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CATMAIMME HE 1 4MB®T
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
≥ 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 !
-
...
'T«*
.
' * ' . • '
' ■; ' / : i <> f
: r • ; >•' ■ •• • ... : n
• •
' ■ ’• i.' ; : .. k
-
' ' 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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. • . ■ alii Vi Hi .,, fyin-JV'O-i ■
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■ ■ " ' ■
IMITATIONS
or
O S S I A N.
*
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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-
vl
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.
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ALLEGORIES.
\
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
' ■ • . . .. •. r ;
. :.V: • v ■' ■ • n | . .
:^[ bad .1 ’■f , i ■ ( I i t<V V1V.V0
■ ■ f 1 < -
. . . ' •. :
. Vi .* 1 . ■ j/.l 1 ■ <'
*
.
■
2 b ot
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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