more to part: and fully blown 
 
 * See the same delightful idea, but expressed in different words, 
 Mrs, Carter’s Poem to-P- 85, Vol. n. 8vo, edit. Stanxa 7. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 427 
 
 The buds of hope their lasting bloom display. 
 
 Then sweet Remembrance wakes without regret. 
 
 And back each human path they fondly trace. 
 That led thro’ steady Wisdom’s peaceful ways. 
 Thro’ the still vale of dear domestic life : 
 
 Or thro’ the toils of virtue’s arduous strife. 
 
 To this blest Paradise, this beamy crown, 
 
 - This cloudless day, whose sun shall never set. 
 
 * Secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae. Hor, Lib, 18. 
 
 FINIS, 
 
 Printed by Law and Cwibert, St. John’s Square* London, 
 
Lately published, 
 
 BY F. C. AND J. RIVINGTON, 
 
 no. 6 2, st. Paul’s church-yard. 
 
 A SERIES of LETTERS between Mrs. ELIZABETH 
 CARTER and Miss CATHARINE TALBOT, from the 
 Year 1741 to 1770. To which are added, LE Ll ER» 
 from Mrs. ELIZABETH CARTER to Mrs. VESL1, 
 between the Years 17b3 and 1787 » which Mrs. \ esey 
 earnestly requested should be published. 
 
 Published from the original Manuscripts, 
 
 By the Rev. MONTAGU PENNINGTON, M. A. 
 
 Handsomely printed on a fine woven Papei, in two 
 Volumes Quarto, price in boards 3l. 3s. 
 
 MEMOIRS of the LIFE of Mrs. ELIZABETH CAR¬ 
 TER, with a New Edition of her Poems, including some 
 which have never appeared before ; to which are added 
 some Miscellaneous Essays in Prose, together with her 
 Notes on the Bible, and Answers to Objections concern- 
 in" the Christian Religion. 
 
 By the Rev. MONTAGU PENNINGTON, M. A. 
 Vicar of Northbourn, in Kent, her Nephew and Executor. 
 
 The Second Edition, handsomely printed in two 
 Volumes Octavo, Price in Boards 18s. A few Copies 
 remain of the Quarto Edition, Price in Boards 21. 2s. 
 
 Mrs. CARTER’S Translation of the Works of 
 Epictetus, from the original Greek. A New Edition, 
 in two Volumes Octavo, Price in Boards l6s. A few 
 Copies remain of the Quarto Edition , Price in BoaiuS 
 ll. 11s. 6'd. 
 

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